by Julie Murphy
With a huge grin plastered across her face, Amanda slides down onto the floor in front of Millie.
“But what about the parental consent form?” It’s more a rhetorical question because I know the answer. I can’t imagine Millie being capable of such deception.
She licks her lips. “I forged my mother’s signature.”
Hannah sits scrolling through her phone, with her lips sealed but smiling.
Millie’s round face crumples a little. Her cheeks tinge an even deeper pink than normal. “I asked them. Back when I first found out you were entering the pageant.”
I nod along with her, encouraging her to tell me more.
“And my mom took a few days to think about it. But they said no. They said they couldn’t have that on their conscience. That I’d get made fun of, and that it didn’t seem like a very Christlike way to spend my time.”
Hannah scoffs.
I roll my eyes at her. Which doesn’t matter because she can’t spare a glance away from her phone. “But what are you going to do? The pageant is next weekend. I mean, you’re going to be in the paper. And then everyone will know.”
Sure, we’d been heckled a few times, but once that paper goes to print, there’s no turning back. People like Patrick Thomas would have good material on me for the rest of our lives.
“I—I don’t know.” She chews the skin around her thumbnail, and her eyes search my face, looking for some kind of answer or something. Anything that might tell her it will be okay.
I see it now. I see now what the stakes are for her and how she wants nothing more than to break out of the delicate little box her parents have built for her. “It’ll be okay,” I say. “It’s going to be fine.”
“I think it’s badass,” says Amanda. “I woulda never thought you had something like that in you.”
“Oh, I think she’s got room in there for plenty,” murmurs Hannah.
That’s it. I am so over her attitude. “What is it with you?” I spit. “Why are you even here? Can’t you just hate on something in your own house?”
“Will,” says Millie.
“It’s true,” I say. “Millie invited you over here to her home and all you’ve done since I walked in is stick your face in your phone and brood.”
Hannah finally looks up. Her face is all amusement. “Oh, like you even give a shit about these two. You’re just here to feel better about yourself. This is some kind of sad circle jerk.”
I feel my nostrils flare.
“It’s true,” she adds. “That’s the only reason you’re sticking with this little freak show. You were an asshole to your best friend and now all you have is us.”
“Stop,” says Millie, cutting the cord of tension between us. “Let’s talk interview questions. I tracked down some from a few years ago for us to practice with.”
“Don’t talk to me like you know the whole story,” I tell Hannah. “Because you don’t.” I turn to Millie. “Is there somewhere I can change?”
Millie points me to the bathroom across the hallway. Every little mauve detail matches, including the house-shaped shelf that holds spare toilet paper. Like in Millie’s room, there are cheesy inspirational quotes in frames. My personal favorite: A smile is a curve that sets everything straight.
Still on her wicker throne, Millie says, “Okay, so like our packets say, there will be an interview session the Thursday before the pageant. The judges will grade us on that, and then combine it with our live interview during the pageant. I think that’s one or two questions.”
“And we don’t know the questions beforehand?” asks Amanda.
“No,” I say, letting sleeping memories of my childhood spent backstage resurface. “No, and this is where they like to stump you.”
“Interview is the component with the highest point value, so if we—”
Millie’s interrupted by a light knock. The door creaks open. Her mom, with hair tall enough to hold a few family secrets, stands with eyes brimming like she might cry or something. “We’re heading to bed.”
“Okay.” Millie bites in on her lips so that they disappear.
“I’ll have breakfast ready for you girls tomorrow morning. We’re so happy to see Millie have some girlfriends over.”
“We’re so happy to be here,” says Hannah, her voice flat.
Millie’s smile is tight. “Good night, Mom.”
“Night-night, sugar.”
After she shuts the door, we discuss the point value breakdown and how ridiculous it is that swimsuit accounts for more than talent. Once Millie is sure her parents are asleep, we head to the TV room and watch a few videos of former pageants that I stole from my mom’s stash.
The more contestants that grace the screen, the more obvious it is how much we do not fit. There’s the odd black sheep here and there, but never anything like the four of us. It makes me feel small, like a blip on the history of this little pageant. What about next year? Or the year after that? Soon, we’d be forgotten and what would be the point then?
Millie feverishly takes notes throughout the night, while Amanda asks questions like, “What if we get wedgies during the swimwear part?” or “Do you think there’s ever been any major wardrobe disasters, like, a nip slip? Will we get bathroom breaks?”
Hannah looks up from her phone to say, “This is kind of depressing. I mean, this is the actual highlight of these girls’ lives. The people on these tapes are moms or even grandmas now and this is probably the best thing they’ve ever done.”
“That’s not very fair.” Millie’s voice is quiet. “Just because maybe these women have stayed here in Clover City or have become stay-at-home moms or cashiers doesn’t mean you can deem their entire lives outside of the pageant a waste.”
Hannah says nothing, but her lips nearly tremble.
“Listen, Hannah,” she adds. “I know people have been cruel to you, but—”
“I’m going to bed.” She tucks her pillow beneath her arm and heads back to Millie’s room.
After she’s gone, I wait for Millie to say something about how horrible Hannah is, but she keeps whatever thoughts she might have to herself.
The three of us stay there for a while longer. Millie tells us how she used the piggy bank she’s had since first grade to order a dress from Cindy’s.
“I had sleeves added, but at the last minute, decided to have them made with organza instead of satin so it’s almost see-through. I’m kind of nervous about how it’ll turn out.”
“I’m sure you’ll look amazing,” I tell her.
She smiles and nods. It’s dark, so I can’t know for sure, but her eyes look watery. I want to wake her parents up and tell them that their daughter is competing in a beauty pageant, and that she’s going to win. At least she would if it was up to me.
FIFTY-ONE
I take the couch for the night to give myself some quiet. I slip in and out of sleep the way you do when you’re sleeping in a house that isn’t your own. Except at El’s. I could always sleep.
Maybe it’s thirty minutes or two hours, I don’t know, but the house creaks as someone walks down the hallway. I turn over so that I can catch a glimpse of whoever it is. Slipping through a sliver of moonlight, Hannah makes her way to the kitchen. Without thinking about it, I pull back my blankets and follow her.
She stands in front of the fridge, the white light turning her into a silhouette.
I flip the overhead light on.
She jumps a little and turns around, but the tension in her shoulders eases when she sees it’s me. “I’m looking for a bottle of water.”
“Then what’s up with the beer?” I ask, pointing to the can of Miller in her fist.
“Found them in the garage fridge. Thought I’d see if there were any more in here.” She opens the fridge door wide to show me nothing but bottled water and Diet Dr Pepper. “No one’s going to miss these, though.” She points to several cans on the counter. “You want one?”
“Yeah,” I say, surprising myself. I b
et Millie’s mom isn’t too thrilled by the idea of beer in the house, so technically we’re doing Mr. and Mrs. Michalchuk a favor. “Sure.”
We sit in the dark on the couch, sipping our beers. The moon shines against the windowpane, casting a shadow on the carpet.
“So what’s up with that guy who dropped you off tonight?” asks Hannah.
“What guy?”
“I’m trying to be nice, okay?” It’s true. In the dark, she seems like a less hostile version of herself. Like, maybe, she’s most comfortable when no one can see her. “I heard Amanda and Millie blabbering about him when they came to bed. Peachbutt, huh?”
“Bo.” If she’s willing to put the claws away, I can give her a few ounces of truth, I guess. “Bo Larson. We work together. We’re, uh, friends.”
“Ah.” She takes a long slurp from her beer. “Bathroom Boy. I remember now. He’s in my study hall. Dude’s like an eight. A solid eight. I don’t even like guys and I like looking at him.”
I search for her in the darkness. Did Hannah just come out to me? I don’t know what to say or do, but I do know that I don’t really care whether Hannah likes boys or girls. So I decide not to say anything. “Yeah, he’s a little too delicious.” And a ten, I think. Definitely a ten.
“Friends, huh? Didn’t look like friends when I saw you two.” I can hear her smiling. “In the girls’ bathroom no less.”
I shrug. Which is dumb because she can’t see me. “Friends who sometimes make out.”
She whistles.
My cheeks and chest burn. I hope it’s the beer.
She pops the tab on a second beer. “How’d that happen?”
“It’s been on and off, I guess. I don’t know. It’s starting to become more and he wants to be something official. And it’s so stupid because, yes, obviously that is everything I want but . . .”
“But guys like Bo don’t date girls like us.” The way she says it. It’s not mean. Or rude. It’s true.
I nod. “Exactly. I don’t get why he likes me, but I truly believe that he does. I really do. It’s just that I don’t think anyone else will understand what he sees in me.”
“That’s a tough one,” she says. “People are shit. Look at people like Patrick Thomas. You dating a guy like Bo would be a field day for him.”
It’s nice to talk to someone who understands. Hannah may not get what it feels like to wonder if you’re going to fit into a chair with armrests or how anytime a floor creaks beneath your weight, everyone looks at you like you’re about to break the entire building. She might not get what it’s like to walk into a mall and know that 90 percent of the clothes won’t fit you or that even thinking about going to a buffet is a bad idea, because a fat person at a buffet is a joke waiting to happen. But she’s not patting me on the back, and telling me to do what makes me happy. And there’s some relief in that. “I wish that there was some kind of alternate plane we could exist on where he could be my boyfriend.” It’s the first time I’ve said the word out loud and it sends a hum all the way through me to my toes. “And no one had to know.”
“But isn’t that the point of labels like boyfriend and girlfriend? To make things easier for other people?” She slurps her beer. “Isn’t that sad? It’s like the whole world has to walk around with name tags on so we can all feel more comfortable? I guess things are less scary if you know what to call them.”
We drink our beers in silence. Her words sound right, but feel wrong. Yeah, labels make it easier for others to understand you, but I like the safety of knowing. Especially with Bo. That’s why I haven’t given him an answer yet. I can’t bear to tell him no.
“Hannah, I want to ask you a question. It’s rude, but I’m not asking to be rude.” Although, that doesn’t really make it any better.
“Shoot,” she says.
“Why haven’t you ever gotten your teeth fixed?”
“Why should I have to?” she retorts immediately. Her voice softens as she adds, “Plus it’s expensive. Mom’s a hairdresser. Dad’s a mechanic. Not like we have great insurance or anything.”
“You’re right,” I say. “You shouldn’t have to.”
She clears her throat. “I don’t mean to be such a bitch, you know.”
“It’s okay.”
She laughs. “I wasn’t apologizing. But it’s hard not to have my claws out all the time. I don’t have friends like you do. There’s no one there to walk down the hallway with me.”
“You have friends. Don’t be stupid.” But I can close my eyes and see her at school, wearing black from head to toe and with her mouth stretched over her teeth, so that maybe people will just forget.
“I wanted to sabotage this pageant from the inside out. That was the only reason I entered. I wouldn’t be the girl with buckteeth. I’d be that girl who ruined the whole pageant.” She pauses. “But then my mom found out. She saw the welcome packet. She was so proud of me for entering. And now . . .”
“You’re stuck actually doing this thing.” It makes sense. If people treated me half as bad as they do Hannah, I would want to ruin this whole thing, too.
“I’m going to bed,” she says. “Gimme your empties. I’ll throw them out at my place.”
I finish the last of my beer. Her hand reaches out and I pass her my two cans. I feel the couch shift as she stands. I don’t know where she is or if she’s even facing me, but I say, “I’m your friend. Not in a corny way. Not because you said all that about not having friends. But because I like you. I like talking to you.”
It’s so quiet that, for a moment, I think maybe she’s not even in the room. Her voice comes as a whisper. “Okay.”
I miss Ellen. I will never stop missing Ellen. But there’s a sigh of relief that comes in having another friend who I can talk to about more than this dumb pageant. Even if it’s only in the dark.
The next morning when I get home, I find my mom upstairs in Lucy’s room. Neither of us has really been in here much since she started the craft room transformation. She’s been caught up in pageant stuff, and I’ve been too wrapped up in myself, so Lucy’s room has sort of been sitting here. Briefly, I wonder if, like me, she’s snuck in here for moments at a time. Just to see Lucy. To be near her.
But today my mom’s got her ridiculous Juicy Couture tracksuit on and has boxes labeled DONATE. She’s not here to visit Lucy. She’s here to get rid of her.
When my mother is frustrated, she cleans. Her cleaning out Lucy’s room frustrates me. These two negatives do not equal a positive. She and I are still on eggshells over the dress, and honestly, if she doesn’t let me wear it, I’m done for. I have no other options. A fat girl can’t just walk into a thrift shop and—POOF—find a decent dress that actually fits.
And that’s what really pisses me off about the dress thing. She’s the head honcho. The lady calling the shots. All she has to say is yes. I have a hard enough time finding jeans to wiggle over my ass, you think she’d be shooting confetti cannons over me being able to find a not hideous/not stretchy dress that zips. IT ZIPS.
But the room. There she is digging—pawing—through Lucy’s things and every little movement feels like I’ve accidentally touched the coils of a hot stove.
“What are you even doing in here?” My voice is already too loud and too sharp.
She glances back at me. “I didn’t hear you come in.” She turns back. “This stuff can’t sit here forever. You know, I hope that when I die, you don’t let my belongings gather dust for months like this.”
“These are Lucy’s things, Mom. This stuff belongs to her.”
“Baby,” she says. “Belonged. These things belonged to her. We’re coming up on a year in December. I’m not lettin’ all this sit here like some kind of shrine.”
I shake my head. Tears spill out onto my cheeks. A year. A whole year. “Stop,” I say. “Please stop.”
She turns to me now. Panic flashes across her face. I think that maybe I will forever judge her based on what she does and says at this very moment.
We don’t have this kind of relationship. I don’t cry on my mother’s shoulder. We dance around each other, but never intersect.
Her house shoes slap against the floor as she takes the few steps toward me.
I lean forward, expecting her to hug me. And I don’t mean her wrapping her arms around my waist, and commenting on how her fingers nearly touch. I mean a real hug. One I can sink into. “I’m taking all this stuff to the shelter this weekend. If there’s anything you want, now’s the time to pull it out.” She pats my shoulder. “I’m going to go put together some lunch before you have to go to work.”
The door closes behind her, and I sink down onto Lucy’s bed. The memory of the last few weeks washes over me.
I have no dress. A not-really-maybe boyfriend who I can’t bear to be seen with in public, because I feel that repulsive when I think of us standing side by side. Mitch, who I’ve been horrible to. My mom. Ellen. And no Lucy.
I need Lucy. She should be here to tell me what to do. Some solution that would never even occur to me without her.
I consider the things I can change.
The dress.
I could eat lettuce until the pageant and maybe then it will fit like how my mom had imagined. But then what? It’s that vicious dieting cycle, like when I was younger. I would lose the weight to wear the dress, and then what? I start eating food that’s not lettuce and gain it all back. Maybe even some extra.
All the pageant season diets my mom and I have done flip through my head like index cards. Protein bars in fourth grade. Weight Watchers in fifth. Salads in second. And none of it ever worked.
She wins. My mom wins. I didn’t even know this was some kind of competition with her until this moment. But I’m losing. I have no dress. Barely any talent. And an escort whose heart I’m breaking without him even knowing it.
If I do this pageant, I’ll make a point—that’s for sure. It just won’t be one I want to be remembered for.
FIFTY-TWO
Sitting in the break room later that night, I use a compact mirror to examine the green ring around my neck in the reflection. I snap the mirror shut like a clam, and take the fake gold necklace off and lay it out on the table. The gold chain is that twisty type of chain they sell at mall kiosks, and the charm says Dolly in a bubbly cursive script.