Dumplin - Julie Murphy Page 0,53

circles.

My mom stands at the front of the room in a dance skirt, a leotard that’s working a little too hard, super shimmery nude tights, and black character dance shoes. Flanking her are Mrs. Clawson, in her turquoise wind suit that swishes every time she breathes, and Mallory Buckley, in her white yoga pants and petal-pink sports bra. I catch my mom eyeing Mallory several times with the slightest bit of contempt, and it gives me a sick satisfaction.

Everyone is toned, tanned, bleached, and in matching workout gear. Whereas I wore the same pajama pants I slept in last night. Amanda in her soccer shorts and Millie in her matching sweat suit are slightly more prepared, but Hannah rounds us out in black jeans and a black T-shirt.

“Let’s stretch it out, ladies.” My mom sits down in front of us with her back to the mirror. Everyone falls into their preferred positions. Including Mrs. Clawson, who is doing standing windmills. Her face puffs red as she counts her breaths with each rotation. By some miracle, her perm doesn’t move an inch.

My mom sits with the bottoms of her feet touching and her legs bent into a butterfly position. “This year’s theme is ‘Texas: Ain’t She Grand?’”

“Yes,” mumbles Hannah, “because grammar is make-believe.”

Amanda laughs, and Millie kicks her in the shin with her tiny little Keds-wearing foot.

I reach forward to touch my toes, but my stomach and boobs stand between me and my thighs.

“At the end of rehearsal, you will each be assigned a Texas landmark to plan your opening number outfit around. Everyone is asked to wear a denim skirt, plaid shirt, and cowboy boots. Beyond that, you are welcome to create whatever you like in homage to your landmark. For example, if you were given our state flower, the blue bonnet, you could wear a headpiece made to look like blue bonnets. This is an opportunity for the judges to get a taste of your personality and see how well you do with an assigned task. Take advantage, ladies.”

Ellen sits in the front row with Callie, who is of course competing in the pageant. They wear matching workout gear with Sweet 16 stamped on their hips. We haven’t spoken in two entire weeks. The last time I went two weeks without talking to Ellen was when her parents rented an RV and took her up along the West Coast. I wrote her a letter every day she was gone and left them in her mailbox. I went mad without her, and when she got back, both of our moms let her spend the night for two nights in a row.

This is so much worse. Because she’s right there. She’s at the other end of the room, and if I call out to her, she won’t answer. I’ve almost apologized so many times, but I’ve waited too long now. And a part of me still thinks—no, knows—I’m right.

We all stand up to learn the routine. Millie leans over, standing on her tiptoes, and says, “You should talk to her.”

“What are you talking about?”

She pushes up the sleeves of her sweatshirt. “Ellen.”

“Grapevines!” says my mom over the twangy music. “Five counts left. Five counts right. Bekah!” she calls. “Come up here, so the girls can see your technique.”

Bekah blushes, but obeys my mother. Just looking at her annoys me, and really I’ve got no good reason. She’s good at everything. She’s pretty, too. And she’s humble.

I spend the next hour tripping over my feet, trying to keep up with the endless grapevines and turns as we all weave in and out of one another. I catch my mom watching me in the mirror as I trip over Amanda’s platform shoe and have my ass handed to me by a hardwood floor. In the end, my mom was right to call Bekah forward, because she knows what the hell she’s doing.

At the end of rehearsal, I am sweating in places that I didn’t know could sweat.

Millie’s got this crazed look on her face and a huge sweat ring around her neck. “That was so cool,” she says. “What landmark did you get?”

I hold up the slip I drew from the bowl. “Cadillac Ranch.” A place I’ve only ever seen in pictures. Something you gotta understand about Texas is that it’s freaking huge. I know tons of people who have never even left the state. I remember hearing that, depending on where you start, you could drive for a day and still be