I take my time. I’d rather be late than out of breath. No one likes to see a fat girl huffing and puffing. The last bell rings and the halls clear.
And then Ellen slips out of the last classroom on the right.
At first, she doesn’t see me. She wipes her eyes. She’s crying. It could be about anything. But whatever it is, I don’t know about it.
She glances back and sees me trailing a few feet behind her. She stops, not bothering to wipe her face free of the tears streaming down her cheeks. Maybe she and Tim broke up. Maybe she got in a fight with her new friends. Maybe she failed a test. I don’t know. This is my moment to step up. To ask her how she’s doing, and apologize for everything.
But she turns and rushes into the bathroom. The moment is gone.
I don’t stay for any of my other classes. This day has already gone wrong in too many ways for me to risk sticking around. When I get home, there’s a text from Millie asking if we should all get together to practice our talents. The pageant. It doesn’t even matter anymore. When I entered, I did it for Lucy. And with Ellen by my side. But Lucy’s dead and Ellen is further away than ever.
I text Millie, Hannah, and Amanda:
ME: I can’t do the pageant. It’s short notice. I know. But I’m backing out. Y’all are going to be amazing. You deserve to be there. I’ll be cheering you on from the audience.
After calling into work sick for the night, I turn my phone off and decide to keep it that way for the entire evening.
FIFTY-FOUR
I spend Tuesday and Wednesday faking a fever and nursing a bag of mini chocolate chips I found in the pantry from a few holidays ago. We’re not the type of household that just has sweets on hand (surprise!), especially with my mom still on Operation Squeeze into Pageant Gown.
When I tell my mom I’m not feeling well, she closes my bedroom door without any questions. “Sorry, sweetheart,” she says. “Can’t risk getting sick. You take the day off.”
For Mom, every single moment not spent on an elliptical at the YMCA or at work is a crafting 911. Our house is a war zone of fabric, props, and sequins, but the chaos of it actually gives me some quiet.
I want—no, need—a few days to be a total slob. I haven’t showered since Sunday, and it’s oddly comforting to know that I look almost as disgusting as I feel. When Ron gave me the week of the pageant off work, I don’t think this is what he had in mind.
By Wednesday night the freedom is fading, and I find myself lying facedown on my bed listening to one of Lucy’s records, which turns out to basically be the worst of Dolly Parton. The songs I like to forget she ever did. Like, “Me and Little Andy.” I mean, what the hell with that song, Dolly? It’s about a little girl and her dog dying. Who even wants to hear that?
The front doorbell rings, interrupting my inner rant. I smile into my comforter. I couldn’t answer it even if I wanted to.
It rings again. My mother must not be home. And again and again.
I push myself off my bed and take my time going down the stairs. Standing on my toes, I look through the peephole. Sigh. I bang my head against the door.
“What do you want?” I yell.
“Let me in,” says Hannah. “Come on.” She rings the doorbell over and over again. Nine, maybe ten times.
“Come around back,” I finally yell.
She doesn’t even ask why.
I stand with the back door open, and she brushes right past me. Riot sniffs her out for a second before running off.
“I’ve called you, like, eighty-five times this weekend,” says Hannah. “I don’t even like talking on the phone.” She hands me a Tupperware full of stew. “My mom wanted me to bring you some of her sancocho.”