by Julie Murphy
I watch as Ellen walks out onstage. She’s freaking out on the inside, I know it. But she’s all confidence in her green two-piece and espadrilles.
I know I shouldn’t, but I glance down at my black sandals and my red suit stretched over my round belly. But that’s not even the thing that bothers me.
Everyone has one thing they absolutely hate about themselves. I could be lame and say that I hate my whole body, but what it all comes down to is my thighs. Thunder thighs. Cottage cheese. Crater legs. Ham hocks. Mud flaps. Whatever you want to call them. My legs don’t even look like legs. I’m pretty forgiving of the pudge, but in the rare moments spent in front of a mirror in nothing but my skin, all I see are two pillars of cellulite that carry me from place to place and rub together, creating one hellish case of chub rub. (Chub rub, by the way, is fat-girl talk for the most miserable inner thigh chafing of all time.)
Mrs. Clawson taps my shoulder, letting me know it’s my turn.
I pull in a deep breath, and smile. Smile, Dumplin’, I hear my mother say.
I may be uncomfortable, but I refuse to be ashamed.
Maybe it’s because I can’t see the audience. Or maybe it’s because no one is yelling for me to get off the stage, but my thighs survive their moment in the spotlight. I don’t scurry away like I did that day at the pool. No one boos. The world doesn’t end. The audience doesn’t go blind.
There’s something about swimsuits that make you think you’ve got to earn the right to wear them. And that’s wrong. Really, the criteria is simple. Do you have a body? Put a swimsuit on it.
Amanda waits for me at the other end. “You looked super fine out there!”
I squeeze her arm. “Thanks. You ready for your soccer showcase?”
She nods. Her cheeks turn light pink. “I joined the soccer team,” she says.
“Did you really?”
Amanda grins. “I figured if I could survive this, I could limp my way onto the soccer team.”
“That’s amazing,” I tell Amanda as Ellen comes to stand beside us.
From the wings, we watch as Millie takes the stage in her skirted gingham swimsuit and matching wedges. She wears huge white sunglasses and bright red lipstick, and even carries a beach ball tucked beneath her arm.
“God,” says Ellen. “She was born for this. There’s a beauty queen in that cute, little fat girl.”
A slow, satisfied smile melts across my face. “No,” I say. “That cute, little fat girl is a beauty queen.”
SIXTY
“Oh, sweet bastard damn!” My brain feels like it’s been pushed through a food processor. “Do all wig caps hurt this bad?”
“This might be a size too small,” says Ellen. “I don’t know. I took whatever my mom had in her dressing room.”
We’ve commandeered the one-stall backstage bathroom to prepare for my talent. Ellen’s hair is divided into two braids and she’s managed to squeeze into her clogging costume from seventh grade. (Though her mom had to sew an elastic band into the waist.) “Okay, okay.” I breathe in through my nose, trying to ease some of the tension in my huge-ass head, and close my eyes. “Put the wig on.”
Ellen tugs the blond wig on over my head. “Okay,” she says after pushing in the last bobby pin. “You’re set. Take a look.”
I lift my head. Staring back at me is Dolly Parton. A fat teenage Dolly Parton.
“Oh my God,” says El. “I think you might be my spirit animal.”
I wait offstage. She’s clogging a few beats behind the music and keeps rolling her eyes. If I weren’t so nervous, I’d be laughing my ass off.
We were careful to sneak me around backstage so that no one saw me. Especially my mom, Mrs. Clawson, or Mallory.
El’s music ends a few seconds before she’s actually done clogging, but she finishes and curtsies before running offstage.
“Okay,” she says. “You got this.”
We paid the sound guy twenty bucks to go along with us. “Cool,” he said. “Beer money.”
My mom steps out from the wing closest to the audience on the other side of the stage. “That was lovely, Ellen. And what a workout I bet that is!” The audience rumbles with quiet laughter. “Next up we have Willowdean Dickson performing a few magic tricks for us.”
Yeah, getting that wig cap over my head was a pretty impressive magic trick.
I walk out onstage into the spotlight, my boots clicking against the floor. My suede-fringed poncho-shaped shadow stretches out past the pool of light.
My mom stands at the edge of the stage with her microphone dangling from her fingers. Her eyes are wide and her body is wound with tension.
The music starts. It’s those first couple chords that every person in this auditorium knows so well. I can see the judges whispering back and forth at their table with their desk lights glowing.
I turn back to my mom and hold the toy microphone to my lips. Dolly’s voice sings “Jolene, Jolene, Jolene, Jolene, I’m begging of you, please don’t take my man.” I synch my lips to each word.
I close my eyes and see every moment I’ve heard this song. Driving down the highway with my mom, Lucy, and Gram. The windows down. All four of us dragging our hands through the wind. Sitting in Lucy’s room with her as “Jolene” pipes out from her record player. Laying on the cool tiles of El’s kitchen as her mom hums and makes spaghetti. At Lucy’s funeral. In Bo’s truck. At the Hideaway, watching Lee perform. Right here on this stage.
I sing “Jolene,” and maybe it’s my imagination, but I hear a few voices out in the audience singing it back to me. It’s the kind of iconic song that is bigger than geography or languages or religion. It’s “Jolene.”
The song ends, and the audience applauds. For a second, I think I hear an oink!, but it is soon drowned out by the cheers.
The second I’m offstage, my mom yanks me by the arm. “What was that?” But she doesn’t give me enough time to answer because she’s already rushing out to announce the next contestant. “Well, wasn’t that a surprise?” her voice rings.
I pass Callie on my way to the fitting room. “You know they’re going to DQ you for not doing your approved talent, right?”
“It was worth it,” I say without bothering to stop.
In the dressing room, I slump down beside Ellen. We’ve got some downtime while the talents finish up.
Hannah walks past me on her way out. She holds her hand up for a high five without saying a word.
After the talents wrap, there’s an intermission before the formals. I help Ellen into her gown—a coral halter dress with rhinestones. She fluffs my hair back up after the wig cap had its way with me.
Mrs. Clawson peeks her head in and says, “So far so good, ladies! Ten minutes! And, Willowdean, your mother needs to speak with you.”
Blush spreads to my cheeks. A few girls ooooo as I follow Mrs. Clawson to my mom’s private dressing room.
I knock, and before I’ve pulled my fist away, my mom swings the door open.
She shakes her head. “I knew you had some trick up your sleeve.”
“No, Mom, that wasn’t it. I didn’t plan it or anything.” Well, not until yesterday at least.
She holds her unzipped Miss Teen dress up around her chest. “You’re disqualified,” she says. “We can’t let you finish the pageant. It wouldn’t be fair.”
“It’s not like I’m going to win the thing,” I tell her. “Why can’t I just get up there and walk?”
“You broke the rules. It’s the same standard I would hold anyone else to. I’m sorry, but this is as far as you get to go.”
I know it’s stupid. It is so dumb. But part of me is so torn up over the fact that I won’t be finishing. After everything that’s happened, and I’m less than an hour from completing this thing. I’m not surprised. I shouldn’t be at least. I knew that what I was doing was a disqualifiable offense, but somehow I thought she might take mercy on me.
She turns around. “Zip me up, would you?”
The zipper do
esn’t strain nearly as much as it did the last time, but it’s just not—“Mom, this is as far as I can get it,” I say with finality. There’s still a good four inches to go, and I can pull as hard as I want. But that zipper is not moving up any further. It’s science.
She whips around and looks over her shoulder in the mirror. “That’s not possible. No, no. I tried it on earlier this week. I’ve been doing my Pee-lates and spin classes.” I think she’s about to fall apart, and if my mother falls apart, so will this whole pageant.
“Okay,” I tell her. “Listen, we’re going to make this work.”
“Two minutes!” calls Mrs. Clawson on the other side of the door.
Sweat prickles at my mom’s temples.
“Stay here.” I run. I haul ass through the backstage and to the woodshop where they make the sets.
Saws. Drills. Nails. Hammers. Screws. Stepladders. Wrenches. Pliers. I fill my arms with anything that looks like it might help.
When I race back into the dressing room, my mom is near hysterics. “Dumplin’, I have to get myself into this dress. I’ve worn it every year since I won. People are expecting me in this dress. It’s tradition.”
“Turn around.” I drop everything on the counter.
“Everyone’ll know.” She’s on the verge of sobbing.
“No,” I tell her. “No. No crying. You are not fitting into this dress, okay? It’s not going to happen.”
She whimpers.
“But that doesn’t mean we can’t make it look like you do.”
I grab two giant alligator clamps that I’ve seen the tech guys wearing on their shorts, kinda like hairdressers with their hair clips. They use ’em for oddball stuff, like holding back wires or keeping wood together while it’s being glued.
“Listen, Mom. You can’t turn around up there, okay? You gotta stay in one place.”
She nods.
I slide a clamp behind her strapless bra and tuck the dress beneath it. I do the same with the other side.
Her breathing eases for a moment as she notices the difference in the mirror.
“See? It looks fine.”
She takes a deep breath, and pushes her crown into her perfectly styled hair. “Okay, Dumplin’.” She turns to me, her expression hesitant. “You hate that nickname, don’t you?”
I smile. “Not as much as I used to.”
“I can stop calling—”
“No,” I tell her. “I think I’ve sort of embraced it.” Sometimes figuring out who you are means understanding that we are a mosaic of experiences. I’m Dumplin’. And Will and Willowdean. I’m fat. I’m happy. I’m insecure. I’m bold.
“Curtain!” calls Mrs. Clawson.
Mom turns back to the mirror once more. “Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. I love you, Willowdean.” She presses her red lips to my forehead. “My sweet Dumplin’.” She races out the door, and as she announces the first few contestants and their escorts, I run to the dressing room.
Beneath the counter is my duffel bag, and rolled up inside of it is the red gown my mom bought me. I apply a second coat of lipstick and slip the dress on over my head. I step into my heels and pull the straps over the back of my foot. Trying to zip the dress as I go, I run to where Ellen is in line with Bekah Cotter ahead of her.
“Zip me,” I breathe.
She does without hesitation. “You look amazing.”
I smile, still trying to catch my breath. “I know.”
“Ellen,” says Mallory as she double-checks her clipboard. “Where is your escort?” She turns to me. “And Will, you’ve been dis—”
“I’m her escort.”
“Ellen Dryver,” my mother calls from onstage.
Mallory’s eyes go wide as I loop Ellen’s arm through mine and walk her across the stage.
“And escorting her is Timothy—”
We sashay down the ramp to the front of the stage. I walk with one foot perfectly in front of the other, like Lee taught us.
My mom’s mouth hangs agape, but then curves into a faint smile. “And escorting her is Willowdean Dickson.”
I let go of Ellen’s arm to let her take a circle at the edge of the stage, and then we walk backstage again.
We watch together as everyone takes her turn. Amanda with her older brother. The laces in her clunky shoes match her dress—Millie’s idea, of course. Malik is a perfect gentleman as he crosses the stage with Millie on his arm. And, of course, Hannah. Hannah with Courtney Gans. Courtney is one of those great names that could be a guy’s name, but in the case of Hannah, it is not. Her escort, Courtney, who I’m guessing is from out of town because I’ve never seen her before, wears her blond hair slicked back into a neat bun. It complements her fitted tux nicely. And best of all, Hannah, in her black slip dress, combat boots, and no makeup, isn’t breaking a single rule.
We all sashay, the toes of our heels leading our hips side to side, just like Lee taught us.
Hannah exits stage right where all of us wait for her. Courtney kisses her cheek before saying, “I’ll meet you outside later.”
Once Courtney’s out of earshot, Ellen guffaws and slaps Hannah on the back. “You are the goddamn devil.”
It’s dark, so I can’t be sure, but I’m nearly positive that Hannah blushes.
I stand on the sidelines, watching the rest of the pageant. I watch the Q&A session as some girls surprise me with almost profound answers, while others stumble over their words. Amanda tells a horrible knock-knock joke that has the judges rolling. Millie is cute and sweet with her infectious giggle. Hannah is dry as always, but leaves the audience deep in thought.
Donna Lufkin has left her gardening clogs at home. She wears a plum-colored pantsuit and waits in the wings across from me, guarding the crowns.
My mom stands there in her little spotlight, not moving, like she’s got a stiff neck or something. She looks beautiful. And not just from the front. Even with all the hardware holding her dress together in the back, she is lovely.
This moment. It is the truest representation of my mom I have ever seen. I guess sometimes the perfection we perceive in others is made up of a whole bunch of tiny imperfections, because some days the damn dress just won’t zip.
SIXTY-ONE
I stick around long enough to hear that Millie—our little Millicent!—is second runner-up. She holds her bouquet of roses and gives the perfect beauty queen wave. I don’t stay for the crowning of the winner. I don’t need to.
As I’m walking out to the lobby with the bottle of sparkling cider from Lee and Dale clutched in my fist, I see Mitch standing around with a bunch of guys from the team. They won their game last week, so they’re going to state on Thanksgiving Day.
It’s Patrick Thomas who notices me first. “Back for more?” he asks. “Couldn’t handle getting dumped?”
Mitch shakes his head, his expression resigned. “She’s not the one who—”
I lift my hand to stop him. “No one thinks you’re funny, Patrick,” I tell him. “Don’t you get that? No one is laughing. Not even your friends.”
Patrick frowns for a second then shrugs before turning back around.
Mitch nods once. I linger for a moment, offering a faint smile.
The audience inside the theater erupts with applause as I turn to leave.
I walk the three blocks in my dress and heels. I love this dress. I want to always look at it, hanging in my closet, and remember this night in November when I stepped into my own light. Wind pushes against me, sending the fabric in ripples as I move down the streets of my little town.
The bell rings above my head as I push the door open to find Harpy’s busy with all ten people in Clover City who didn’t attend the pageant.
“Whoa,” says Marcus as he hands a customer their receipt. “Lookin’ fresh, Will.”
At the sound of my name, Bo rounds the corner with a red sucker dangling from his cherry-stained lips.
I set the sparkling cider down on the counter.
He pulls his apron
down from around his neck so that it hangs from his waist. His lips split into a broad grin. “Willowdean,” he says.
I sigh.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I am so lucky. I get to wake up every day and do the job I love—one I believe in. I wouldn’t be in this position today without the support and guidance of some pretty incredible people.
Alessandra Balzer, you are the type of editor writers dream of working with, and I am thankful every day that working with you has been my reality. Thank you for investing in Willowdean and for knowing what I meant to say before I quite knew how to say it.
Molly Jaffa, I actually think you would move a mountain for me if you could. Thank you for keeping the wheels of my life spinning, and for that extra push with this book when I was feeling a little desperate. You are my agent and my friend, and for both I am thankful.
Caroline Sun, you are the wizard behind the curtain. Thank you for everything you do.
The School & Library marketing crew (Patty Rosati and Molly Motch!), I am forever grateful to have you all on my team.
Aurora Parlagreco and Alison Donalty, I could not have asked for a more perfect cover. My love for your design is bigger than words. Ruiko Tokunaga, for making that cover perfectly tactile.
There are so many people at Balzer + Bray/HarperCollins/Epic Reads/HCC Frenzy to whom I owe a world of gratitude. Susan Katz, Kate Jackson, Andrea Pappenheimer, Kerry Moynagh, Heather Doss, Donna Bray, Kelsey Murphy, Nellie Kurtzman, Booki Vivat, Margot Wood, Alexei Esikoff, Suman Seewat, Aubry Parks-Fried, Jennifer Sheridan, Kathy Faber, and anyone else I might have missed (because I’m sure I have!), your kindness and faith in my work have been invaluable. I am so humbled to be working with such dedicated human beings.
Jessica Taylor, for always reading and letting me be my most bare, horrible self. There will never be enough cupcakes.
Jeramey Kraatz, thank you for always being my partner in crime and for crossing state lines with me to see Dolly Parton—a day I will never forget.
Natalie Parker, I am of course grateful for your honesty and fairness, but most of all for your friendship and for always letting me tag along.
