Dumplin' (13 page)

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

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I run into school, shielding myself from the rain with my backpack held up above my head. I stop to wipe my feet on the doormat.

“Will?” Millie stands off to the side against the lockers, wearing floral leggings with a matching tunic.

I step toward her to get out of the way of incoming students. “Hey. What's going on, Millie?”

She pulls on her backpack straps so that they dig into her shoulders. “I heard you talking last night to Ellen. About the pageant.”

I'm taken aback. “Yeah, we—”

She leans in and whispers, “You're entering, aren't you?”

“I . . . well, yeah. I am.”

A wide grin spreads across her face, pushing her cheeks up and out. She claps her hands together like I've done some sort of trick. “That's amazing.”

I turn toward her so that my back is to the stream of students. “Listen,” I say. “It's not a secret, but I don't wanna make a big deal of this, okay?”

“Yes. Right, of course.”

Something about her smile makes me uneasy. “Okay.”

When I catch up with El later that day, I tell her about my odd exchange with Millie.

She grabs my shoulders and leans into me. “Will, you're, like, her inspiration.”

I shake my head vehemently. “Am not.”

“Oh my God, you have a little fan club.”

“Eat shit.” A small speck of me swells with pride.

The rain brings in a few customers in search of chili. It's the most business I've seen at once here. I serve up a few bowls, and without looking up to see who my next customer is, I say, “Would you like to try our new white bean chili?”

“Uh, yeah. A cup or a bowl or whatever.” That voice.

I don't look up. “What do you want, Bo?”

“I came for some chili. This is a chili restaurant, isn't it?”

Words bubble in my chest, but none of them are right. None of them say exactly what I want. Because I don't know what I want. “Can I get you anything else?”

He bites down on his bottom lip. It disappears beneath his teeth. I love his teeth. They're all so perfect, except the front two. They overlap. Just slightly. It's like the universe decided he was too perfect and had to give him one tiny flaw. “No,” he says.

I watch as he walks back across the street with his to-go cup of chili. He pulls his visor from his back pocket and tugs it down on top of his head as he jogs into Harpy's.

Over the next two days, I open my mouth at least twelve times to tell my mom that I'm entering the pageant. But I can't. I can't have this conversation with her. It's like I'm holding out this last bit of hope that I'll show up for registration and she'll squeal with delight. She'll tell me that she's always dreamed of me entering the pageant and following in her footsteps. She'll say that she didn't want to push me. She wanted me to find my own way.

It's a dream I don't want to wake up from.

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

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

I've always known that the pageant was this huge part of my mom's life, but it's never been more than background noise for me. When I was little and she had meetings or rehearsals to attend, I usually stayed home with Lucy or went over to El's. The pageant and everything it encompassed was hers alone.

Registration takes place downtown at the Clover City Community Center. Downtown Clover City is a picturesque square with a gazebo at the center. The block always smells like fried chicken thanks to Frenchy's Fried 'n' Such, which is the diner to end all diners.

El and I sit outside on a bench while I count out the two-hundred-dollar registration fee.

“You didn't by any chance get your mom to sign your form, did you?” she asks.

“Nope.” Entering the pageant requires parental consent. And in this moment, my greatest fear is that my mom will say no. In front of all those people.

On the other side of the square, a short, wide person frantically waves their arms over their head.

“El.” I squint. “El, who is that?”

She looks up. Her jaw drops.

“Hey! You haven't gone in yet!” yells Millie. “Perfect timing!”

“She loves you,” says El. “She is in love with you.” She stands up and uses her hand as a visor from the sun. “Is that . . . is that Amanda Lumbard with her?”

I nod.

“We're signing up, too,” says Millie.

“Is this gonna take very long?” asks Amanda. “My mom's going to kill me if I'm late to pick up my brother.”

I look to Ellen. She shrugs.

Millie fixes her hands on her hips. “I get that you don't want to make a big deal of entering this pageant, Will. And, if I'm being honest, I don't even really know what your personal reasons for doing this are. But you're doing it. And that's important. I want to be a part of that. We both do.”

“She made me come,” mumbles Amanda.

Millie rolls her eyes. “I tried to get Hannah Perez on board, but she said no.”

“Actually,” adds Amanda, “she told you to shove a pageant sash up your piggy ass.”

I told Millie that I wanted to let this fly under the radar, but with these two, I might as well take a front-page ad out in the
Clover City Tribune
. I'm not doing this to be some kind of Joan of Fat Girls or whatever. I'm doing this for Lucy. And for me. I'm ready to go back to being the version of myself I was before Bo. I'm entering this pageant
because there's no reason I shouldn't. I'm doing this because I want to cross the line between me and the rest of the world. Not be someone's savior.

I shake my head. “This isn't a good idea.”

“All my favorite things start as bad ideas,” says Millie.

“Millie, people are cruel,” I tell her. “I know that. And so does Amanda, I'm sure.”

Amanda nods. “Haters gonna hate.”

“But doing this pageant is the ultimate KICK ME sign on your back. You don't need my permission, but I don't want to be responsible for that.”

Millie's shoulders slump.

Ellen kicks her toe in the dirt. “They should do it. If Millie and Amanda want to enter the pageant with you, they should. Viva la revolution and all that.”

“No,” I say. “Y'all should go home.”

Amanda shrugs and starts to walk off, but Millie stays put, silently asking for an appeal.

Ellen grabs my hand and squeezes it tight.

I sigh. “Registration for the revolution is two hundred bucks.”

Inside, the community center sounds like the gymnasium during girls' phys ed. High-pitched conversations bounce off the ceiling, echoing and multiplying until the voices of twenty sound like the screeches of a hundred.

Cliques of girls sit at round tables with white tablecloths, the same ones my mother ironed in our living room last night. The legacy girls with mothers and sisters who
have been crowned. Athletes trying to beef up their college résumés. The cheer table, which consists of anyone who does anything at a football game that doesn't include a ball. And the theater and the choir girls, of course. All of them wear dresses. Like, Easter dresses. Precious little garden dresses with matching cardigans. While we are wearing nothing more than jeans and T-shirts.

I turn back to Amanda and Millie and try to give them an encouraging smile that doesn't say I-have-no-clue-what-I'm-doing-I-feel-like-I'm-naked.

El squeezes my hand. “Let's do this.”

We weave in and out of tables and as we draw to the front, a silence sprinkles over the room, until the voices are nothing more than a low buzz of questions.

At the registration table sit two former pageant queens, Judith Clawson and Mallory Buckley. Only former winners are invited to participate as members of the planning committee. Judith is at least twenty years Mallory's senior, but both their smiles are as glittering white as the crown brooches on their cardigans.

“Hi. I'm here for registration.”

Both women smile with their lips closed. Judith whispers into Mallory's ear, who then stands and says, “Pardon me.”

Judith examines my application. “You'll need to get your talent approved by the first week of November.”

“Right. Of course.”

Her eyes travel between the form and me as she reads over my weight and height. “I'll need your mother's
signature, dear.”

“Willowdean.” As if on cue, my mother grips my elbow as Mallory rushes past her to reclaim her spot.

Mom pulls me off to the side and through a set of French doors. I watch through the glass as Amanda and Millie hand in their applications. I have this urge to go back in there and stand with them, like I've somehow abandoned them.

Ellen stands behind them and flashes me the thumbs-up.

“What do you think you're doing?” Her voice is a harsh whisper.

I stand up straighter with my fists dug into my hips. “I'm registering as a contestant.”

“This isn't some joke.”

“Do you see me laughing?”

“And who are those other young ladies with you?”

“They're my friends. And they want to enter the pageant, too.”

“Is this some kind of ploy for attention? Are you trying to get back at me for something?” Her voice rises with every word and while I'm not willing to break eye contact, I can feel the eyes of every person in the registration room on us.

“Oh, are those the questions you ask all the contestants? I didn't see them on the form.”

She points a perfectly polished pearl-pink finger in my face. “Don't you do this. Don't you drag these poor girls into our issues. This pageant isn't some joke for you to
make an example of me.”

“Why does it have to be that? Why do you have to make that assumption, Mom? How come I can't enter the pageant without it being a joke or revenge?”

She crosses her arms with her lips pursed together in a tight knot. “You can't enter unless I sign the release.”

I knew it would come to this. “And why wouldn't you?”

Her voice softens. “Besides the fact that I'm unsure your intentions are pure?” She licks her thumbs and wipes a spot on my shirt above my chest. “I don't want you to embarrass yourself.”

I open my mouth, ready to snap back.

“And more so, it's not fair for you to subject those girls to this. They'll be ridiculed, Dumplin'.” The nickname burrows beneath my skin in a way it never has before.

There are so many things I could say, but instead I cut right to the bone. “Mom.” My mouth is dry. “If you don't sign that form, you're saying I'm not good enough. You're saying that most every girl in that room right now is prettier and more deserving than me. That's what you're telling me.”

A long silence sinks between us.

My mother has never encouraged me to enter the pageant. I remember sitting in the kitchen with El the summer before freshman year, decorating our new matching day planners when I ran upstairs for more markers. When I came back down, I lingered in the shadows of the hallway as I heard my mom say, “Ya know, dear, you might think about entering the pageant when you turn fifteen.”
El brushed her off, and I waited a few beats before sitting down at the kitchen table. That day was, like, realizing for the first time that the religion your parents subscribe to doesn't work for you.

I watch my mom, waiting for her to crack.

“Fine,” she says after a long moment. “But don't you dare expect any special treatment or allowances.”

El's eyes are wide as she watches us file through the door. I see the question on her lips.

I nod once.

Mom walks past me to the table and signs her name to my form.

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

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

I sit at a table with Ellen, Millie, and Amanda as my mom stands in front of the registration table and claps her hands together, silencing the room. “Welcome, ladies.” She clears her throat. “You are about to embark on a path that has been weathered by many before you and will be by many after you. Clover City's Miss Teen Blue Bon—”

The heavy door at the back of the room creaks loudly and every head, including my own, turns.

“Am I too late for registration?” asks Hannah Perez, her tone flat.

My jaw drops. Along with everyone else's.

With her clipboard in hand, the younger woman from the registration table rushes to Hannah. She looks over her form and instructs her to take a seat.

Hannah sits by herself at an empty table.

My mother clears her throat again. “One, two, three. Eyes on me.” She pauses for a moment. “As I was saying, the Miss Teen Blue Bonnet Pageant is a treasured tradition with a rich history. Former titleholders have gone on to become business owners, physicians, and beloved mothers
and wives. We even have a mayor amongst us.” She goes on to explain the origins of the pageant and how it went on hiatus during World War II and again when Kennedy was assassinated.

I have never seen my mother in command of a room like she is right now. She stands with her back straight and speaks with her voice projected. She owns this. But, I guess, what surprises me most is how captivated everyone is. Including my table. Here, in her element, she's not my mother. Here, she is Shirley Dickson, Clover City's Miss Teen Blue Bonnet 1997. Here, she is royalty.
Y'all hail the queen
.

“Now if you haven't already declared your talent, you have until the first week of November to notify us. Don't forget: the board must deem your talent appropriate. So save the sexy, understand? You will also need to have your formal, swimwear, and talent costume approved by the Wednesday before the pageant.”

She waits for some nods from her audience. “Wonderful. I'd like to introduce you to my cohorts this year. This is Mrs. Judith Clawson, Miss Teen Blue Bonnet 1979.” The older woman stands and curtsies. “And this is Mrs. Mallory Buckley, Miss Teen Blue Bonnet 2008.” She pauses for quiet applause.

“A yes from these women is a yes from me. A no from them is a no from me.”

The two women walk the room and hand out hot-pink folders with the Eighty-First Annual Clover City Miss Teen Blue Bonnet logo printed across the front in gold
script.

“Look around for a moment.” She pauses as we stiffly stare at one another. “Somewhere in this room is the next Blue Bonnet. The bad news is that only one young woman will wear this year's crown. But the good news is: she's sitting amongst us. You'll notice that this is the eighty-first anniversary of our pageant. We have wonderful things in store for you all including a beautifully choreographed opening number—”

“No one said there would be dancing,” mumbles Amanda.

“. . . and the promise of front-page billing in the
Clover City Tribune
.”

Mallory (she's so young I can't bring myself to call her Mrs. Buckley) makes the rounds at our table, and hands us all folders. Including El.

“Oh,” I whisper. “She's not doing the pageant. Just here for moral support.”

Mallory, whose auburn hair is curled in bouncing ringlets, smiles at me like I'm speaking a foreign language, and hands El a folder anyway.

“Ellen,” I whisper.

She turns in her chair and opens the folder as she thumbs through the pages. “Yeah?”

My mom still droning on, I lean over and say, “That was weird, right?”

“What?”

“With Mallory just now.”

“How was that weird?” she whispers back as she skims through the papers in the folder.

I feel my eyes widen. “You entered the pageant.”

“Isn't that what we came here to do?”

“Thank you, ladies,” says Mom, her voice ringing like a bell. “Feel free to mingle with one another. Don't forget: only you can put the
friend
in friendly competition. There's a refreshments table on that back wall, starring my famous sweet tea, of course.”

Applause echoes in my ears. “You can't do the pageant. That wasn't part of the plan.”

Everyone around us migrates toward the back of the room. “What are you talking about?” She's not whispering anymore. “This is all we've been talking about for days.”

“You can't be serious.”

“Why? Why is this such a problem?”

“You're—you could actually win. We're not here to win. That's not the point.” I can hear how ridiculous I sound.

“Are you fucking kidding me right now?”

I don't know what to say. There is nothing to say.

“Have you thought about the fact that I feel as out of place here as you do?”

“You have to back out. El, for me, you've got to. Let me have this one thing.”

“What? Let you have what? You can't pick and choose who joins the revolution.” She makes air quotes as she says “revolution.”

I hear the logic in her voice. I recognize the truth there. But if El entered, she could really win. And that's why she could ruin this.

I remember that night, two years ago, as we sat at the kitchen table and I pretended that I hadn't heard my mom tell her to enter the pageant. It shouldn't have mattered to me, but it did. It was a moment I'd kept locked away deep inside of me, and now it was all I could see. On a loop. She was my mother. She lived at the end of the hall, and in all that time, she'd never extended an invitation to me.

I deserve to be selfish, I think. I deserve to make something about me.

“You already have everything,” I say. The perfect parents. The perfect job. The perfect boyfriend. “Let me have this.”

El shakes her head. “That's not fair. You can't put that on me. Maybe Callie was right, Will. Maybe we're outgrowing each other. Holding each other back. I miss out on lots of things because of you. I can't believe you would even think of asking me not to enter.”

All the sorrow and bitterness I've felt over the last few months is clumping together into one giant fit of rage. Holding each other back? “Callie? Really? I can't believe you talk to her about us. Sorry I can't be some mindless friend for you who sits around and tells you how fucking flawless you are, okay? Just go ahead and say what you mean. We don't hold each other back.
I
hold
you
back, isn't that right?”

She doesn't answer.

“I'm not your goddamn sidekick or your chubby best friend.” I take a step closer to her. “This whole pageant thing
is
about me, El. I am making this about me.”

Her face turns an angry shade of red. “You're a shitty-ass friend, Will, and I'm done wasting my time. I'm not backing out of this.” And then she leaves.