Dumplin - Julie Murphy Page 0,97

after the pageant.”

“Right,” I mutter. “All business.”

Okay, so this place really is all business. They’ve got us contestants lined up outside of the banquet hall. No one is allowed to talk to each other until after the interviews are completed, which really makes no sense because this doesn’t strike me as the type of thing you could cheat on. I mean, they pull questions from one huge list, and no one gets the same combination.

After the interviews is the luncheon, and after that is when contestants are allowed to set up their dressing room spaces. And that’s when shit really starts to get real. Tomorrow is dress rehearsals; Saturday morning is reserved for a light run-through before the show, which starts promptly at seven p.m.

All of us look so ridiculous. Like, we’re here for a job interview and the one requirement is that you wear one of your mom’s polyester suits.

I watch as girls with last names starting with A, B, and C file in and out of their interview. Some come out with broad smiles. A few are shell-shocked. And a handful in tears. It sounds horrible, I know, but a small part of me sees the girls in tears as eliminated competition. I don’t even want to win, but I think there’s this survival instinct inside all of us that clicks on when we see other people failing. It makes me feel gross and incredibly human.

Since we’re in alphabetical order, Ellen and I—Dickson and Dryver—are sitting right next to each other. Every time our shoulders so much as touch, she moves an obnoxious distance away from me, like she’s been electrocuted.

“Dickson? Willowdean Dickson?”

I startle a little, and instinctively look to El. Our eyes meet for a second, and I see a slow smile linger on her lips before she catches herself and glances away.

I am going to bomb.

Mallory holds the door open for me. “Remember,” she whispers. “You never get a second chance at a first impression.”

“Well, that’s encouraging,” I murmur.

The four judges—who until now were anonymous—sit in a row at the front of the room behind a long buffet table.

They each introduce themselves. But I know exactly who they are.

Tabitha Herrera—owner of not one, but two beauty shops in Clover City: Tabitha’s and the cleverly titled Tabitha’s #2. Tabitha does everything from highlights to perms. She’s the type of hairdresser with mind-control abilities. You can sit down in her chair and swear that you came for bangs, but leave with a bob. And because it’s part of her charm, Tabitha lets you think the whole thing was your idea. She’s got huge boobs and the hair to match. When people up north think of Texas, it’s Tabitha they think of.

Dr. Mendez—I know little about him except that he’s the only orthodontist in town. He’s from Philadelphia or Boston or one of those places where people are always yelling, and he always looks a little jarred by everything. I mean, I guess if I move to this small-ass town from Philadoston, I’d be a little on edge, too.

Burgundy McCall—I shit you not. That is her real name. No, she is not a porn star or the leading lady of a soap opera. Her parents are Texas A&M graduates (technically, their colors are maroon and white, but I guess “Burgundy” had a better ring to it), and she’s a Miss Teen Blue Bonnet turned kindergarten teacher. She made it all the way to the statewide Miss Teen Blue Bonnet Pageant, and came in as second runner-up. My mom—who only ever competed in the local pageant because she had me—has never outright said she resents Burgundy, but whenever she says her name, it sounds like she’s eaten something too hot and is about to spit it out.

Clay Dooley—Clay Dooley Ford. He is probably the richest person in Clover City. His hair is always perfectly coiffed and his jeans are a smidge tighter than a tourniquet. His belt buckles are huge and gold and probably cost more than our mortgage. Clay Dooley is all Texas. He is the stereotype Dr. Mendez’s Bostadelphian parents warned him about. He’s so rich, in fact, that he has time to judge stuff like this because he doesn’t make the money. He has people to do that for him.

I sit down in front of them, and no one looks up except Dr. Mendez. The other three shuffle papers back and forth and murmur something about the previous contestant dodging questions.

Burgundy finally glances up and upon seeing