Dumplin - Julie Murphy Page 0,20
a sturdy build. Her cargo shorts are frayed at the edges, and her gardening clogs smell like they’ve been doing exactly what they were made for. She is the opposite of what you might expect from a person who sells pageant crowns. Sure, she sells other stuff, but it’s the crowns that make this place a landmark.
“Willowdean Dickson,” she says. “I haven’t seen you since—” She stops herself.
“Lucy’s funeral,” I finish.
She nods, but doesn’t try to smile, which I appreciate more than she will ever know. “Did your mama send you in for something? I just got the new crowns in.”
“No, ma’am. Just not a whole lot of parking out there and I was wondering if I could leave my car while I run inside the pharmacy?”
She waves me off. “Hell, those signs don’t do a bit of good anyway.”
“Thanks,” I tell her with one hand on the door.
“You wanna see ’em?”
“See what?”
She grins. “The crowns, of course.”
Now this might seem like no big deal, but the cubic zirconia pageant crowns are guarded more safely than the bank across the street. No matter how much I despise this pageant, it’s not something I can just say no to.
Donna locks the front door and I follow her through the curtain leading to the stockroom. We have to walk through two offices before she unlocks a tiny closet lined in boxes. Each box is marked with the names of towns from all over the state, but front and center are three labeled CLOVER CITY.
“Wait,” I say. “Why do we have three?”
She counts them out on her fingers. “One: the original. Sometimes it goes on display at city hall. Two: the one given to the winner. Three: held in reserve in case crown number two goes missing.”
She takes all three boxes and lines them up on her desk. The one given to the winner and the backup are almost identical, but the original . . . well, it looks like the type of thing you’d find in your grandmother’s jewelry box. The rhinestones are foggy and the metal tarnished with age, but there’s still something so regal about it. I like that it’s not too shiny or too prissy like the newer crowns, and yet, it has a presence.
Donna catches me looking at the original. “I like her best, too.”
For a moment, the pageant makes sense, and I get why my mom devotes half of her life to it and why most of the girls in this city dream of gowns and spotlights when the sky is heavy with stars. “Do you ever try them on?”
Her cheeks turn the lightest shade of pink. “Between you, me, and these four walls: once in a while.” With great care, she reaches into the box holding the original. “Try it on.”
“Are you sure?” With my luck, I would be the person to break the original crown.
She looks directly at me. “You think I look like the type of woman who isn’t sure?”
I shake my head.
She situates me in front of the mirror on the back of her door. I hold my breath as she places the crown on top of my head. I know it’s just costume jewelry and that none of this is real, but that doesn’t stop me from feeling the weight of the crown like a responsibility. I wish Lucy or Ellen or even my mom were here to see me in my red and white Harpy’s uniform with Clover City’s prized possession resting atop my head.
“Truth be told, I don’t think your mama’s even tried it on. Best not to tell anyone about this.”
I say yes with my eyes, because I’m scared to even nod. “Why are you letting me try it on?”
She shrugs. “Maybe ’cause you don’t always have to win a pageant to wear a crown.”
I will not kiss Bo Larson. I will not think about Bo Larson.
Marcus called in sick, like he could somehow smell how awkward tonight was guaranteed to be.
The shine of the crown has worn off, and we are slammed. Bo ends up having to come out of his kitchen cave to help me on register. From what I can tell, the only phrases in his vocabulary are: “Dine in or take out?” and “That’ll be [insert total].”
Every now and again, our hands brush or we bump into each other. And every touch sends electricity through my veins. But when he gets into an argument with a customer over pickles, Ron tells him to go back