Dumplin' (27 page)

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

..................................................................

ELLEN: It is the day of the show, y'all. IT IS THE DAY OF THE SHOW
.

El's text message is the first thing to make me smile. But I wake up with this bout of uncertainty. Did last night really happen? I look down at my hands and see the speckled flakes of dry paint there.

We have a few hours before we have to leave, so I take my time scrubbing my whole body and pushing bobby pins into my hair until I've fashioned some sort of updo with my bangs swept across my forehead. Carefully, I paint my nails a deep purple.

I open my closet to make sure there's nothing else I need. Hanging there front and center is the red dress my mom bought me. I push the plastic cover up and hold the dress out by its hem, studying the sheen of the fabric.

My mom knocks on my door before letting herself in.

I slam the closet door shut.

She's all made up, ready to play glamorous hostess for a day. “Time to go. I'll be in the car,” she says. Her head tilts
to the side. “Your hair. It looks good.” She closes the door before I can say thank you.

Perching on the edge of my bed for a moment, I reach for the Magic 8 Ball and shake it hard.

It is decidedly so.

I open the closet door.

The dressing room is a haze of hair spray. Like, seriously, I have to breathe through my nose or risk swallowing fumes. The counters are full with makeup, flowers, teddy bears, Vaseline, and energy drinks.

Girls run through their talents. Singing to themselves as they apply lipstick. Counting out their dance routines as they spray their hair. Reciting monologues as they coat their lashes with mascara.

I barely even have time to absorb anything. I spot Millie toward the back of the dressing room. Her hair. It is huge. Huge enough to have its own solar system. Seriously, she's got at least an extra five inches on her, not including heels. She smiles and waves.

Sitting in front of my mirror is a small bouquet of sunflowers wrapped in tissue paper and twine, a single red rose, and a bottle of sparkling cider.

I reach for the card stuffed inside the bouquet first.

Break a leg!—Bo & Loraine.

And stuck to the stem of the rose is a Post-it note that reads:

xoxo mom

Lastly, I open the envelope taped to the bottle of cider.

I wanted to get you the real stuff, but Dale said no. Party pooper. Knock 'em dead. Love, Lee (& Dale)

I wish Lucy were here. Not to see me compete, but to see
this
. Because this moment feels as much hers at it is mine.

I've only put on my makeup when Mrs. Clawson swings the door open and calls, “Ten minutes, ladies!”

Ellen sits down next to me, her phone in her hand. Two perfect circles color each of her cheeks and her too-bright lipstick is smeared across her front tooth. “Tim,” she says. “That fucker has food poisoning. Will, I don't have an escort.”

The whole pageant seemed like such a lost cause that it didn't even occur to me to be concerned by the fact that I didn't have an escort. I shake my head. “I don't have one either.”

She's breathing too quickly. I forgot how anxious stuff like this makes her.

“Okay,” I tell her. “Listen, don't worry about the escorts, okay?” And then lower, I add, “We can escort each other. That's how it should be anyway, right?”

She chews on her bottom lip for a moment before nodding.

“Five minutes!” calls Mrs. Clawson. “Time to line up, ladies.”

If there's a God up there, I'm pretty sure she picked Ellen
and me out from a lineup of embryos and said,
Them
. Dickson. Dryver. It could not be more perfect.

We stand backstage in alphabetical order, waiting for our cues. El got the Dallas Cowboys, so she's carrying a set of blue and silver pom-poms and wearing a matching cowboy hat. I've got my Cadillac on. Our hands are clasped so tight that they're drained of blood.

I try to make myself remember the dance we've rehearsed over and over again, but I can't seem to imagine it. My mind is a maze and I'm chasing a shadow.

Bekah Cotter passes El a tub of Vaseline. “Put it on your teeth and gums,” she says. “Helps you smile.”

We both glance at each other and shrug before dipping our fingers in and smearing the Vaseline across our smiles. It tastes disgusting.

“Thanks,” I tell Bekah.

Mallory stands a few feet in front of us with a black headset on. “Go, go, go.”

We rush out past her, and the minute the lights hit my skin, my memory comes back to me. We rotate in circles so that everyone has two and a half seconds to say their names.

The song finishes and the lights cut out. I can't even process how quickly this is moving. It feels like life on triple fast forward, where everyone's voices sound like chipmunks.

Next is the swimwear competition.

It hadn't occurred to me that I would have no privacy when changing into my swimwear. But here we are, and
privacy there is not. I strip down as strategically as I can, with my swimsuit half hiked up over my thighs and my skirt bunched up around my waist. For a moment, I allow myself a glance around the room. I find that I am the only person not minding my own damn business. I'm gonna be perfectly honest here and say that there are boobies everywhere and no one even cares.

I bite the bullet and rip off my shirt. After shimmying the rest of the way into my swimsuit, I tuck the red heart-shaped sunglasses Bo gave me all those months ago into my hair. I hadn't even thought twice about them until I was cleaning stuff out of my closet last week.

We file into the wings and Mrs. Clawson runs up and down the lines, spraying our asses with Aqua Net. “Can't have those swimsuits ridin' up,” she says.

I watch as Ellen walks out onstage. She's freaking out on the inside, I know it. But she's all confidence in her green two-piece and espadrilles.

I know I shouldn't, but I glance down at my black sandals and my red suit stretched over my round belly. But that's not even the thing that bothers me.

Everyone has one thing they absolutely hate about themselves. I could be lame and say that I hate my whole body, but what it all comes down to is my thighs. Thunder thighs. Cottage cheese. Crater legs. Ham hocks. Mud flaps. Whatever you want to call them. My legs don't even look like legs. I'm pretty forgiving of the pudge, but in the rare moments spent in front of a mirror in nothing but my skin, all I see are two pillars of cellulite that carry me from place
to place and rub together, creating one hellish case of chub rub. (Chub rub, by the way, is fat-girl talk for the most miserable inner thigh chafing of all time.)

Mrs. Clawson taps my shoulder, letting me know it's my turn.

I pull in a deep breath, and smile.
Smile, Dumplin'
, I hear my mother say.

I may be uncomfortable, but I refuse to be ashamed.

Maybe it's because I can't see the audience. Or maybe it's because no one is yelling for me to get off the stage, but my thighs survive their moment in the spotlight. I don't scurry away like I did that day at the pool. No one boos. The world doesn't end. The audience doesn't go blind.

There's something about swimsuits that make you think you've got to earn the right to wear them. And that's wrong. Really, the criteria is simple. Do you have a body? Put a swimsuit on it.

Amanda waits for me at the other end. “You looked super fine out there!”

I squeeze her arm. “Thanks. You ready for your soccer showcase?”

She nods. Her cheeks turn light pink. “I joined the soccer team,” she says.

“Did you really?”

Amanda grins. “I figured if I could survive this, I could limp my way onto the soccer team.”

“That's amazing,” I tell Amanda as Ellen comes to stand beside us.

From the wings, we watch as Millie takes the stage in
her skirted gingham swimsuit and matching wedges. She wears huge white sunglasses and bright red lipstick, and even carries a beach ball tucked beneath her arm.

“God,” says Ellen. “She was born for this. There's a beauty queen in that cute, little fat girl.”

A slow, satisfied smile melts across my face. “No,” I say. “That cute, little fat girl is a beauty queen.”

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

..................................................................

“Oh, sweet bastard damn!” My brain feels like it's been pushed through a food processor. “Do all wig caps hurt this bad?”

“This might be a size too small,” says Ellen. “I don't know. I took whatever my mom had in her dressing room.”

We've commandeered the one-stall backstage bathroom to prepare for my talent. Ellen's hair is divided into two braids and she's managed to squeeze into her clogging costume from seventh grade. (Though her mom had to sew an elastic band into the waist.) “Okay, okay.” I breathe in through my nose, trying to ease some of the tension in my huge-ass head, and close my eyes. “Put the wig on.”

Ellen tugs the blond wig on over my head. “Okay,” she says after pushing in the last bobby pin. “You're set. Take a look.”

I lift my head. Staring back at me is Dolly Parton. A fat teenage Dolly Parton.

“Oh my God,” says El. “I think you might be my spirit animal.”

I wait offstage. She's clogging a few beats behind the music and keeps rolling her eyes. If I weren't so nervous, I'd be laughing my ass off.

We were careful to sneak me around backstage so that no one saw me. Especially my mom, Mrs. Clawson, or Mallory.

El's music ends a few seconds before she's actually done clogging, but she finishes and curtsies before running offstage.

“Okay,” she says. “You got this.”

We paid the sound guy twenty bucks to go along with us. “Cool,” he said. “Beer money.”

My mom steps out from the wing closest to the audience on the other side of the stage. “That was lovely, Ellen. And what a workout I bet that is!” The audience rumbles with quiet laughter. “Next up we have Willowdean Dickson performing a few magic tricks for us.”

Yeah, getting that wig cap over my head was a pretty impressive magic trick.

I walk out onstage into the spotlight, my boots clicking against the floor. My suede-fringed poncho-shaped shadow stretches out past the pool of light.

My mom stands at the edge of the stage with her microphone dangling from her fingers. Her eyes are wide and her body is wound with tension.

The music starts. It's those first couple chords that every person in this auditorium knows so well. I can see the judges whispering back and forth at their table with their desk lights glowing.

I turn back to my mom and hold the toy microphone to my lips. Dolly's voice sings “Jolene, Jolene, Jolene, Jolene, I'm begging of you please don't take my man.” I synch my lips to every word.

I close my eyes and see every moment when I've heard this song. Driving down the highway with my mom, Lucy, and Gram. The windows down. All four of us dragging our hands through the wind. Sitting in Lucy's room with her as “Jolene” pipes out from her record player. Laying on the cool tiles of El's kitchen as her mom hums and makes spaghetti. At Lucy's funeral. In Bo's truck. At the Hideaway, watching Lee perform. Right here on this stage.

I sing “Jolene,” and maybe it's my imagination, but I hear a few voices out in the audience singing it back to me. It's the kind of iconic song that is bigger than geography or languages or religion.
It's “Jolene.”

The song ends, and the audience applauds. For a second, I think I hear an
oink!
, but it is soon drowned out by the cheers.

The second I'm offstage, my mom yanks me by the arm. “What was that?” But she doesn't give me enough time to answer because she's already rushing out to announce the next contestant. “Well, wasn't that a surprise?” her voice rings.

I pass Callie on my way to the fitting room. “You know they're going to DQ you for not doing your approved talent, right?”

“It was worth it,” I say without bothering to stop.

In the dressing room, I slump down beside Ellen. We've
got some downtime while the talents finish up.

Hannah walks past me on her way out. She holds her hand up for a high five without saying a word.

After the talents wrap, there's an intermission before the formals. I help Ellen into her gown—a coral halter dress with rhinestones. She fluffs my hair back up after the wig cap had its way with me.

Mrs. Clawson peeks her head in and says, “So far so good, ladies! Ten minutes! And, Willowdean, your mother needs to speak with you.”

Blush spreads to my cheeks. A few girls
ooooo
as I follow Mrs. Clawson to my mom's private dressing room.

I knock, and before I've pulled my fist away, my mom swings the door open.

She shakes her head. “I knew you had some trick up your sleeve.”

“No, Mom, that wasn't it. I didn't plan it or anything.” Well, not until yesterday at least.

She holds her unzipped Miss Teen dress up around her chest. “You're disqualified,” she says. “We can't let you finish the pageant. It wouldn't be fair.”

“It's not like I'm going to win the thing,” I tell her. “Why can't I just get up there and walk?”

“You broke the rules. It's the same standard I would hold anyone else to. I'm sorry, but this is as far as you get to go.”

I know it's stupid. It is so dumb. But part of me is so torn up over the fact that I won't be finishing. After everything that's happened, and I'm less than an hour from completing
this thing. I'm not surprised. I shouldn't be at least. I knew that what I was doing was a disqualifiable offense, but somehow I thought she might take mercy on me.

She turns around. “Zip me up, would you?”

The zipper doesn't strain nearly as much as it did the last time, but it's not—“Mom, this is as far as I can get it,” I say with finality. There's still a good four inches to go, and I can pull as hard as I want. But that zipper is not moving up any further. It's science.

She whips around and looks over her shoulder in the mirror. “That's not possible. No, no. I tried it on earlier this week. I've been doing my Pee-lates and spin classes.” I think she's about to fall apart, and if my mother falls apart, so will this whole pageant.

“Okay,” I tell her. “Listen, we're going to make this work.”

“Two minutes!” calls Mrs. Clawson on the other side of the door.

Sweat prickles at my mom's temples.

“Stay here.” I run. I haul
ass
through the backstage and to the woodshop where they make the sets.

Saws. Drills. Nails. Hammers. Screws. Stepladders. Wrenches. Pliers. I fill my arms with anything that looks like it might help.

When I race back into the dressing room, my mom is near hysterics. “Dumplin', I have to get myself into this dress. I've worn it every year since I won. People are expecting me in this dress. It's tradition.”

“Turn around.” I drop everything on the counter.

“Everyone'll know.” She's on the verge of sobbing.

“No,” I tell her. “No. No crying. You are not fitting into this dress, okay? It's not going to happen.”

She whimpers.

“But that doesn't mean we can't make it look like you do.”

I grab two giant alligator clamps that I've seen the tech guys wearing on their shorts, kinda like hairdressers with their hair clips. They use 'em for oddball stuff, like holding back wires or keeping wood together while it's being glued.

“Listen, Mom. You can't turn around up there, okay? You gotta stay in one place.”

She nods.

I slide a clamp behind her strapless bra and tuck the dress beneath it. I do the same with the other side.

Her breathing eases for a moment as she notices the difference in the mirror.

“See? It looks fine.”

She takes a deep breath, and pushes her crown into her perfectly styled hair. “Okay, Dumplin'.” She turns to me, her expression hesitant. “You hate that nickname, don't you?”

I smile. “Not as much as I used to.”

“I can stop calling—”

“No,” I tell her. “I think I've sort of embraced it.” Sometimes figuring out who you are means understanding that we are a mosaic of experiences. I'm Dumplin'. And Will and Willowdean. I'm fat. I'm happy. I'm insecure. I'm bold.

“Curtain!” calls Mrs. Clawson.

Mom turns back to the mirror once more. “Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. I love you, Willowdean.” She presses her red lips to my forehead. “My sweet Dumplin'.” She races out the door, and as she announces the first few contestants and their escorts, I run to the dressing room.

Beneath the counter is my duffel bag, and rolled up inside of it is the red gown my mom bought me. I apply a second coat of lipstick and slip the dress on over my head. I step into my heels and pull the straps over the back of my foot. Trying to zip the dress as I go, I run to where Ellen is in line with Bekah Cotter ahead of her.

“Zip me,” I breathe.

She does without hesitation. “You look amazing.”

I smile, still trying to catch my breath. “I know.”

“Ellen,” says Mallory as she double-checks her clipboard. “Where is your escort?” She turns to me. “And Will, you've been dis—”

“I'm her escort.”

“Ellen Dryver,” my mother calls from onstage.

Mallory's eyes go wide as I loop Ellen's arm through mine and walk her across the stage.

“And escorting her is Timothy—”

We sashay down the ramp to the front of the stage. I walk with one foot perfectly in front of the other, like Lee taught us.

My mom's mouth hangs agape, but then curves into a faint smile. “And escorting her is Willowdean Dickson.”

I let go of Ellen's arm to let her take a circle at the edge
of the stage, and then we walk backstage again.

We watch together as everyone takes her turn. Amanda with her older brother. The laces in her clunky shoes match her dress—Millie's idea, of course. Malik is a perfect gentleman as he crosses the stage with Millie on his arm. And, of course, Hannah. Hannah with Courtney Gans. Courtney is one of those great names that could be a guy's name, but in the case of Hannah, it is not. Her escort, Courtney, who I'm guessing is from out of town because I've never seen her before, wears her blond hair slicked back into a neat bun. It complements her fitted tux nicely. And best of all, Hannah, in her black slip dress, combat boots, and no makeup, isn't breaking a single rule.

We all sashay, the toes of our heels leading our hips side to side, just like Lee taught us.

Hannah exits stage right where all of us wait for her. Courtney kisses her cheek before saying, “I'll meet you outside later.”

Once Courtney's out of earshot, Ellen guffaws and slaps Hannah on the back. “You are the goddamn devil.”

It's dark, so I can't be sure, but I'm nearly positive that Hannah blushes.

I stand on the sidelines, watching the rest of the pageant. I watch the Q&A session as some girls surprise me with almost profound answers, while others stumble over their words. Amanda tells a horrible knock-knock joke that has the judges rolling. Millie is cute and sweet with her infectious giggle. Hannah is dry as always, but leaves the audience deep in thought.

Donna Lufkin has left her gardening clogs at home. She wears a plum-colored pantsuit and waits in the wings across from me, guarding the crowns.

My mom stands there in her little spotlight, not moving, like she's got a stiff neck or something. She looks beautiful. And not just from the front. Even with all the hardware holding her dress together in the back, she is lovely.

This moment. It is the truest representation of my mom I have ever seen. I guess sometimes the perfection we perceive in others is made up of a whole bunch of tiny imperfections, because some days the damn dress just won't zip.