Dumplin'

by Julie Murphy

  I ended up fitting as much of Lucy’s stuff as I could in my closet. I tried my best to get all her Dolly collectibles, including a pair of glitter-encrusted shoes Dolly wore to a show in Vegas. The soles are signed in her big loopy signature, proving their authenticity.

  Bo plops down in the chair next to me. “What’s that?”

  I drag the chain around with my index finger so that he can see it. “It was my aunt’s.”

  He nods.

  “My mom’s cleaning out her room. Again. It’s happened in small spurts in the last few months. But I think she’s serious this time.”

  “I’m sorry.” He drags his finger along the chain. “When my mom was dying, she kinda cleaned out her room for us. Like, as soon as she found out it was bad, she started inviting people over and no one ever left empty-handed. By the time she was gone, all that was left were a few nightgowns and some shoes.” He concentrates on the necklace, his jaw twitching. “I was kind of mad at her for doing that. But I don’t think I could have done it myself anyway. If it’d been up to my dad, we’d still be using her perfume as air freshener.”

  Bo watches me for a moment before yanking on the leg of my chair and pulling me closer to him. He wraps his arm around me and I ease into his frame. My breathing hitches a little, but that voice in my head that begs me not to let him touch me is nothing more than a murmur. His lips press against my hair, sending calming vibrations through me.

  “Am I interrupting something?” Mitch stands in the doorway with a brown grocery bag clenched in his fist.

  I pick my head up so quickly that I hit Bo’s jaw. “I’m sorry,” I say, but to which of them I’m not sure. Panic sinks all the way down to my toes, holding me in place. “Hi,” I say to Mitch. “Hey. What are you doing here?”

  Bo stands, rubbing the spot where my head collided with his. “I better get back to work.” His voice is rigid.

  The tension between them buzzes like an electric fence.

  Mitch doesn’t move out of his way, so Bo squeezes past him. He watches Bo go before stepping through the doorway. “The guy at the front told me you were back here.” He drops the bag on the table, and whatever’s inside rattles for a second. “I got you some magic supplies. For your talent.”

  I try too hard to keep my voice light. “Sit down.”

  He doesn’t. “Who was that guy?”

  “Bo. We work together.”

  His two brows crinkle into one. “Do you like him?”

  “What? We were talking, Mitch.” I sound defensive because I am. So we kissed once. We hold hands sometimes. That doesn’t make us anything. And yet maybe it does. It’s not like he caught me making out with Bo or in a state of undress, but I feel just as guilty.

  “Do you?” he asks again.

  I tuck my hair behind my ears and take a long moment before I answer. “I do.”

  He shakes his head and pulls down on the bill of his baseball cap. “Good luck with the pageant, Will.” He turns on his heel and exits through the nearest door, which happens to be the employee exit.

  My heart aches from losing one of my precious few friends, knowing all too well that if this is anyone’s fault it’s mine.

  That night, Bo drives me home in silence.

  I’m halfway up the driveway when I hear his door slam shut as he says, “I wish you would give me an answer.” He circles around the front of his truck.

  “What?” I walk back toward him. “We have to do this tonight?”

  “I want to be with you,” he says. “But I can’t if you won’t let me.”

  “Why?” I drop my bag in the driveway. “Why do you want to be with this?” I wave my arm up and down the length of my body. Immediately, I hate myself for this. The only person making this about my body is me.

  “Because I like you. I think I might feel a lot more than that for you, Willowdean. How is that so hard to believe? When I can’t fall asleep at night it’s not because of work or school or Amber or Bekah. It’s you. You’re the one that drives me crazy.”

  I shake my head because it makes no sense. “Have you ever thought about what people will think? What they’ll say when they see us together holding hands?”

  “You never struck me as the type to give a shit what everyone else thinks.” His jaw twitches for a moment before he lowers his voice and says, “I want to go everywhere with you. I want to show you off. I want to wear a cheap suit and be your escort for that ridiculous pageant.”

  My teeth chatter. I’m trying so, so hard not to cry. Because it’s all there. I like him. He likes me. But there’s so much more. I can’t believe it even matters to me, but I’m not going to be skinny anytime soon, and I shouldn’t care. I’m pissed that I didn’t just throw myself at him right here in my driveway.

  But I refuse to hate him for being another reason for people to whisper about me. “I can’t. That might make me a coward, but . . .” The tears are more than a threat now.

  He meets me where I am, and because of the downward tilt of the driveway, we are toe to toe, nose to nose. “Willowdean Opal Dickson, you are beautiful. Fuck anyone who’s ever made you feel anything less.” His chest heaves. “When I close my eyes, I see you. I can talk to you. In a way I never have with anyone else.”

  Beautiful, he says. Fat, I think. But can’t I be both at the same time? I lift my hand to his cheek, and the tension bubbling beneath his skin eases. I kiss him once more on the lips. I linger there for a moment, remembering all the details of everything I shouldn’t be allowed to have. “I can’t,” I whisper, knowing that I’m talking about so much more than just me and Bo.

  I turn around and pick up my bag.

  He stands in the driveway until I switch my bedroom light off, turning my house into a dark shell.

  FIFTY-THREE

  On Monday, as I’m walking out of class, Mitch reaches for my elbow. Mr. Krispin has already run off for the teachers’ lounge, and everyone’s cleared out. It’s just us.

  “I wanted to say that I don’t think I should be your escort for the pageant.”

  I look up at him, but he only lets our eyes meet for a second before looking away. “I’m not doing the pageant anyway.” I hadn’t said it out loud until this very moment, but I made my decision on Saturday night, standing in my driveway with Bo.

  I can see his thoughts moving across his features. Thoughts of him trying to convince me. Telling me about the bright side. But he says nothing.

  “And I’m sorry,” I add much too late. “I didn’t mean for you to get hurt.”

  “But you like him?”

  I nod.

  “‘I’m sorry’ doesn’t make it better,” he says. “I would’ve been really good to you.”

  “More than I deserve.”

  I want to tell him how close he’d come, and that had I never met Bo, he’d be it. But I met Bo, and now I know what it feels like for one person’s name to wreck you.

  He stuffs his hands into the pockets of his jacket and walks out.

  I give him a few seconds’ head start before I leave for my class on the other side of campus.

  I take my time. I’d rather be late than out of breath. No one likes to see a fat girl huffing and puffing. The last bell rings and the halls clear.

  And then Ellen slips out of the last classroom on the right.

  At first, she doesn’t see me. She wipes her eyes. She’s crying. It could be about anything. But whatever it is, I don’t know about it.

  She glances back and sees me trailing a few feet behind her. She stops, not bothering to wipe her face free of the tears streaming down her cheeks. Maybe she and Tim broke up. Maybe she got in a fight with her new friends. Maybe she failed a test. I don’t know. This is my moment to step up. To ask her how she’s doing, and apologize for everything.

  But she turns and rushes into the bathroom. The moment is gone.

  I don’t stay for any of my other classes. This day has already gone wrong in too many ways for me to risk sticking around. When I get home, th
ere’s a text from Millie asking if we should all get together to practice our talents. The pageant. It doesn’t even matter anymore. When I entered, I did it for Lucy. And with Ellen by my side. But Lucy’s dead and Ellen is further away than ever.

  I text Millie, Hannah, and Amanda:

  ME: I can’t do the pageant. It’s short notice. I know. But I’m backing out. Y’all are going to be amazing. You deserve to be there. I’ll be cheering you on from the audience.

  After calling into work sick for the night, I turn my phone off and decide to keep it that way for the entire evening.

  FIFTY-FOUR

  I spend Tuesday and Wednesday faking a fever and nursing a bag of mini chocolate chips I found in the pantry from a few holidays ago. We’re not the type of household that just has sweets on hand (surprise!), especially with my mom still on Operation Squeeze into Pageant Gown.

  When I tell my mom I’m not feeling well, she closes my bedroom door without any questions. “Sorry, sweetheart,” she says. “Can’t risk getting sick. You take the day off.”

  For Mom, every single moment not spent on an elliptical at the YMCA or at work is a crafting 911. Our house is a war zone of fabric, props, and sequins, but the chaos of it actually gives me some quiet.

  I want—no, need—a few days to be a total slob. I haven’t showered since Sunday, and it’s oddly comforting to know that I look almost as disgusting as I feel. When Ron gave me the week of the pageant off work, I don’t think this is what he had in mind.

  By Wednesday night the freedom is fading, and I find myself lying facedown on my bed listening to one of Lucy’s records, which turns out to basically be the worst of Dolly Parton. The songs I like to forget she ever did. Like, “Me and Little Andy.” I mean, what the hell with that song, Dolly? It’s about a little girl and her dog dying. Who even wants to hear that?

  The front doorbell rings, interrupting my inner rant. I smile into my comforter. I couldn’t answer it even if I wanted to.

  It rings again. My mother must not be home. And again and again.

  I push myself off my bed and take my time going down the stairs. Standing on my toes, I look through the peephole. Sigh. I bang my head against the door.

  “What do you want?” I yell.

  “Let me in,” says Hannah. “Come on.” She rings the doorbell over and over again. Nine, maybe ten times.

  “Come around back,” I finally yell.

  She doesn’t even ask why.

  I stand with the back door open, and she brushes right past me. Riot sniffs her out for a second before running off.

  “I’ve called you, like, eighty-five times this weekend,” says Hannah. “I don’t even like talking on the phone.” She hands me a Tupperware full of stew. “My mom wanted me to bring you some of her sancocho.”

  “Your mom?” I open the fridge and wedge the container between a carton of milk and a jug of orange juice. “I’ve never even met your mom.”

  “Well, you’re like her favorite person ever because of this stupid pageant, so I hope you’re pleased with yourself.” She plops down into my mom’s seat at the kitchen table. Hannah’s the type of person who can be comfortable in anyone’s home, I think. There’s none of that extra care most people have when they’re in a new place for the first time. She leans forward on the table with both elbows. “You can’t quit the pag— Wait, are you listening to Dolly Parton?”

  I shrug.

  She glances up at me, and takes note of my current state. “There is so much wrong with this picture.”

  I pour a cold cup of coffee and pop it in the microwave. “I guess if by wrong, you mean right, then yeah.”

  “When’s the last time you showered?”

  The microwave dings. “Showers are so subjective.” I shrug. “Let’s go upstairs.”

  “Only if you turn off that horrible music.”

  Upstairs, I pick the needle up from the record as Hannah spreads out on my bed. She takes the Magic 8 Ball from my nightstand and shakes it. “Has Will lost her shit totally?” She reads the answer. “You may rely on it.”

  I sit down at the foot of the bed and lay across the length of it on my back. Maybe this will be easier if I can stare at the ceiling the whole time.

  “Okay, so something happened with Bathroom Boy, I’m guessing?”

  “Boys. There were two. And I don’t even know why I wanted to do this in the first place.” I stretch my arms out and let them hang off the edge of the bed. “Maybe I thought I deserved all the same things all those other girls do. I don’t know? But I’m different from other girls, and even if I do deserve the same things they do, that doesn’t mean I’ll get them. Me getting up there and competing against them would only prove that.”

  “Nope,” says Hannah. “I call bullshit. You don’t deserve to win anything or be in any pageant until you make the effort and do the work. Maybe fat girls or girls with limps or girls with big teeth don’t usually win beauty pageants. Maybe that’s not the norm. But the only way to change that is to be present. We can’t expect the same things these other girls do until we demand it. Because no one’s lining up to give us shit, Will.”

  “That’s easy for you to say. I walk into a room and the first thing anyone notices is how fucking huge I am in comparison. But for you, all you have to do is keep your mouth shut, and no one knows the difference.”

  “Whoa,” she says. “Low blow. Yeah, I can keep my mouth shut. Until I have something to say. You try being the half Dominican lesbian with buckteeth in this town, okay?”

  I shake my head. “I’m sorry. I’m a mess and—”

  “And you’re projecting whatever. This is still bullshit. If you’re not going to do this for you, do it for Amanda and Millie.” She chews her lip and stares past me into the mirror in front of my bed. “And me too, I guess.”

  “You guys’ll be fine without me.”

  “No, actually, we won’t. Millie can’t compete unless you do.”

  I sit up. “What are you talking about?”

  “Her parents found out about the pageant,” she says with nonchalance. “Millie begged and begged. She told them about how your mom runs the thing, so they said if you were competing, then so could she.” She pauses for effect. “Then you dropped out.”

  Guilt settles in my chest. I lick my chapped lips. Slowly, I’m becoming aware of how gross I feel after going the whole weekend without a shower. “Listen, that sucks really bad, but—”

  “But what? Please tell me you’re not that selfish.”

  She’s right. This isn’t a joke for Millie. This is about idolizing and studying these pageant contestants her whole life, and finally allowing herself to be one. My leg bounces up and down as I think. I don’t know that this would earn me any good karma. I might be too much in the negative for that, but I owe this to Millie. If I’m not going to go out there and grab life by the balls like she is, I should at least offer the courtesy of not standing in her way.

  Hannah reaches over to my leg, stilling me.

  I turn to her. “This is going to be a total disaster,” I tell her.

  She smiles with her mouth barely open. “I’m kind of counting on it.”

  FIFTY-FIVE

  Boys get out of school to travel to football games, so I guess it shouldn’t be that much of a surprise that every contestant is given the Friday before the pageant off from school. The extra day is spent in interviews and grueling dress rehearsals. We’re talking blisters, double-stick tape, and tears all over the place. This isn’t some low-budget high-school musical. This is Clover City’s Miss Teen Blue Bonnet Pageant.

  Last night, Hannah drove me to the community theater where my mom was setting up so that I could have my entire wardrobe approved. Seeing as I couldn’t wear my formal, I had to go for a sequined black mother-of-the-bride looking thing I found in one of Mom’s donation piles in Lucy’s room. It was wrinkled, but new with tags. My mom, Mallory Buckley, and Mrs. Clawson all made me promise to steam it before Saturday. As for a swimsu
it, my options were limited to my black one-piece and the red and white polka dot one I bought last summer but hadn’t had the balls to wear. I chose the red. Go big or go home. Plus the black swimsuit has little lint balls all over the butt.

  My talent costume was another thing. I dug through my room until I found the flapper headband I’d worn on Halloween. I had the black dress from Lucy’s funeral, and my mom agreed to lend me her black satin gloves if I returned them before she had to wear them for the formal wear segment.

  On Thursday morning, as I’m getting ready, Mom comes in to see what I’m wearing for my interview. “I like that skirt,” she says. “But maybe add the teal blazer I got you for your birthday.” I look in the mirror, considering her suggestion, and nod.

  We drive to the Silver Dollar Banquet Hall where the interviews and luncheon will take place today. The air-conditioning buzzes above the twang of the radio. With Thanksgiving next week, it’s getting pretty cool, but Mom’s got the air blastin’ because she’s got the “flashes.”

  We park and she wriggles into her dusty-rose suit jacket. “Dumplin’, I love you. And I’m hoping you’ll make me proud.”

  My stomach does somersaults. I don’t want to embarrass her. I really don’t.

  “But,” she adds, “I can’t have anyone thinking I’m giving you special treatment, so we’re all business until Saturday night after the pageant.”

  “Right,” I mutter. “All business.”

  Okay, so this place really is all business. They’ve got us contestants lined up outside of the banquet hall. No one is allowed to talk to each other until after the interviews are completed, which really makes no sense because this doesn’t strike me as the type of thing you could cheat on. I mean, they pull questions from one huge list, and no one gets the same combination.

  After the interviews is the luncheon, and after that is when contestants are allowed to set up their dressing room spaces. And that’s when shit really starts to get real. Tomorrow is dress rehearsals; Saturday morning is reserved for a light run-through before the show, which starts promptly at seven p.m.