Dumplin - Julie Murphy Page 0,33

I expect to find, but it’s not the sight of my mother seated behind a card table with all of Aunt Lucy’s furniture pushed up against the walls.

“What are you doing?” I spit at her. The framed Dolly Parton records that had lined these walls for my entire life are stacked at the end of the dresser, and sitting on top of Aunt Lucy’s pastel-pink record player is my mom’s iPod.

This is the worst-case scenario.

“Well,” says Mom, squinting over her sewing machine as she runs a seam. “I’ve always needed a craft room. We’ve talked about this. And my bedroom isn’t cutting it anymore.”

“Your bedroom? You have the whole house.”

She pushes her reading glasses up the bridge of her nose. “I know you’re upset, Dumplin’. I do. But we can’t let this room sit here like a tomb. We’ve got to move forward. Luce would understand.”

I don’t understand. “But you moved everything. Can’t you work in here without changing everything? You even took down her records. Why would you do that?”

“Oh, baby, those records are so old. We’re going to have to take down this wallpaper because of the squares those things left on the walls.”

I pick up as many records as I can carry and take them across the hallway to my room. If I had any free hands, I’d be slamming doors, too. After leaving the records on my bed, I go back for more.

“Dumplin’—”

I whirl around, the musty records pressed against my chest. “It’s like you’re trying to get rid of her.”

“You know that’s not true,” she mumbles, holding a needle between her teeth.

“What are you even working on?”

“Backdrops. This year’s theme is Texas: Ain’t She Grand?” She marks the red satin with a pencil. “And aren’t you supposed to be at work?”

“I quit.”

“You quit?” Her voice is higher than normal.

She straightens a long piece of satin through her sewing machine with her foot hovering over the pedal.

All my life, the pageant has invaded every facet of my world, except for this room. Because in the world I lived in with Lucy, no one cared about crowns or sashes. “It feels disrespectful for you to be up here making your dumb costumes. I mean, what could be so hard about a Lady Liberty costume? Just throw some fabric over your shoulder.” My voice is breaking. I hold my eyes open wide, scared that if I blink a whole river of tears will come splashin’ down my cheeks.

The sewing machine thumps a methodic beat, never ceasing, but only getting stronger and stronger with each stitch. The ever-constant needle taps against my head, waiting for me to crack.

“Dumplin’,” she calls over the sewing machine, not even acknowledging what I just said. “Why don’t you take yourself downstairs for a tall glass of ice water?”

Desperation swells in my chest and I think I might do anything to get her out of this room.

I march over to the dresser and yank the top drawer free. Without hesitation, I fill the detached drawer with everything I can reach—mostly records.

“Willowdean Dickson, you better hope that you did not ruin the track on that drawer.”

“It’s like her being dead isn’t good enough!” I yell. “You won’t be happy until every bit of her is gone and you’ve filled this room with all the things she wasn’t.”

Finally, the sewing machine stops. Mom stands, but says nothing.

I take the drawer and slam my bedroom door behind me. Dust swirls through the air and tickles my nostril. I sneeze loudly into the albums.

“Bless you,” my mother says from the hallway. She’s so quiet, I almost don’t hear her.

TWENTY

Getting ready for my date with Mitch is like a freaking makeover montage in my bedroom. El makes me try on everything from my eighth-grade graduation dress to this formless, chiffon floral tunic my mom bought me last Christmas. “It makes you look so mature,” my mom had said.

I didn’t take it as a compliment.

We settle on jeans and a black-and-white-striped shirt with my dark blond hair spread out across my shoulders.

I told Mitch to pick me up at five because my mom had a pageant board meeting until six and I didn’t really feel like getting the how-to-be-a-lady/what-boys-want-in-a-girl talk from her. And, of course, there’s the fact that I’m pissed at her.

After locking the back door behind me, I sit on the curb next to our mailbox. I can both hear and smell it from around the corner. He drives an old maroon Suburban that probably hasn’t passed inspection