She takes a deep breath, and pushes her crown into her perfectly styled hair. “Okay, Dumplin’.” She turns to me, her expression hesitant. “You hate that nickname, don’t you?”
I smile. “Not as much as I used to.”
“I can stop calling—”
“No,” I tell her. “I think I’ve sort of embraced it.” Sometimes figuring out who you are means understanding that we are a mosaic of experiences. I’m Dumplin’. And Will and Willowdean. I’m fat. I’m happy. I’m insecure. I’m bold.
“Curtain!” calls Mrs. Clawson.
Mom turns back to the mirror once more. “Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. I love you, Willowdean.” She presses her red lips to my forehead. “My sweet Dumplin’.” She races out the door, and as she announces the first few contestants and their escorts, I run to the dressing room.
Beneath the counter is my duffel bag, and rolled up inside of it is the red gown my mom bought me. I apply a second coat of lipstick and slip the dress on over my head. I step into my heels and pull the straps over the back of my foot. Trying to zip the dress as I go, I run to where Ellen is in line with Bekah Cotter ahead of her.
“Zip me,” I breathe.
She does without hesitation. “You look amazing.”
I smile, still trying to catch my breath. “I know.”
“Ellen,” says Mallory as she double-checks her clipboard. “Where is your escort?” She turns to me. “And Will, you’ve been dis—”
“I’m her escort.”
“Ellen Dryver,” my mother calls from onstage.
Mallory’s eyes go wide as I loop Ellen’s arm through mine and walk her across the stage.
“And escorting her is Timothy—”
We sashay down the ramp to the front of the stage. I walk with one foot perfectly in front of the other, like Lee taught us.
My mom’s mouth hangs agape, but then curves into a faint smile. “And escorting her is Willowdean Dickson.”
I let go of Ellen’s arm to let her take a circle at the edge of the stage, and then we walk backstage again.
We watch together as everyone takes her turn. Amanda with her older brother. The laces in her clunky shoes match her dress—Millie’s idea, of course. Malik is a perfect gentleman as he crosses the stage with Millie on his arm. And, of course, Hannah. Hannah with Courtney Gans. Courtney is one of those great names that could be a guy’s name, but in the case of Hannah, it is not. Her escort, Courtney, who I’m guessing is from out of town because I’ve never seen her before, wears her blond hair slicked back into a neat bun. It complements her fitted tux nicely. And best of all, Hannah, in her black slip dress, combat boots, and no makeup, isn’t breaking a single rule.
We all sashay, the toes of our heels leading our hips side to side, just like Lee taught us.
Hannah exits stage right where all of us wait for her. Courtney kisses her cheek before saying, “I’ll meet you outside later.”
Once Courtney’s out of earshot, Ellen guffaws and slaps Hannah on the back. “You are the goddamn devil.”
It’s dark, so I can’t be sure, but I’m nearly positive that Hannah blushes.
I stand on the sidelines, watching the rest of the pageant. I watch the Q&A session as some girls surprise me with almost profound answers, while others stumble over their words. Amanda tells a horrible knock-knock joke that has the judges rolling. Millie is cute and sweet with her infectious giggle. Hannah is dry as always, but leaves the audience deep in thought.
Donna Lufkin has left her gardening clogs at home. She wears a plum-colored pantsuit and waits in the wings across from me, guarding the crowns.
My mom stands there in her little spotlight, not moving, like she’s got a stiff neck or something. She looks beautiful. And not just from the front. Even with all the hardware holding her dress together in the back, she is lovely.
This moment. It is the truest representation of my mom I have ever seen. I guess sometimes the perfection we perceive in others is made up of a whole bunch of tiny imperfections, because some days the damn dress just won’t zip.
SIXTY-ONE