Dumplin - Julie Murphy Page 0,8

small box of cassette tapes—all Dolly Parton. I choose one at random and put it in the stereo on her nightstand. I lie back on her bed and listen with the volume turned down so low it sounds like a murmur. Lucy loved Dolly probably more than anything. And I guess Ellen and I do, too.

Mrs. Dryver is maybe the best-known Dolly Parton impersonator in this part of Texas. She’s got the petite physique and voice to match. Since Lucy was the vice president of a regional Dolly Parton fan club until a few years ago, their paths crossed on a regular basis. It’s hard for me not to believe that my friendship with Ellen wasn’t somehow fated long before we were born, back when Dolly was still a poor nobody in Tennessee. Like El was some kind of gift that Lucy had always meant for me.

It wasn’t just the look of Dolly that drew us in. It was the attitude that came with knowing how ridiculous people thought she looked, but never changing a thing because she felt good about herself. To us, she is . . . invincible.

FIVE

Summer vacation doesn’t have the same effect it had on me when I was a kid. When El and I were in elementary school, Lucy would take us to Avalanche Snocones. With syrup dripping down our hands, we’d sit in the dim living room with the ceiling fan whirring on high while Lucy flipped through channels until landing on the trashy talk shows that my mother would never let us watch.

But the first weekend of summer passes like it’s nothing special. On Monday morning I wake to find my phone blinking.

ELLEN: SWIMMING. NOW. SUMMER. SO. HOT.

ELLEN: NOW.

ELLEN: NOW.

I can’t help but smile when I see her text. Ellen lives in a non-gated community with a poorly maintained neighborhood pool. But during the summer, the place is an oasis.

I know that fat girls are supposed to be allergic to pools or whatever, but I love swimming. I mean, I’m not stupid. I know people stare, but they can’t blame me for wanting to cool off. And why should it even matter? What about having huge, bumpy thighs means that I need to apologize?

When I pull into El’s driveway, I find her sitting on her porch in her bikini with a towel wrapped around her waist.

Our flip-flops smack against the sidewalk as we walk the three blocks to the pool, and even though it’s only ten in the morning, we are dripping (or as my mother says: glittering) with sweat.

“Oh God,” El says as we’re waiting in line. “There are a shit ton of people here.” She crosses her arms over her stomach.

I loop my arm through hers. “Come on.”

Because of the crowd we’re only able to stake out one lawn chair. El unwinds the towel from her waist and rushes off to the pool. I yank my dress over my head, kick my shoes away, and speed walk on my toes.

El sinks down to her shoulders as the water laps against my waist and the cool relief of it makes my eyes roll to the back of my head. Ahh, now it’s summer.

We float around on our backs like starfish and it reminds me of when we were kids and we’d go under water with our goggles on and scream secrets to each other. Except that there were no secrets between us then and it was mostly things we already knew. “CHASE ANDERSON IS SO CUTE!” El would say. “I STOLE TEN DOLLARS FROM MY MOM’S WALLET!” I would scream.

I let myself float until my shoulder brushes up against the side of the pool and I feel a shadow hanging over me. Opening my eyes a sliver, I see a little boy squatting at the edge of the pool. His lips make the shape of words.

I stand and noise bleeds into my ears, almost giving me a brain freeze. I squeeze my eyes shut for a quick second. My head feels like it’s been shrink-wrapped. “What?”

The boy’s red swimming trunks are dripping wet, leaving a pool of water beneath him. “I thought you were dead,” he says. “And you’re all red.” He stands and, without ceremony, walks away.

I touch my cheeks and the water from my fingers drips down my face like drops of rain against a dry, cracked earth. I have no idea how long I’d been floating for. Looking around for El, I find her sitting on our lawn chair,