by Julie Murphy
“I want to see this.”
“No. Nope. You’re going home.”
“Call me,” she says. “DO. NOT. FORGET.”
“Okay.”
She hugs me, and I hold on for a second too long, hoping that part of her will seep into my skin.
I wait for Tim to pull away before I take the last few steps to Bo. “Is this a home invasion or something?”
He whips around like he hadn’t heard Tim drop me off. A brown leather tool belt hangs low on his waist. “I swear this isn’t as creepy as it looks.”
“It looks pretty creepy.”
His smile is steady, yet nervous. “I was out with my dad, helping him with a few jobs when we ran into your mom at the gas station. I guess they went on a few dates in high school.”
I laugh. “So not surprised.”
“She mentioned your front door again, and my dad . . . well, actually, I volunteered to come fix it. I hope that’s not weird.”
I sit down on the stoop and he does the same. “Kinda weird.”
Unspoken words that I don’t know how to say weigh against my chest. “Did you get it fixed?”
“It was a really easy fix actually. I kind of can’t believe you guys left it like that for so long.”
I pull my knees into my chest. “You don’t have to answer a broken front door.”
He reaches back behind me and turns the knob. The door swings wide open. “No excuse now.”
“Yeah.” I point to his neck. “What’s up with the necklace?”
He pulls the chain out from under his T-shirt to reveal a small medallion. “Saint Anthony,” he says. “Supposed to help you find lost things.”
“What are you looking for?”
“I don’t know.” He tucks the necklace back behind his collar. “I think maybe I found it. But then some days I think it found me.”
I nod. There’s some kind of peace that comes with knowing that for every person who is waiting to be found, there’s someone out there searching.
“Willowdean?”
“Yeah?”
He stands and reaches for his toolbox. “You look like an insurance adjuster.”
FIFTY-EIGHT
I wake up to find that Mom has slid a copy of the paper beneath my door. I unfold it and find my face there, right in the middle of the crease. The headline reads: CLOVER CITY’S MISS TEEN BLUE BONNET: PUTTING NAMES WITH FACES. The entire front page is tiled with our head shots from the previous day. Beneath our pictures are our names, ages, favorite foods, and our definitions of Clover City in one word.
I’m guessing my mom wasn’t given a first look at this before it went to print. But, either way, there I am. My not-smiling face.
At rehearsal, we all sit in the auditorium for a long time while waiting for the lighting to be perfected. Miranda Solomon, God’s gift to Clover City community theater, turns around in her seat and explains to me, El, Hannah, Amanda, and Millie that half of final rehearsals is always spent sitting around, waiting for the techies to get it right. She shrugs. “That’s the biz.”
When she stands to go to the bathroom, El turns to me with her shoulders hunched up and her voice high. “That’s the biz.”
Callie sits a few rows behind us with another girl I recognize from Sweet 16. I’m actively trying not to look smug, but it’s not easy.
Other than that, things are alarmingly quiet. Pageants are the perfect recipe for drama. You have to look perfect. You have to be perfect. And on top of being perfect, you have to be the best at being perfect. The nerves here are almost palpable. Especially Millie’s. She bounces her legs so hard that I can feel the vibrations three seats down.
Ellen turns into me. “So are you really doing those magic tricks? I love you, but those were pretty sketch.”
“Well, it’s not like I really have an option now.”
“I don’t know,” she says. “I guess if you cared about getting DQ’d, you don’t.”
The thought of doing something completely different hadn’t even occurred to me. “I don’t even really have anything I could do.”
She sits for a minute, lost in thought, as she chews on her hair. Then she gasps, and whispers in my ear. It only takes three words for the idea to take me. She leans back, waiting for my response.
I can picture it so perfectly. There’s so no way I’m winning this thing, so I might as well go out in a blaze of glory. “I could even—”
“Millie Ranea Michalchuk!” a voice from the back of the theater crows.
The vibrations I’ve felt for the last half hour stop as Millie’s entire body freezes.
I crane my neck to see her mom storming at the top of the aisle. Her dad isn’t far behind.
I whip around and elbow Hannah in the gut. “What is going on?” I whisper-yell at her.
Millie squeezes past each of us to meet her mom in the aisle. She holds her chin out straight, inhaling and exhaling measured breaths.
It takes a second for Hannah’s eyes to adjust. “Oh,” she says, and sort of laughs into her fist.
“Oh what?”
“I lied,” she says. “I definitely lied.”
Everyone’s watching now. Including the tech guys.
“Are you kidding me?” I ask.
“Millicent,” says Mrs. Michalchuk. “You lied to us. To our faces.” Tears brim at the edges of her eyes, and it becomes very obvious that she is not wearing waterproof mascara. Millie’s dad settles behind his wife, his arms crossed. “You went behind our backs after we decided not to sign the release form. Why—why would you do that?”
“Is this true?” My mom stands onstage with a clipboard tucked beneath her arm.
With her fists curled at her sides, Millie turns to my mom and says, “I forged my mother’s signature.” Her face crumbles for a second like she might cry. She looks back to her parents. “But you were wrong.” Her voice softens. “I know you want to protect me. I know that. But—but sometimes I just need you to support me.”
My mom frowns. “Let’s take this out into the foyer.”
I watch as Millie makes the trek up the aisle with my mother close behind her. Standing up, I climb over El’s long legs.
“Where are you going?” she asks.
“I have to help her,” I say.
I jog up the aisle and push the door open wide enough for the entire auditorium to hear my mother say, “I’m sorry, but we cannot allow you to compete without parental consent.”
The door swings shut behind me. “Millie has to compete.” Millie’s parents turn. “She’s worked so hard,” I tell them. “And she’s not fragile. She isn’t. She’s got this thick skin you don’t even expect. Everyone in this room, even the girls with the long legs and the silky hair, knows what it is to be teased. Millie and I know. Amanda and Hannah. Ellen.” I motion to my mom. “Even my mom knows. But we can’t walk around scared all the time. That’s no way to do things.”
Millie reaches for my hand and squeezes tight. “I really want this,” she says. “I’ve dreamed of being in this pageant for as long as I can remember. There’s nothing in the rules that says fatties need not apply.” Her mother flinches at the word, and discreetly wipes away a tear. “The only thing keeping me from this, Mom, is you.”
Mrs. Michalchuk looks to the huge pageant banner hanging above the auditorium doors and then to my mom, who offers a faint grin. Her husband takes her hand. She turns to Millie and nods.
Side by side, we walk back into the auditorium where all the other girls have so obviously been eavesdropping. A few contestants turn to give Millie smiles of encouragement as we take our seats. Ellen takes my hand, and then Millie’s, who then laces her fingers with Amanda’s. I turn to my other side to face Hannah, palm up. She takes a deep breath before taking my hand.
A bond bigger than any crown pulses through the five of us, and, for the first time since the start of this pageant, I know it’s me who has the upper hand.
When we finally do rehearse, it’s a mess. None of us d
o our talents. There isn’t time. Callie slips on the ramp during the opening number. All our cues are off. There are spills. And tears. And even some blood. In the end, it is exactly what I expected.
At home, my mom is sunk deep into the couch with a bottle of cheap champagne just like she is every year. At this point, there’s nothing left to be done, and if there is anything, it’s too late to make the effort. All she can do is let the glitter fall where it may. (Her words, not mine.)
I sit at the kitchen table with a huge cardboard box, a few bottles of craft paint, and scissors. Somehow I’ve got to create a prop for the opening number.
I’ve barely given any thought to my assigned landmark, Cadillac Ranch, since that day at dance rehearsal. Normally I’d just blow off this kind of thing as dumb pageant fluff, but it’s actually kinda cool. Sure, Texas has all the famous landmarks that everyone’s heard of, but we have all these unknown gems, too. Like, the Marfa lights or Jacob’s Well or Dinosaur Valley or even the Prada sculpture a few hours from here. I guess Cadillac Ranch falls into that oddball category. It’s so perfectly Texas, and yet, completely beyond the stereotype.
Cadillac Ranch is this public art installation up in Amarillo. All these old Caddies are half buried nose first in a row off the side of the highway. Their paint jobs have long since faded, and visitors are encouraged to spray paint the cars. So, yeah. I have no idea how to make a decent prop that says “I am so obviously Cadillac Ranch.”
My mom wanders in for some ice—yes, she drinks her champagne with ice. “Is this for some school project? You’ve got to get some beauty sleep tonight, Dumplin’.”
She’s going to kill me for not having done this sooner. “It’s for my, uh, opening number prop.”
She sits down beside me. “Oh dear.”
I nod.
“Okay,” she says. “Okay, we can do this.” She glances at the paper with my assignment. “Cadillac Ranch.” I watch as she stands and grabs a plastic tumbler from the cabinet. She pours a few sips of champagne and hands it to me.
I take the cup, but say nothing. I don’t want her to change her mind for some reason.
“You think your waist can fit in that box?”
I eye it for a second, and take a sip of champagne. It bubbles in my chest. “Yeah.”
“Run out to the garage for me and grab a spool of that wide elastic, the glue gun, and my box of spray paints.”
I come back with the requested items, and she’s already at work on the box, slicing through it with an X-ACTO knife. “Dumplin’, you’re going to have the best damn prop in that opening number.”
My whole body buzzes with satisfaction as I take another sip.
A few hours and one bottle of champagne later, I say, “Mom?”
“Yeah, Dumplin’?”
“That was good of you to let Millie compete. Even though she lied.”
She finishes off her glass. “She’s a good girl. A sweet one. With a good smile.”
I wait for her to say something about her size, and how she’s at a disadvantage, but she only opens another bottle.
We paint a white base coat in silence, and when it’s almost dry, something cool splats against my cheek. I drag my finger against my skin. Paint. “Oh no, you didn’t,” I say, and flick what’s on my fingers onto her nose.
We laugh. Hysterically. Like, the kind of laughing you can’t stop. The kind that hurts. I think I’m drunk. I know my mom is. But I feel good, and who needs beauty sleep when you’ve got champagne?
When we’re finally done at one in the morning, we leave the kitchen with the table covered in randomly spray painted newspaper pages, and stray pieces of cardboard. Riot hops up onto the table and sniffs out our finished project. His tail whips and licks against our little cardboard Cadillac covered in spray paint.
I try it on. It sits suspended from my shoulders with elastic and hangs right around my waist. It’s so damn ridiculous. It’s so damn perfect.
Before we go to bed, I open the front door. The street is quiet and dark. Standing here from this exact vantage point, my entire house feels new with possibilities.
My mom flicks the hallway light off behind me. I close the door and lock the dead bolt.
In bed, I text Ellen a list of all the things I’ll need for my talent tomorrow.
MAGNIFICENT, she replies.
The champagne still streaming through my veins lulls me to sleep. Magnificent indeed.
FIFTY-NINE
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 an
d 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.
