I sit at the kitchen table with a huge cardboard box, a few bottles of craft paint, and scissors. Somehow I’ve got to create a prop for the opening number.
I’ve barely given any thought to my assigned landmark, Cadillac Ranch, since that day at dance rehearsal. Normally I’d just blow off this kind of thing as dumb pageant fluff, but it’s actually kinda cool. Sure, Texas has all the famous landmarks that everyone’s heard of, but we have all these unknown gems, too. Like, the Marfa lights or Jacob’s Well or Dinosaur Valley or even the Prada sculpture a few hours from here. I guess Cadillac Ranch falls into that oddball category. It’s so perfectly Texas, and yet, completely beyond the stereotype.
Cadillac Ranch is this public art installation up in Amarillo. All these old Caddies are half buried nose first in a row off the side of the highway. Their paint jobs have long since faded, and visitors are encouraged to spray paint the cars. So, yeah. I have no idea how to make a decent prop that says “I am so obviously Cadillac Ranch.”
My mom wanders in for some ice—yes, she drinks her champagne with ice. “Is this for some school project? You’ve got to get some beauty sleep tonight, Dumplin’.”
She’s going to kill me for not having done this sooner. “It’s for my, uh, opening number prop.”
She sits down beside me. “Oh dear.”
I nod.
“Okay,” she says. “Okay, we can do this.” She glances at the paper with my assignment. “Cadillac Ranch.” I watch as she stands and grabs a plastic tumbler from the cabinet. She pours a few sips of champagne and hands it to me.
I take the cup, but say nothing. I don’t want her to change her mind for some reason.
“You think your waist can fit in that box?”
I eye it for a second, and take a sip of champagne. It bubbles in my chest. “Yeah.”
“Run out to the garage for me and grab a spool of that wide elastic, the glue gun, and my box of spray paints.”
I come back with the requested items, and she’s already at work on the box, slicing through it with an X-ACTO knife. “Dumplin’, you’re going to have the best damn prop in that opening number.”
My whole body buzzes with satisfaction as I take another sip.
A few hours and one bottle of champagne later, I say, “Mom?”
“Yeah, Dumplin’?”
“That was good of you to let Millie compete. Even though she lied.”
She finishes off her glass. “She’s a good girl. A sweet one. With a good smile.”
I wait for her to say something about her size, and how she’s at a disadvantage, but she only opens another bottle..
We paint a white base coat in silence, and when it’s almost dry, something cool splats against my cheek. I drag my finger against my skin. Paint. “Oh no, you didn’t,” I say, and flick what’s on my fingers onto her nose.
We laugh. Hysterically. Like, the kind of laughing you can’t stop. The kind that hurts. I think I’m drunk. I know my mom is. But I feel good, and who needs beauty sleep when you’ve got champagne?
When we’re finally done at one in the morning, we leave the kitchen with the table covered in randomly spray painted newspaper pages, and stray pieces of cardboard. Riot hops up onto the table and sniffs out our finished project. His tail whips and licks against our little cardboard Cadillac covered in spray paint.
I try it on. It sits suspended from my shoulders with elastic and hangs right around my waist. It’s so damn ridiculous. It’s so damn perfect.
Before we go to bed, I open the front door. The street is quiet and dark. Standing here from this exact vantage point, my entire house feels new with possibilities.
My mom flicks the hallway light off behind me. I close the door and lock the dead bolt.
In bed, I text Ellen a list of all the things I’ll need for my talent tomorrow.
MAGNIFICENT, she replies.
The champagne still streaming through my veins lulls me to sleep. Magnificent indeed.
FIFTY-NINE