Dumplin - Julie Murphy Page 0,74

thing again where he brushes his knuckles across his chin. “I guess I would rather talk to you everywhere.”

Behind the fence, in my backyard, I smile.

I dump the contents of my backpack on my bed, hoping to at least do some homework before I fall asleep. Splayed out between my textbooks, with a bent cover, is the how-to magic book that Mitch gave me. I pull it to my chest and slump down to the floor. I’d completely forgotten about my talent—or even the pageant—for a few days. Bo coming back into my world, if only in the tiniest of ways, turns my brain into a vacuum, where nothing else can exist, because I’m so consumed.

But I don’t want that. I can’t want that.

Thumbing through the pages, I find several different tricks, but none of them grab me. A note slips from the pages, and I unfold it.

Will, when I was a kid, I went through a magician phase where I wore capes and top hats everywhere. I thought maybe you could use some magic of your own.—Mitch

I slide the note back between the pages and sigh. It’s ridiculous. Me, performing silly magic tricks. But what else is there for me to do? I don’t have a self-defining talent like Bekah or even something I stuck with long enough to fall back on.

I lean back against my bed with the book in my lap, and begin to practice the motions of hidden coin illusion. This feels like settling. A missed opportunity. But I don’t think that makes it wrong.

I try to channel that spark of energy that made me enter the pageant in the first place. But that little bit of magic is nowhere to be found.

FORTY-FIVE

When I pick my mom up from work the next day, she’s got a dress bag draped over her arm. She holds her hand up as she gets into the car. “Before you say anything, hear me out.”

“Okay?” But I can’t hide the apprehension in my voice.

“Debbie and I hit up a few thrift stores on our lunch break, and I knew you hadn’t gotten a dress yet. And well, you have to get the dress approved in a few weeks, so you don’t have much time. You may not realize it, but you can’t just buy a dress off the rack. That’s not how it works.”

I know I need a dress, and I know I’m dragging here. But there is no recipe for disaster so guaranteed as my mother clothes shopping for me. We’ve been there. We’ve done that. We still have the bruises.

“It’s a little on the simple side, but that means we can add our own touches. Like it was custom made.”

I promise myself that I’ll at least try it on. I will give her the benefit of the doubt.

Mom lets me get dressed in her room so I can use the big mirror. The door clicks shut behind her, and I realize how odd it is that she doesn’t stay. She roams the house all the time in various states of undress, searching for a stray sock or ironing her scrubs. It’s not as if she ever instilled modesty in me. But there came a point, maybe around the time I was eleven or twelve, when my mom stopped sitting in fitting rooms with me or brushing her teeth while I was in the shower. I guess it could be that she was trying to be intuitive to whatever privacy needs she figured I might have. But the thought tickling in the back of my mind says that she’s not interested in being reminded of this body I wear.

Whether or not it’s true, it still hurts.

I have to give it to her: the dress isn’t horrible. It’s red—the perfect shade of red that’s reserved for sexy nail polish and fast cars—with a sweeping neckline and straps that hang off my shoulders on purpose. My shoulders don’t create the sharp lines I’ve seen on actresses and models. Instead they slope at the edges, but still I like the dress.

Until I zip it.

It zips.

But that doesn’t mean it fits.

Christ. The fact that I’m able to get the zipper over my hips is a lesson in inertia or just willpower. The fabric pulls against the seams, threatening to tear if I even look at a chair the wrong way. And the top is pretty huge. I can actually tuck my arms in. (In case I get cold or something.)

“All right,” I call to