ELLEN: It is the day of the show, y’all. IT IS THE DAY OF THE SHOW.
El’s text message is the first thing to make me smile. But I wake up with this bout of uncertainty. Did last night really happen? I look down at my hands and see the speckled flakes of dry paint there.
We have a few hours before we have to leave, so I take my time scrubbing my whole body and pushing bobby pins into my hair until I’ve fashioned some sort of updo with my bangs swept across my forehead. Carefully, I paint my nails a deep purple.
I open my closet to make sure there’s nothing else I need. Hanging there front and center is the red dress my mom bought me. I push the plastic cover up and hold the dress out by its hem, studying the sheen of the fabric.
My mom knocks on my door before letting herself in.
I slam the closet door shut.
She’s all made up, ready to play glamorous hostess for a day. “Time to go. I’ll be in the car,” she says. Her head tilts to the side. “Your hair. It looks good.” She closes the door before I can say thank you.
Perching on the edge of my bed for a moment, I reach for the Magic 8 Ball and shake it hard.
It is decidedly so.
I open the closet door.
The dressing room is a haze of hair spray. Like, seriously, I have to breathe through my nose or risk swallowing fumes. The counters are full with makeup, flowers, teddy bears, Vaseline, and energy drinks.
Girls run through their talents. Singing to themselves as they apply lipstick. Counting out their dance routines as they spray their hair. Reciting monologues as they coat their lashes with mascara.
I barely even have time to absorb anything. I spot Millie toward the back of the dressing room. Her hair. It is huge. Huge enough to have its own solar system. Seriously, she’s got at least an extra five inches on her, not including heels. She smiles and waves.
Sitting in front of my mirror is a small bouquet of sunflowers wrapped in tissue paper and twine, a single red rose, and a bottle of sparkling cider.
I reach for the card stuffed inside the bouquet first.
Break a leg!—Bo & Loraine.
And stuck to the stem of the rose is a Post-it note that reads:
xoxo mom
Lastly, I open the envelope taped to the bottle of cider.
I wanted to get you the real stuff, but Dale said no. Party pooper. Knock ’em dead. Love, Lee (& Dale)
I wish Lucy were here. Not to see me compete, but to see this. Because this moment feels as much hers at it is mine.
I’ve only put on my makeup when Mrs. Clawson swings the door open and calls, “Ten minutes, ladies!”
Ellen sits down next to me, her phone in her hand. Two perfect circles color each of her cheeks and her too-bright lipstick is smeared across her front tooth. “Tim,” she says. “That fucker has food poisoning. Will, I don’t have an escort.”
The whole pageant seemed like such a lost cause that it didn’t even occur to me to be concerned by the fact that I didn’t have an escort. I shake my head. “I don’t have one either.”
She’s breathing too quickly. I forgot how anxious stuff like this makes her.
“Okay,” I tell her. “Listen, don’t worry about the escorts, okay?” And then lower, I add, “We can escort each other. That’s how it should be anyway, right?”
She chews on her bottom lip for a moment before nodding.
“Five minutes!” calls Mrs. Clawson. “Time to line up, ladies.”
If there’s a God up there, I’m pretty sure she picked Ellen and me out from a lineup of embryos and said, Them. Dickson. Dryver. It could not be more perfect.
We stand backstage in alphabetical order, waiting for our cues. El got the Dallas Cowboys, so she’s carrying a set of blue and silver pom-poms and wearing a matching cowboy hat. I’ve got my Cadillac on. Our hands are clasped so tight that they’re drained of blood.