Dumplin - Julie Murphy Page 0,107

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 doesn’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