Dumplin - Julie Murphy Page 0,65

pageant. Well, I haven’t asked him. But he’s going to be. I think.”

“Hey,” says Lacey. “He might be quiet”—as shit, she mouths—“but at least he’ll look good in a tux. Maybe he’ll let you twirl his baton?”

I could barf. On her shoes.

“Girls!” my mother shrieks.

Bekah grins. “We went to Sadie Hawkins together,” she says by way of explanation.

Against his protests, I tuck Riot beneath my arm and stand to go upstairs. “Nice dress, Lacey.”

I sit on my bed, still dressed in my uniform and compose texts to Ellen that I’ll never send. I check for messages from Tim I might have accidentally missed. Anytime I see him at school, I look for some kind of meaningful eye contact, but the best he’s given me is a curt headshake.

After a while, my mom knocks on the door and enters without waiting for my permission.

“I’m doing some alterations this year for extra cash.” She pulls the elastic out of her hair and combs her fingers through.

“You could have told me.” Bekah Cotter. On my couch. I’m not even safe in my own house. But then I notice the deep circles beneath my mom’s eyes. “I’m sorry,” I say.

She nods. “You missed Ellen. She was here with her mom.”

“She was here?” My eyes are immediately thick with tears waiting to spill.

“Only gettin’ her hem fixed. You know that girl. Can buy a darn formal straight off the rack and it fits like a dream.”

“Yeah.” I don’t even know what she’s wearing for the pageant. Or what her talent will be. Or if she’s started on her prop for the opening number.

“What’s going on with the two of you anyway?”

“Me and El?” I shrug. “Just having a difference of opinion, I guess.”

“Y’all will figure things out. Me and Luce always did.” She comes in a little further and sits at the foot of my bed. I try to picture the last time I saw her perched there, but nothing comes to mind and it’s like one of those memories you tell yourself is real, but it’s not. You just wanted it to be. “Have you thought any about your wardrobe for the pageant?”

“Uh, no. Not really.” I bite down on the skin around my thumbnail. “Mom, do you miss her?”

“Miss who?”

It kills me that she doesn’t instinctively know. “Lucy.”

“Luce,” she says and it comes out like breath. “Yeah. Of course. All the time.”

We’re both quiet for a moment.

“The year I won Miss Teen, she stayed up all night sewing sequins on my dress. I bought the thing at a consignment shop. I told her no one would notice a few missing sequins, but she wouldn’t have any of it. ‘The difference between winning and losing is all in the details,’ she said.”

So much of my memory is filled with their arguments that I sometimes forget that more than anything else, they loved each other.

She stands up. “The dresses from Cindy’s are pretty pricey and she’d have to order something for you, but maybe we can put something together ourselves.”

I want to appreciate this, that she can take off her former Miss Teen Blue Bonnet hat and be my mom. But it doesn’t feel like enough.

“Sometimes,” I say, “I think I can’t miss Lucy any more than I already do, but then something like dress shopping comes up, and I remember all the things she won’t be here to see.”

For the first time in a very long time, my mom says nothing. I never realized how much was lacking from my relationship with her until Lucy wasn’t here to fill in the gaps. It’s the two of us now, fumbling around in the dark.

FORTY-ONE

It’s homecoming, which means school is a total joke. The day’s schedule is full of pep rallies, contests, and alumni tours. When I sit down for second period next to Mitch, there’s a huge blue, yellow, and white mum spread out across my desk. Long, glittery ribbons hang from a cluster of fake chrysanthemums, and hot glued to that are two miniature stuffed teddy bears. One in a football uniform and the other in a pink dress and a tiara. Mums are like good food. The best kind is homemade.

“Oh.” I suck in a breath.

“You don’t like it?” asks Mitch. He wears a small version of my mum around his arm. His hair is combed and his jersey is tucked into his jeans. “My mom can go overboard, and well, I can’t really—”

I sink down into my chair. “No, it’s not that,”