Dumplin' (26 page)

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HarperCollins Publishers

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They serve us barbecue for lunch. I think that maybe lunch is some secret component of our final score because there is no higher achievement for a southern woman than the ability to eat barbecue and walk away stain free. After lunch we all have to sit through a keynote from Ruth Perkins, a seventy-eight-year-old former Miss Teen Blue Bonnet, who decides not to use the microphone because it gives her feedback in her hearing aid. Which means we're all left smiling and nodding as she talks at a secret-telling level of volume.

After a while, there's this awkward moment where she's waiting for applause and none of us can tell if she's done talking. We eventually clap and Mrs. Clawson takes the stage to thank her and offer her a bouquet of flowers.

“All right, ladies,” she says into the mic. “None of you can leave until you've had your picture made for the paper. There are chairs along the wall, so sit in the same alphabetical order you were in today. You've got five minutes to touch up your faces.”

I turn to Hannah who sits next to me, and bare my teeth. “Anything in my
teeth?” I ask.

She shakes her head. “Me?”

“Nope.”

We part ways and go to our respective chairs as everyone else storms the bathrooms. I wait for El to sit down beside me. I can't make my brain concentrate on what I might say, but I'm going to talk to her. I have to.

She plops down in the chair next to me, and licks her thumb as she tries to rub off a barbecue stain on the lapel of her blazer.

“I bet they can take it so the stain's out of frame,” I say. “Or Photoshop it.”

She keeps on with the stain, diligently making it worse and worse, but says nothing.

They begin to call us up one by one and we scoot up a chair each time they do.

With two girls ahead of me, I say, “I don't want us to be mad at each other anymore.”

I wait for her response. We move up a seat.

“I was wrong.” We move up one more seat. “I was really wrong, and I can't do this anymore. I can't not talk to you every day. Please don't be angry with me.”

“Willowdean?” calls Mallory.

I glance back to Ellen before standing up. She'll crack soon. She has to.

“Willowdean?”

“It's not that easy.” El's voice scratches, like she hasn't spoken in days. “We're turning into different people.”

“That doesn't mean we're not good for each other.” I
think the parts of me that are built on memories made with Ellen are some of my favorite parts of myself. “I'm sorry,” I tell her. “I was stubborn.”

I sit down on the small stool in front of the backdrop. My mom stands behind the photographer. She motions with both her pointer fingers like she's pulling a smile across her face.

I pull in one deep breath and beg myself to smile. Smile. Smile. Smile.

Ellen sits there against the wall, still rubbing her barbecue stain in circles.

I don't smile.

After photos, we're released to set up our backstage dressing areas. The community theater downtown was designed with the pageant in mind, which means the women's dressing room is four times the size of the men's.

Each seat is labeled. I find my name on a piece of paper taped to a small stretch of mirror. Except over my name in black marker in all caps is DUMPLIN'. Scrawled in a hurry like someone had to say my name and couldn't resist. I look right and then left to see if I can spot the culprit.

Ellen plops all her stuff down next to mine. I see her name taped to the mirror. We're in alphabetical order again.

In the reflection, her gaze catches mine. She digs through her purse for a minute before coming up with a pen. Stretching over me, she reaches for the paper with my name on it. I watch as she scribbles my name sans
Dumplin'
on the back, tears the piece of tape off and reapplies it before sticking the sign back on the mirror.

“Thanks,” I say.

She sits down on the stool next to me. “It's just a word. Doesn't mean anything unless you let it.” She turns to me. Her eyes don't quite meet mine. “But if it hurts you, it hurts me.”

My whole body relaxes, but my chin trembles. “I'm so sorry.”

“I'm sorry,” she says.

I shake my head. “No. No, I am.”

She looks up then, notices my quivering chin, and takes my hand.

The room begins to swell as more girls file in.

“Come on,” she says.

I follow her, and she holds my hand and leads me to a beat-up leather love seat a few feet from the stage manager's desk.

We sink into the sofa and without making a big deal of it, El swings her legs over mine. “Okay, talk.”

“Okay. I got mad at you for entering the pageant. And then you got mad at me for being mad at you. And then I stayed mad at you. And then you stayed mad at me.” I shake my head. “I know this was a long time coming. We've been drifting.”

She nods. “It scares me. I don't want to feel apart from you. But maybe we're not supposed to do everything together? Maybe we're supposed to have some space.”

“It's hard to accept.” I look for all the right words. “I
want to see you be happy. And make new friends. Even if they're people like Callie. I want to not be jealous of you.” I've never said it out loud. I think I've even been scared to let myself think it, but I know it's true the second it leaves my mouth. “I don't mean jealous in a weird stalkery way, but sometimes I think our lives are moving at different speeds and it's hard not to feel like you're gonna lap me.”

She laughs, and it sounds like a hiccup. “I'm not lapping you anytime soon. And if this is about sex . . . I love Tim, okay? But know that there's been a learning curve.” Her shoulders bounce as she adds, “Maybe I'm jealous of you sometimes, too. You don't care about people like Callie or any of the girls I work with. But I need them to like me. It's the kind of thing that keeps me up at night. I don't even think they're that cool. My mind keeps this kind of tally of how many people like me and I care. I don't want to.”

I smile, and the knot in my chest unwinds a little. “You're my best friend. Even over these last two months, it's always been you. And you never treat me any different. Not like other people do sometimes. And I know I'm good at being who I am. I'm good at saying, ‘This is me. Back me up or back the fuck out.' Ya know? But—” Oh Christ. There's so much I haven't told her. I start at the beginning. “But I met a boy over the summer. Bo. Private School Boy. At work. And we kissed.”

“You didn't tell me?” She smacks my arm. “The hell, Will?”

I shake my head. “I know. I'm sorry. But we kissed some more. And then it just kept going.”

“Oh my God. You had sex with him. Was it amazing? I'm still mad at you for not telling me.”

I laugh. “No. No. We didn't. Have sex. But I liked the way being with him made me feel.” My head feels like a spool of thread unwinding. “But then . . . did you ever get freaked out when Tim would touch you? Like, at first?”

She drops her head against my shoulder. “Shit. Yeah, I did. He'd touch my waist or a spot of acne on my chin or something and I'd clam up like a total psycho.”

The warm relief of recognition spreads through me. “That's what happened when Bo touched me. Like, I felt straight-up drunk when we would kiss. But then he'd touch my backfat or my hips and I would totally shut down.”

“I can't believe you hid this from me.” Her voice is soft. “I should be so pissed at you.”

“I know, I know. I'm sorry. But, like, all of this was happening, right? And you'd told me that you and Tim were going to start having sex, and it made me feel like I might explode. It wasn't all jealousy. It was more that I felt young and unexperienced. And I couldn't—and kind of still can't—imagine myself letting someone else see me like that.”

“Oh, Will.”

“And that pissed me off. It was like I was losing you. But I felt so gross about myself at the same time. It all made me so mad because I didn't want to be one of those girls who felt bad about themselves because of some guy.”

She sits up and I lay my head in her lap as she pulls her fingers through my hair. I tell her about every little thing.
About Bo at the mall, and how he didn't tell me he was changing schools. And Mitch. And the dance. Halloween. Going back to Harpy's. Bo. I tell her all about Bo. And how she'd like him so much. And how he wants to be my boyfriend.

“He wants to put this label on us,” I tell her. “And you know we won't even make it one day at school without being ridiculed. He doesn't get that.”

“Listen,” she says. “Lots of people are assholes, okay? I won't lie to you there, but look at Tim and me. He's way shorter than me. You think people don't laugh at us? They do.”

It's true, but until this moment, it's not anything I've even heard El mention.

“But you don't always get to choose who your heart wants. And even if we always did get to choose, I'd choose Tim. I'd choose him every time. So you gotta think: a relationship is between two people. All those assholes at school are bored spectators. You and Bo behind the Dumpster at Harpy's. That was y'all's hearts talking. But you and Bo dating. Being exclusive. That's your head. Your heart is all in, but that doesn't mean you don't get to choose. From what it sounds like, he's already made his choice.”

It's so easy, I think, to say so in my head. Even out loud. But doing. Taking his hand and saying
I deserve this. We deserve this.
That's terrifying. “I was scared y'all broke up,” I say. “You and Tim. I saw you crying in the hall the other day.”

Her hand stops for a minute. She sniffs. “My parents are
fighting again. My dad went and spent the night on Uncle Jared's couch. He's back. But I don't know. This feels like it might be it.”

“God. El, I am so sorry.”

“I wanted to tell you so bad. But I was being stubborn. And dumb.”

“No, I should've gone up to you when I saw you there.”

“It's okay,” she says. “This isn't the first time. Some things just can't be fixed. Not forever.”

The thought makes my heart flinch. I sit up and we stay put for a little while, entwined like a set of cats.

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

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I end up hanging out with Ellen and Tim for the rest of the afternoon. As we drive up to my house, I see that Bo's truck is parked out front. “Um, is that who I think it is?” asks El.

He stands outside my front door with a huge metal toolbox at his feet.

Tim pulls into my driveway, and El hops out so I can drag myself out of the backseat of the Jeep.

I walk across the yard, and can feel Ellen at my heels. I turn abruptly. “What are you doing?” I ask her.

“I want to see this.”

“No. Nope. You're going home.”

“Call me,” she says. “DO. NOT. FORGET.”

“Okay.”

She hugs me, and I hold on for a second too long, hoping that part of her will seep into my skin.

I wait for Tim to pull away before I take the last few steps to Bo. “Is this a home invasion or something?”

He whips around like he hadn't heard Tim drop me off.
A brown leather tool belt hangs low on his waist. “I swear this isn't as creepy as it looks.”

“It looks pretty creepy.”

His smile is steady, yet nervous. “I was out with my dad, helping him with a few jobs when we ran into your mom at the gas station. I guess they went on a few dates in high school.”

I laugh. “So not surprised.”

“She mentioned your front door again, and my dad . . . well, actually, I volunteered to come fix it. I hope that's not weird.”

I sit down on the stoop and he does the same. “Kinda weird.”

Unspoken words that I don't know how to say weigh against my chest. “Did you get it fixed?”

“It was a really easy fix actually. I kind of can't believe you guys left it like that for so long.”

I pull my knees into my chest. “You don't have to answer a broken front door.”

He reaches back behind me and turns the knob. The door swings wide open. “No excuse now.”

“Yeah.” I point to his neck. “What's up with the necklace?”

He pulls the chain out from under his T-shirt to reveal a small medallion. “Saint Anthony,” he says. “Supposed to help you find lost things.”

“What are you looking for?”

“I don't know.” He tucks the necklace back behind his
collar. “I think maybe I found it. But then some days I think it found me.”

I nod. There's some kind of peace that comes with knowing that for every person who is waiting to be found, there's someone out there searching.

“Willowdean?”

“Yeah?”

He stands and reaches for his toolbox. “You look like an insurance adjuster.”

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HarperCollins Publishers

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I wake up to find that Mom has slid a copy of the paper beneath my door. I unfold it and find my face there, right in the middle of the crease. The headline reads: CLOVER CITY'S MISS TEEN BLUE BONNET: PUTTING NAMES WITH FACES. The entire front page is tiled with our head shots from the previous day. Beneath our pictures are our names, ages, favorite foods, and our definitions of Clover City in one word.

I'm guessing my mom wasn't given a first look at this before it went to print. But, either way, there I am. My not-smiling face.

At rehearsal, we all sit in the auditorium for a long time while waiting for the lighting to be perfected. Miranda Solomon, God's gift to Clover City community theater, turns around in her seat and explains to me, El, Hannah, Amanda, and Millie that half of final rehearsals is always spent sitting around, waiting for the techies to get it right. She shrugs. “That's the biz.”

When she gets up to go to the bathroom, El turns to me with her shoulders hunched up and her voice high. “That's
the biz.”

Callie sits a few rows behind us with another girl I recognize from Sweet 16. I'm actively trying not to look smug, but it's not easy.

Other than that, things are alarmingly quiet. Pageants are the perfect recipe for drama. You have to look perfect. You have to be perfect. And on top of being perfect, you have to be the best at being perfect. The nerves here are almost palpable. Especially Millie's. She bounces her legs so hard that I can feel the vibrations three seats down.

Ellen turns into me. “So are you really doing those magic tricks? I love you, but those were pretty sketch.”

“Well, it's not like I really have an option now.”

“I don't know,” she says. “I guess if you cared about getting DQ'd, you don't.”

The thought of doing something completely different hadn't even occurred to me. “I don't even really have anything I
could
do.”

She sits for a minute, lost in thought, as she chews on her hair. Then she gasps, and whispers in my ear. It only takes three words for the idea to take me. She leans back, waiting for my response.

I can picture it so perfectly. There's so no way I'm winning this thing, so I might as well go out in a blaze of glory. “I could even—”

“Millie Amethyst Michalchuk!” a voice from the back of the theater crows.

The vibrations I've felt for the last half hour stop as Millie's entire body freezes.

I crane my neck to see her mom storming at the top of the aisle. Her dad isn't far behind.

I whip around and elbow Hannah in the gut. “What is going on?” I whisper-yell at her.

Millie squeezes past each of us to meet her mom in the aisle. She holds her chin out straight, inhaling and exhaling measured breaths.

It takes a second for Hannah's eyes to adjust. “Oh,” she says, and sort of laughs into her fist.

“Oh
what
?”

“I lied,” she says. “I definitely lied.”

Everyone's watching now. Including the tech guys.

“Are you kidding me?” I ask.

“Millicent,” says Mrs. Michalchuk. “You lied to us. To our faces.” Tears brim at the edges of her eyes, and it becomes very obvious that she is not wearing waterproof mascara. Millie's dad settles behind his wife, his arms crossed. “You went behind our backs after we decided not to sign the release form. Why—why would you do that?”

“Is this true?” My mom stands onstage with a clipboard tucked beneath her arm.

With her fists curled at her sides, Millie turns to my mom and says, “I forged my mother's signature.” Her face crumbles for a second like she might cry. She looks back to her parents. “But you were wrong.” Her voice softens. “I know you want to protect me. I know that. But—but sometimes I just need you to support me.”

My mom frowns. “Let's take this out into the foyer.”

I watch as Millie makes the trek up the aisle with my
mother close behind her. Standing up, I climb over El's long legs.

“Where are you going?” she asks.

“I have to help her,” I say.

I jog up the aisle and push the door open wide enough for the entire auditorium to hear my mother say, “I'm sorry, but we cannot allow you to compete without parental consent.”

The door swings shut behind me. “Millie has to compete.” Millie's parents turn. “She's worked so hard,” I tell them. “And she's not fragile. She isn't. She's got this thick skin you don't even expect. Everyone in this room, even the girls with the long legs and the silky hair, knows what it is to be teased. Millie and I know. Amanda and Hannah. Ellen.” I motion to my mom. “Even my mom knows. But we can't walk around scared all the time. That's no way to do things.”

Millie reaches for my hand and squeezes tight. “I really want this,” she says. “I've dreamed of being in this pageant for as long as I can remember. There's nothing in the rules that says fatties need not apply.” Her mother flinches at the word, and discreetly wipes away a tear. “The only thing keeping me from this, Mom, is you.”

Mrs. Michalchuk looks to the huge pageant banner hanging above the auditorium doors and then to my mom, who offers a faint grin. Her husband takes her hand. She turns to Millie and nods.

Side by side, we walk back into the auditorium where all the other girls have so obviously been eavesdropping.
A few contestants turn to give Millie smiles of encouragement as we take our seats. Ellen takes my hand, and then Millie's, who then laces her fingers with Amanda's. I turn to my other side to face Hannah, palm up. She takes a deep breath before taking my hand.

A bond bigger than any crown pulses through the five of us, and, for the first time since the start of this pageant, I know it's me who has the upper hand.

When we finally do rehearse, it's a mess. None of us do our talents. There isn't time. Callie slips on the ramp during the opening number. All our cues are off. There are spills. And tears. And even some blood. All in all, it is exactly what I expected.

At home, my mom is sunk deep into the couch with a bottle of cheap champagne just like she is every year. At this point, there's nothing left to be done, and if there is anything, it's too late to make the effort. All she can do is
let the glitter fall where it may
. (Her words, not mine.)

I sit at the kitchen table with a huge cardboard box, a few bottles of craft paint, and scissors. Somehow I've got to create a prop for the opening number.

I've barely given any thought to my assigned landmark, Cadillac Ranch, since that day at dance rehearsal. Normally I'd just blow off this kind of thing as dumb pageant fluff, but it's actually kinda cool. Sure, Texas has all the famous landmarks that everyone's heard of, but we have all these unknown gems, too. Like, the Marfa lights or Jacob's Well or Dinosaur Valley or even the Prada sculpture
a few hours from here. I guess Cadillac Ranch falls into that oddball category. It's so perfectly Texas, and yet, completely beyond the stereotype.

Cadillac Ranch is this public art installation up in Amarillo. All these old Caddies are half buried nose first in a row off the side of the highway. Their paint jobs have long since faded, and visitors are encouraged to spray paint the cars. So, yeah. I have no idea how to make a decent prop that says “I am so obviously Cadillac Ranch.”

My mom wanders in for some ice—yes, she drinks her champagne with ice. “Is this for some school project? You've got to get some beauty sleep tonight, Dumplin'.”

She's going to kill me for not having done this sooner. “It's for my, uh, opening number prop.”

She sits down beside me. “Oh dear.”

I nod.

“Okay,” she says. “Okay, we can do this.” She glances at the paper with my assignment. “Cadillac Ranch.” I watch as she stands and grabs a plastic tumbler from the cabinet. She pours a few sips of champagne and hands it to me.

I take the cup, but say nothing. I don't want her to change her mind for some reason.

“You think your waist can fit in that box?”

I eye it for a second, and take a sip of champagne. It bubbles in my chest. “Yeah.”

“Run out to the garage for me and grab a spool of that wide elastic, the glue gun, and my box of spray paints.”

I come back with the requested items, and she's already at work on the box, slicing through it with an X-ACTO
knife. “Dumplin', you're going to have the best damn prop in that opening number.”

My whole body buzzes with satisfaction as I take another sip.

A few hours and one bottle of champagne later, I say, “Mom?”

“Yeah, Dumplin'?”

“That was good of you to let Millie compete. Even though she lied.”

She finishes off her glass. “She's a good girl. A sweet one. With a good smile.”

I wait for her to say something about her size, and how she's at a disadvantage, but she only opens another bottle..

We paint a white base coat in silence, and when it's almost dry, something cool splats against my cheek. I drag my finger against my skin. Paint. “Oh no, you didn't,” I say, and flick what's on my fingers onto her nose.

We laugh. Hysterically. Like, the kind of laughing you can't stop. The kind that hurts. I think I'm drunk. I know my mom is. But I feel good, and who needs beauty sleep when you've got champagne?

When we're finally done at one in the morning, we leave the kitchen with the table covered in randomly spray painted newspaper pages, and stray pieces of cardboard. Riot hops up onto the table and sniffs out our finished project. His tail whips and licks against our little cardboard Cadillac covered in spray paint.

I try it on. It sits suspended from my shoulders with elastic and hangs right around my waist. It's so damn
ridiculous. It's so damn perfect.

Before we go to bed, I open the front door. The street is quiet and dark. Standing here from this exact vantage point, my entire house feels new with possibilities.

My mom flicks the hallway light off behind me. I close the door and lock the dead bolt.

In bed, I text Ellen a list of all the things I'll need for my talent tomorrow.

MAGNIFICENT, she replies.

The champagne still streaming through my veins lulls me to sleep. Magnificent indeed.