Dumplin - Julie Murphy Page 0,45

dresses. Like, Easter dresses. Precious little garden dresses with matching cardigans. While we are wearing nothing more than jeans and T-shirts.

I turn back to Amanda and Millie and try to give them an encouraging smile that doesn’t say I-have-no-clue-what-I’m-doing-I-feel-like-I’m-naked.

El squeezes my hand. “Let’s do this.”

We weave in and out of tables and as we draw to the front, a silence sprinkles over the room, until the voices are nothing more than a low buzz of questions.

At the registration table sit two former pageant queens, Judith Clawson and Mallory Buckley. Only former winners are invited to participate as members of the planning committee. Judith is at least twenty years Mallory’s senior, but both their smiles are as glittering white as the crown brooches on their cardigans.

“Hi. I’m here for registration.”

Both women smile with their lips closed. Judith whispers into Mallory’s ear, who then stands and says, “Pardon me.”

Judith examines my application. “You’ll need to get your talent approved by the first week of November.”

“Right. Of course.”

Her eyes travel between the form and me as she reads over my weight and height. “I’ll need your mother’s signature, dear.”

“Willowdean.” As if on cue, my mother grips my elbow as Mallory rushes past her to reclaim her spot.

Mom pulls me off to the side and through a set of French doors. I watch through the glass as Amanda and Millie hand in their applications. I have this urge to go back in there and stand with them, like I’ve somehow abandoned them.

Ellen stands behind them and flashes me the thumbs-up.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Mom’s voice is a harsh whisper.

I stand up straighter with my fists dug into my hips. “I’m registering as a contestant.”

“This isn’t some joke.”

“Do you see me laughing?”

“And who are those other young ladies with you?”

“They’re my friends. And they want to enter the pageant, too.”

“Is this some kind of ploy for attention? Are you trying to get back at me for something?” Her voice rises with every word and while I’m not willing to break eye contact, I can feel the eyes of every person in the registration room on us.

“Oh, are those the questions you ask all the contestants? I didn’t see them on the form.”

She points a perfectly polished pearl-pink finger in my face. “Don’t you do this. Don’t you drag these poor girls into our issues. This pageant isn’t some joke for you to make an example of me.”

“Why does it have to be that? Why do you have to make that assumption, Mom? How come I can’t enter the pageant without it being a joke or revenge?”

She crosses her arms with her lips pursed together in a tight knot. “You can’t enter unless I sign the release.”

I knew it would come to this. “And why wouldn’t you?”

Her voice softens. “Besides the fact that I’m unsure your intentions are pure?” She licks her thumbs and wipes a spot on my shirt above my chest. “I don’t want you to embarrass yourself.”

I open my mouth, ready to snap back.

“And more so, it’s not fair for you to subject those girls to this. They’ll be ridiculed, Dumplin’.” The nickname burrows beneath my skin in a way it never has before.

There are so many things I could say, but instead I cut right to the bone. “Mom.” My mouth is dry. “If you don’t sign that form, you’re saying I’m not good enough. You’re saying that most every girl in that room right now is prettier and more deserving than me. That’s what you’re telling me.”

A long silence sinks between us.

My mother has never encouraged me to enter the pageant. I remember sitting in the kitchen with El the summer before freshman year, decorating our new matching day planners when I ran upstairs for more markers. When I came back down, I lingered in the shadows of the hallway as I heard my mom say, “Ya know, dear, you might think about entering the pageant when you turn fifteen.” El brushed her off, and I waited a few beats before sitting down at the kitchen table. That day was, like, realizing for the first time that the religion your parents subscribe to doesn’t work for you.

I watch my mom, waiting for her to crack.

“Fine,” she says after a long moment. “But don’t you dare expect any special treatment or allowances.”

El’s eyes are wide as she watches us file through the door. I see the question on her lips.

I nod once.

Mom walks past me to the table and signs