Today Millie is a ball of mint green, including her backpack. Her hair is pulled into a ponytail with a matching scrunchie, because Millie might be the only person I know who still wears scrunchies.
“Hey,” she says. “So, Friday was pretty great.”
“Yeah, it was.”
She rocks back and forth on her feet, her hands twisting together. “I’m—my family is kind of religious. Actually, really religious. And my parents. Well, they wouldn’t be super happy if they knew where I was. And who we were with.”
I feel my shoulders slump. “Okay?”
“I say that because . . . I always thought people like Lee and Dale were wrong. Like, they were living in sin.”
I hate phrases like that. “Jesus vocab,” El would call them. Things you learn in church that are hammered into you until they’re so normal that you expect everyone else who doesn’t go to church to know what you mean.
Millie shakes her head. “My words are coming out all wrong. What I’m trying to say is that I liked Lee and Dale and I had fun that night at the Hideaway. I keep thinking about it and they’re good people. I wish everyone could see that.” She smiles. “I just wanted to let you know.”
Something I can only describe as pride swells against my chest. I grip Millie’s shoulder. “I’m glad.”
“Pageant piggies!” someone yells from the other side of the parking lot, breaking the moment between us. “Oink! Oink!”
“Eat shit!” I bark back. I turn to Millie. “I’m sorry.”
She tucks a stray hair behind her ear and takes a step back. “It’s whatever. It’s fine.”
I knew this was bound to happen eventually. With the pageant two weeks away, the town’s attention is all on us. And in our case, that might not be a good thing.
Millie pulls on the straps of her backpack. “I was thinking of having you, Amanda, and Hannah over for a slumber party. Amanda will go, but I don’t think Hannah will if you don’t. So . . . will you?”
As a rule, I don’t do slumber parties. Nothing about sleeping in more than a T-shirt and underwear on Millie’s floor while her parents check in on us every few hours appeals to me. But I don’t have it in me to say no to her right now. “Sure,” I say. “Yeah, I’ll be there.”
The next night, after I pick my mom up from work, she says she’s made some adjustments to my dress and would I mind trying it on.
She leaves me, again, in her room to change by myself. The top half of the dress is a perfect fit. I can’t even imagine how long it must have taken her to get the darts right. But the bottom half is something else altogether. She said she would take it out as far as she could, but it’s still snug. I feel fine in it. I’m not embarrassed or anything.
But I see it in her frown.
“The top is good,” I say. “Like, perfect.”
She presses her palm against my back. “Try standing up a little straighter.”
I do.
She makes a tsk noise.
The sound of her disappointment is like needles under my fingernails. “Mom, it’s fine, okay? I love it.”
“Dumplin’,” she says. “It’s huggin’ on your hips like a straitjacket.” She runs her fingers along the seams. “I can’t take it any further without risking it splitting.”
“Mom, it’s good. I only have to wear it for, like, ten minutes.”
Her lips twitch.
“What?” I turn around to face her without our reflections standing between us. “Just say it, Mom. Whatever you’re thinking, say it.”
She waves me off and starts to pack up her sewing box on her dresser. “I thought . . . I just thought you might make an effort to slim down a little for the pageant.” She turns back to me. “I mean, are you even taking this seriously? Because you know this isn’t a joke. I let you register because I expected you to take this seriously.”
Her words send me stumbling. “So the dress doesn’t fit because you expected me to lose weight?” I wave my hands up and down the length of my form. “Mom, this is me. This is my body.”
She shakes her head. “I knew you’d take that the wrong way. You always see the worst in everything I say. I can’t do this anymore. I’m not the bad guy here.”