“I’m sorry.” The words sound so lame. Like they did when people said they were sorry about Lucy.
He stands and pulls my swing back by its chains. I feel him let out a long breath against my neck. “I know guys aren’t supposed to cry, but I cried a bunch that night. And I guess that’s when I decided being good at something didn’t mean you had to do it. Just ’cause something’s easy doesn’t make it right.” He lets the chain go and I kick my feet out into the stars.
That night, I dream that I am inside Mitch’s video game, wearing the tiny shorts and a shredded shirt. My body isn’t some Photoshopped dream version of itself. My thighs are thick with cellulite and my love handles hang over the waistband of my shorts. My golden waves are done up big and high in an old-school Dolly perm. Like the girl in Mitch’s game, there are guns, ammo, and knives strapped to my back and thighs with a bazooka resting on my shoulder. I am a total badass. A fat badass.
I run into an abandoned civic center. The revolving door pushes against months of debris as I enter the building. They come slowly at first, but then they multiply. Zombie beauty queens. Everywhere.
I wait until they’re almost too close before I fire the bazooka. Gone. Particles fly. I duck. They’re dead. Like, really dead this time.
But there’s still one left. One graying zombie, dressed for the best day of her life in a torn red gown. Her crown is bent and broken and her sash is too faded to read. She walks toward me, one foot dragging as it scrapes against the marble floor.
I reload my bazooka.
THIRTY-FOUR
There are a few things—like the swimsuit segment—I didn’t consider before signing up for the pageant. But what I really didn’t prepare myself for was the group dance number.
Me, Millie, Amanda, and Hannah sit in a row against the back wall of Dance Locomotive, the only dance studio in Clover City. I know this doesn’t look easy, but it can’t be much harder than walking in choreographed circles.
My mom stands at the front of the room in a dance skirt, a leotard that’s working a little too hard, super shimmery nude tights, and black character dance shoes. Flanking her are Mrs. Clawson, in her turquoise wind suit that swishes every time she breathes, and Mallory Buckley, in her white yoga pants and petal-pink sports bra. I catch my mom eyeing Mallory several times with the slightest bit of contempt, and it gives me a sick satisfaction.
Everyone is toned, tanned, bleached, and in matching workout gear. Whereas I wore the same pajama pants I slept in last night. Amanda in her soccer shorts and Millie in her matching sweat suit are slightly more prepared, but Hannah rounds us out in black jeans and a black T-shirt.
“Let’s stretch it out, ladies.” My mom sits down in front of us with her back to the mirror. Everyone falls into their preferred positions. Including Mrs. Clawson, who is doing standing windmills. Her face puffs red as she counts her breaths with each rotation. By some miracle, her perm doesn’t move an inch.
My mom sits with the bottoms of her feet touching and her legs bent into a butterfly position. “This year’s theme is “Texas: Ain’t She Grand?”
“Yes,” mumbles Hannah, “because grammar is make-believe.”
Amanda laughs, and Millie kicks her in the shin with her tiny little Keds-wearing foot.
I reach forward to touch my toes, but my stomach and boobs stand between me and my thighs.