Dumplin - Julie Murphy Page 0,46
her name to my form.
THIRTY
I sit at a table with Ellen, Millie, and Amanda as my mom stands in front of the registration table and claps her hands together, silencing the room. “Welcome, ladies.” She clears her throat. “You are about to embark on a path that has been weathered by many before you and will be by many after you. Clover City’s Miss Teen Blue Bon—”
The heavy door at the back of the room creaks loudly and every head, including my own, turns.
“Am I too late for registration?” asks Hannah Perez, her tone flat.
My jaw drops. Along with everyone else’s.
With her clipboard in hand, the younger woman from the registration table rushes to Hannah. She looks over her form and instructs her to take a seat.
Hannah sits by herself at an empty table.
My mother clears her throat again. “One, two, three. Eyes on me.” She pauses for a moment. “As I was saying, the Miss Teen Blue Bonnet Pageant is a treasured tradition with a rich history. Former titleholders have gone on to become business owners, physicians, and beloved mothers and wives. We even have a mayor amongst us.” She goes on to explain the origins of the pageant and how it went on hiatus during World War II and again when Kennedy was assassinated.
I have never seen my mother in command of a room like she is right now. She stands with her back straight and speaks with her voice projected. She owns this. But, I guess, what surprises me most is how captivated everyone is. Including my table. Here, in her element, she’s not my mother. Here, she is Rosie Dickson, Clover City’s Miss Teen Blue Bonnet 1997. Here, she is royalty. Y’all hail the queen.
“Now if you haven’t already declared your talent, you have until the first week of November to notify us. Don’t forget: the board must deem your talent appropriate. So save the sexy, understand? You will also need to have your formal, swimwear, and talent costume approved by the Wednesday before the pageant.”
She waits for some nods from her audience. “Wonderful. I’d like to introduce you to my cohorts this year. This is Mrs. Judith Clawson, Miss Teen Blue Bonnet 1979.” The older woman stands and curtsies. “And this is Mrs. Mallory Buckley, Miss Teen Blue Bonnet 2008.” She pauses for quiet applause.
“A yes from these women is a yes from me. A no from them is a no from me.”
The two women walk the room and hand out hot-pink folders with the Eighty-First Annual Clover City Miss Teen Blue Bonnet logo printed across the front in gold script.
“Look around for a moment.” She pauses as we stiffly stare at one another. “Somewhere in this room is the next Blue Bonnet. The bad news is that only one young woman will wear this year’s crown. But the good news is: she’s sitting among us. You’ll notice that this is the eighty-first anniversary of our pageant. We have wonderful things in store for you all, including a beautifully choreographed opening number—”
“No one said there would be dancing,” mumbles Amanda.
“. . . and the promise of front-page billing in the Clover City Tribune.”
Mallory (she’s so young I can’t bring myself to call her Mrs. Buckley) makes the rounds at our table, and hands us all folders. Including El.
“Oh,” I whisper. “She’s not doing the pageant. Just here for moral support.”
Mallory, whose auburn hair is curled in bouncing ringlets, smiles at me like I’m speaking a foreign language, and hands El a folder anyway.
“Ellen,” I whisper.
She turns in her chair and opens the folder as she thumbs through the pages. “Yeah?”
My mom still droning on, I lean over and say, “That was weird, right?”
“What?”
“With Mallory just now.”
“How was that weird?” she whispers back as she skims through the papers in the folder.
I feel my eyes widen. “You entered the pageant.”
“Isn’t that what we came here to do?”
“Thank you, ladies,” says Mom, her voice ringing like a bell. “Feel free to mingle with one another. Don’t forget: only you can put the friend in friendly competition. There’s a refreshments table on that back wall, starring my famous sweet tea, of course.”
Applause echoes in my ears. “You can’t do the pageant. That wasn’t part of the plan.”
Everyone around us migrates toward the back of the room. “What are you talking about?” She’s not whispering anymore. “This is all we’ve been talking about for days.”
“You can’t be serious.”
“Why? Why is this such a problem?”
“You’re—you could actually win. We’re not