Dumplin - Julie Murphy Page 0,32
my shoulder. “Oh, me too. I think that’s my favorite hair. A drag queen out in Odessa styled that wig for me. Took him a week to get it just right.”
El picks up a photo of her mom in a floor-length red sequin gown. “Nice perm, Mom. So chic.”
“Ellen Sadie Rose, you wouldn’t know chic if it bit you on the asset.” She tickles the back of El’s neck with her long nails.
Where Ellen is long and lean, her mom is compact and curvy. But you see their connection in the way they twirl their hair or chew on their bottom lips or how they whistle through their straws before each sip.
“Here,” says Mrs. D. “You take this one to keep.” She hands me a picture of her and Lucy from years ago. They stand in front of a neon sign that reads THE HIDEAWAY. Behind them is a large, smoke-filled crowd. Looks like some kind of bar or club, but whatever it is, it’s somewhere Lucy never would have gone on her own. Mrs. Dryver wears fitted overalls with a tight red shirt underneath while Lucy’s in one of her signature sack dresses, but with a touch of blue eye shadow. I’d never seen her wear makeup before. Mrs. D brought out the bravest parts of Lucy. I know Lucy was important to Mrs. D, but for Lucy, Mrs. D was a lifeline.
I slide the picture into the front pocket of my backpack. I love the photo so much, but it hurts, too. Mrs. Dryver is the perfect Dolly, and it was impossible for Lucy with her thick, pale legs and flat hair not to look sad in comparison. Her smear of blue eye shadow is an unheard call to the person she always wanted to be. No matter how high she held her chin, I can’t unsee what she isn’t. I feel like a traitor.
“Mom,” says El. “How come you never entered the pageant?”
It’s something I’ve always wondered, too. Mrs. D’s whole life is basically a pageant on steroids. She would have killed the competition.
She shrugs. “I thought about it. I think every girl in this town does. But I wasn’t the same person I am today. I didn’t have it in me back then to pretend I felt good enough about myself to enter a beauty pageant.”
Her words sink in. I wonder if that’s why the pageant has bothered me more this year than in the past. The girls who enter have got to be proud enough of themselves to say they deserve to compete. That kind of unflinching confidence makes me uneasy in a way it never has before.
Ellen shoves a handful of chips into her face. “Let’s go upstairs.”
I take the bowl of chips and follow her to her room. On her bed, we lie in opposite directions with her head at the foot of the bed and mine on her pile of pillows.
“So you quit Harpy’s? Out of nowhere?” she asks with her mouth full.
“The Chili Bowl was hiring.”
“The Chili Bowl is always hiring,” she retorts.
I reach for some chips. “I don’t know. I was tired of the uniform.”
I guess that’s a good enough reason for El because she’s quick to change the topic to something much juicier. “So when’s your date?”
“Tomorrow.”
“You nervous?”
“I guess? But not really.”
“Mitch. I never would have guessed,” she says. “You really like him?”
“Yeah. I mean, I guess I needed something new.” I pull one of her pillows over my head, muffling my words. “I wouldn’t have said yes if I didn’t like him.”
“New? You’ve never even been kissed.” She ties my shoelaces together in a sloppy knot. “He doesn’t seem like your type.”
My insides are swimming in guilt. I can’t tell her about Bo now. It’s too late, and there’s nothing left to tell. “I don’t have a type.”
“Not yet you don’t.”
Later, when I pull up to my house, the first thing I notice is the glowing square that is Lucy’s room.
I should sit here for a moment and prepare myself for whatever it is my mom is doing to that room, but I don’t. Instead, I tear my keys from the ignition and storm up the walkway to the back door. Riot is rubbing the length of his body against the sliding glass door. The first thing I hear is Olivia Newton-John blaring from the second floor.
I drop my purse on the counter and Riot runs up the stairs, a few steps ahead of me.
I don’t know what