by Julie Murphy
TWENTY-SEVEN
Ellen and Tim pick me up in the morning so that I won’t have to face the carport because I am officially Patrick Thomas’s public enemy number one.
But except for a few whispers, school is relatively calm. Everyone seems to have suppressed the memory of or sort of gotten over last week’s incident.
At least that’s what I think until lunch. People crowd in groups all passing around phones. Most laugh. Some shake their head in disgust. In the lunch line, I peer over a girl’s shoulder. She turns to me, her voice bubbling with laughter, and says, “Have you seen this?” Her arm’s outstretched, holding the screen within inches of my face.
Hannah Perez. Her school photo on the screen sits alongside a photo of a horse, with his gummy mouth of giant teeth on full display. Just like Hannah. Except hers are even more crooked. The caption for the picture says: HaaaaaaAAAAAaaannah. I hear it in my head in Patrick Shit-for-Brains Thomas’s voice.
“That’s not funny,” I spit.
The girl whips her phone around, holding it to her chest, with her face twisted in confusion. “Um. Okay.”
I know very little about Hannah except that she is quiet and stubborn. In third grade, during art, we all sat coloring hand turkeys for Thanksgiving. I hadn’t heard Hannah speak all year, but then I took the marker that sat in front of her—one she didn’t even appear to be using—and she slapped it out of my hand, yelling that I should’ve asked for permission first. The only other memory I have of her is from fifth grade when she snapped at a teacher who kept calling her African American. Which actually made sense because she’s Dominican.
As I’m walking to my next class, I hear things like, “So horrible,” or “I’m sorry, but she’s hideous,” or “Why doesn’t she get braces?”
That last one is the sentiment that stays with me all day because Hannah shouldn’t have to get braces. Maybe she can’t afford them or maybe she’s scared to get them. Either way, she shouldn’t have to fill her mouth with metal so that some shitheads will leave her alone.
In fifth period, Bo sits with his arms crossed tight over his chest. His cheek is bruised and a scabbing cut clusters at the corner of his lip. I want to know what happened. Who he got in a fight with.
But it’s not your business, I remind myself.
When he sees me, his brow furrows, and his lips fall into a deep-set frown, breaking his scab. He pulls the sleeve of his sweatshirt over his hand and pats it to his mouth.
After school, I meet Ellen in the parking lot. “Did you see all that stuff about Hannah?”
I nod. “She must have lost it when she found out. Does anyone know who did it?”
“Tim says some guys on the golf team, but that they can’t get in trouble because no one can prove anything and it didn’t happen at school.”
“That’s such bullshit.”
Tim and El drive me home and wait for me to change into my Chili Bowl uniform shirt. They drop me off at work and Ellen promises to come back for me later with her mom’s car.
I brace myself for Alejandro. He’s got to be pissed that I missed so much work, but when I walk in, he asks, “You’re not still grounded, are you?”
I shake my head.
“Good. ’Cause I don’t cross moms. Anyone’s mom. So if you’re lying, you can go home.”
“Not lying,” I say. “Totally free.”
Around seven, Ellen walks in. “Sorry, my mom would only let me take the car if I ate dinner with them.”
“It’s cool.”
She hoists herself up on the other end of the counter and whispers, “This place smells like onions and BO. I still don’t get why you quit Harpy’s for this shitter.”
“Better pay,” I lie as I lean forward, practically laying my upper body on the counter. “How much do you think I can get a formal for? This pageant isn’t going to be cheap.”
She shrugs. “Maybe a couple hundred bucks. You could try Goodwill, too.”
The cowbell above the door rings. I stand up, totally caught off guard by the prospect of a customer. Ellen doesn’t budge.
Millie Michalchuk waves at the two of us as she walks in. She smiles at me and an immediate guilt for any less-than-nice thing I’ve ever thought about her weighs me down like an anchor.
“Hey, Millie.” Ellen gives a short wave.
“So what can I get you today?” I ask.
She drops her keys down on the counter, and there are at least twenty-six key chains on her key ring with all of two keys. “A pint of house chili.” She pauses. “And some crackers.”
“You got it.”
After she pays, Millie picks up some plasticware from the condiment bar while I spoon her chili out from the pot.
“So,” Ellen says, “the registration fee can’t be more than two hundred bucks, right?”
“I guess. I have five hundred and sixty-eight dollars in savings, so if the whole thing costs more than that, I’m going to have to get a second job.” I press the lid down on Millie’s to-go cup. “Here ya go!”
Her eyes skip back and forth between El and me before taking her chili and walking out the door.
El watches as Millie pulls out of the parking lot. “That was weird-ish.”
“Yeah,” I say. “Well, she’s kind of weird all on her own.”
We hang out all night and when Alejandro comes out from his office, Ellen slides off the counter and pretends to be a customer. He runs the nightly report on my register and as he’s walking back to his office, he calls over his shoulder, “Tell your friend we’re hiring!”
TWENTY-EIGHT
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 fro
m 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.
TWENTY-NINE
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?” Mom’s 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.
THIRTY
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.