From the wings, we watch as Millie takes the stage in her skirted gingham swimsuit and matching wedges. She wears huge white sunglasses and bright red lipstick, and even carries a beach ball tucked beneath her arm.
“God,” says Ellen. “She was born for this. There’s a beauty queen in that cute, little fat girl.”
A slow, satisfied smile melts across my face. “No,” I say. “That cute, little fat girl is a beauty queen.”
SIXTY
“Oh, sweet bastard damn!” My brain feels like it’s been pushed through a food processor. “Do all wig caps hurt this bad?”
“This might be a size too small,” says Ellen. “I don’t know. I took whatever my mom had in her dressing room.”
We’ve commandeered the one-stall backstage bathroom to prepare for my talent. Ellen’s hair is divided into two braids and she’s managed to squeeze into her clogging costume from seventh grade. (Though her mom had to sew an elastic band into the waist.) “Okay, okay.” I breathe in through my nose, trying to ease some of the tension in my huge-ass head, and close my eyes. “Put the wig on.”
Ellen tugs the blond wig on over my head. “Okay,” she says after pushing in the last bobby pin. “You’re set. Take a look.”
I lift my head. Staring back at me is Dolly Parton. A fat teenage Dolly Parton.
“Oh my God,” says El. “I think you might be my spirit animal.”
I wait offstage. She’s clogging a few beats behind the music and keeps rolling her eyes. If I weren’t so nervous, I’d be laughing my ass off.
We were careful to sneak me around backstage so that no one saw me. Especially my mom, Mrs. Clawson, or Mallory.
El’s music ends a few seconds before she’s actually done clogging, but she finishes and curtsies before running offstage.
“Okay,” she says. “You got this.”
We paid the sound guy twenty bucks to go along with us. “Cool,” he said. “Beer money.”
My mom steps out from the wing closest to the audience on the other side of the stage. “That was lovely, Ellen. And what a workout I bet that is!” The audience rumbles with quiet laughter. “Next up we have Willowdean Dickson performing a few magic tricks for us.”
Yeah, getting that wig cap over my head was a pretty impressive magic trick.
I walk out onstage into the spotlight, my boots clicking against the floor. My suede-fringed poncho-shaped shadow stretches out past the pool of light.
My mom stands at the edge of the stage with her microphone dangling from her fingers. Her eyes are wide and her body is wound with tension.
The music starts. It’s those first couple chords that every person in this auditorium knows so well. I can see the judges whispering back and forth at their table with their desk lights glowing.
I turn back to my mom and hold the toy microphone to my lips. Dolly’s voice sings “Jolene, Jolene, Jolene, Jolene, I’m begging of you please don’t take my man.” I synch my lips to every word.
I close my eyes and see every moment when I’ve heard this song. Driving down the highway with my mom, Lucy, and Gram. The windows down. All four of us dragging our hands through the wind. Sitting in Lucy’s room with her as “Jolene” pipes out from her record player. Laying on the cool tiles of El’s kitchen as her mom hums and makes spaghetti. At Lucy’s funeral. In Bo’s truck. At the Hideaway, watching Lee perform. Right here on this stage.
I sing “Jolene,” and maybe it’s my imagination, but I hear a few voices out in the audience singing it back to me. It’s the kind of iconic song that is bigger than geography or languages or religion. It’s “Jolene.”
The song ends, and the audience applauds. For a second, I think I hear an oink!, but it is soon drowned out by the cheers.
The second I’m offstage, my mom yanks me by the arm. “What was that?” But she doesn’t give me enough time to answer because she’s already rushing out to announce the next contestant. “Well, wasn’t that a surprise?” her voice rings.
I pass Callie on my way to the fitting room. “You know they’re going to DQ you for not doing your approved talent, right?”