Chapter one.
All the best things in my life have
started with the Dolly Parton song,
including my friendship with Ellen Dryver.
The song that sealed the deal was
Dumb Blonde from her 1967 debut album,
Hello, I'm Dolly.
During the summer before first grade,
my aunt Lucy bonded with Mrs.
Dryver over their mutual
devotion to Dolly.
While they sipped sweet tea in
the dining room Ellen and I would
sit on the couch watching cartoons,
unsure of what to make of each other.
But then one afternoon that song
came on over Mrs. Dryver's stereo.
Ellen tapped her foot as I hummed along.
And before Dolly had even hit the chorus,
we were spinning in circles and
singing at the top of our lungs.
Thankfully, our love for each other and
Dolly ended up running
deeper than one song.
I wait for Ellen in front of her
boyfriend's jeep as the sun pushes my feet
further into the hot black top
of the school parking lot.
Trying not to cringe,
I watch as she skips through the exit,
weaving in and out of afterschool traffic.
El is everything I am not, tall, blonde,
and with this impossibly goofy yet
sexy paradox going on that only
seems to exist in romantic comedies.
She's always been at home in her own skin.
I can't see Tim, her boyfriend, but
I have no doubt that he's a few steps
behind her with his nose in his cellphone
as he catches up on all the games
he's missed during school.
The first thing I ever noticed about Tim
was that he was at least three inches
shorter than El.
She never gave a shit.
When I mentioned their vertical
differential, she smiled, the blush in
her cheeks spreading to her neck and
said, it's kind of cute, isn't it?
El skids to a stop in front of me panting,
you're working tonight, right?
I clear my throat, yeah.
It's never too late to find a summer
job working at the mall, Will.
She leans against the jeep, and
nudges me with her shoulder.
With me.
I shake my head.
I like it at Harpy's.
A huge truck on lifts speeds down
the lane in front of us toward the exit.
Tim, yells Ellen.
He stops in his tracks and waves at us
as the truck brushes right past him,
only inches from flattening
him into roadkill.
I swear to God, says El,
only loud enough for me to hear.
I think they were made for each other.
Thanks for the heads up, he calls.
We could be in the midst
of an alien invasion.
And Tim would be like, cool.
After he's made it across the parking lot,
he drops his phone into his
back pocket and kisses her.
It's not some gross open mouth kiss,
but more like hello, I missed you.
You are as pretty as you
were on our first date kiss.
A slow sigh slips from me.
If I could avert my eyes from
all the kissing people ever,
I'm positive that my life would
be at least 2% more fulfilling.
It's not that I'm jealous of Ellen and
Tim or
that Tim steals Ellen away from me,
or even that I want him for myself.
But I want what they have,
I want a person to kiss hello.
I squint past them to the track
surrounding the football field.
What are all those girls doing out there?
Trotting around the truck are a handful
of girls in pink shorts and
matching tank tops.
Pageant boot camp, says Ellen,
it lasts all summer.
One of the girls from work is doing it.
I don't even try to not roll my eyes.
Clover City isn't known for much.
Every few years our football team
is decent enough for playoffs.
And every once in a while someone
even makes it out of here and
does the kind of thing worth recognizing.
But the one thing that puts our
little town on the map is that we're
home of the oldest
beauty pageant in Texas.
The miss teen blue bonnet pageant
started back in the 1930s,
and it's only gotten bigger and
more ridiculous with every passing year.
I should know since my mom has led the
planning committee for the last 15 years.
Ellen slides Tim's keys from the front
pocket of his shorts before pulling
me in for a side hug.
Have a good day at work.
Don't let the grease splash you or
whatever.
She goes to unlock the driver's side door
and calls over to Tim on the other side.
Tim, tell Wil to have a good day.
He pops his head up for a brief moment.
And I see that smile Ellen loves so much.
Will.
Tim may have his face in his phone most of
the time, but when he does actually talk,
well, it's the kind of thing that
makes a girl like El stick around.
I hope you have a good day.
He bows at the waist, El rolls her eyes,
settles in behind the wheel and
pops a fresh piece of gum in her mouth.
I wave goodbye, and I'm almost halfway
to my car when the two speed past me as
Ellen yells goodbye once more
over Dolly Parton's "Why'd you
come in here looking like that"
blasting through the speakers.
As I'm digging through my bag looking for
my keys,
I notice Millie Michalchuk waddling down
the sidewalk and through the parking lot.
I see it before it even happens.
Leaning against her parents
minivan is Patrick Thomas,
who is maybe the biggest
douche of all time.
He has this super ability to give
someone a nickname, and make it stick.
Sometimes they're cool nicknames, but
more often are things like, Ha-a-a-nah.
Pronounced like a neighing horse, because
the girl's mouth looks like it's full of,
well, horse teeth.
Clever, I know.
Millie is that girl.
The one I'm ashamed to admit that I've
spent my whole life looking at and
thinking things could be worse.
I'm fat, but Millie is the type
of fat that requires elastic
waist pants because they don't make pants
with buttons and zippers and her size.
Her eyes are too close together and
her nose pinches up at the end.
She wears shirts with puppies and
kittens, and not in an ironic way.
Patrick blocks the driver side door.
Him and his rowdy group of friends
already oinking like pigs.
Millie started driving a few weeks ago,
and
the way she zips around in that minivan,
you'd think it was a Camaro.
She's about to turn the corner and find
all these jerks piled up around her van.
When I yell Millie, over here.
Pulling down the straps of her backpack,
she changes her course of direction,
and heads straight for me with her
smile pushing her rosy cheeks so high.
They almost touched
the tops of her eyelids.
Hiya, Will!
I smile.
Hey, I hadn't actually thought about what
I might say to her once she was here
standing in front of me.
Congratulations on getting your license,
I say.
Thanks, she smiles again.
That's really sweet of you.
I watch Patrick Thomas
from over her shoulder.
As he pushes his finger to his nose
to make it look like a pig snout.
I listen as Millie tells me all about
changing her mom's radio presets and
pumping gas for the first time.
Patrick zeroes in on me.
He's the kind of guy you
hope never notices you.
There's really no use to me
trying to be invisible to him.
There's no hiding an elephant.
Millie talks for
a few minutes before Patrick and
his friends give up and walk off.
She waves her hands around
motioning at the van behind her.
I mean, they don't teach you how to
pump gas in driver's ed and they really.
Hey, I tell her, I'm so sorry, but
I'm going to be late for work.
She nods.
But congratulations again.
I watch as she walks to her car.
She adjusts all of her mirrors before
reversing out of her parking space in
the middle of the near empty lot.
I parked behind Harpy's Burgers and
Dogs, cut across the drive through and
ring the freight doorbell.
When no one answers I ring again.
The Texas sun pounds down
on the crown of my head.
I wait as a creepy looking
man wearing a fishing hat and
a dirty undershirt rolls through the drive
through and recites his painfully
specific order down to the exact number
of pickles he'd like on his burger.
The voice on the speaker
gives him his total.
The man eyes me, tilting down
his orange tinted sunglasses and
says, hey there sweet cheeks.
I whirl around, holding my dress
tight around my thighs and
punch the doorbell four times.
My stomach is squirming with discomfort.
I don't have to wear a dress to work.
There's a pants option too.
But the elastic waist on the polyester
pants wasn't quite elastic enough
to fit over my hips.
I say the pants are to blame.
I don't like to think of my hips as
a nuisance but more of an asset.
I mean, if this were like 1642,
my wide birthing hips would be
worth many cows or something.
The door cracks open and
all I hear is Bo's voice.
I heard you the first three times.
My bones tingle,
I don't see him until he opens
the door a little wider to let me in.
Natural light grazes his face.
New stubble peppers his chin and cheeks.
A sign of freedom.
Bo's school, his fancy Catholic
school with it's strict dress code,
let out earlier this week.
The car behind me at the drive
thru backfires, and I rush inside.
My eyes take a second to
adjust to the dim light.
Sorry I'm late, Bo, I say.
Bo, the syllable bounces around
in my chest, and I like it.
I like the finality of a name so short.
It's the type of name that says,
yes, I'm sure.
A heat burns inside of me as it rises
all the way up through my cheeks.
I run my fingers along the line
of my jaw as my feet sink into
the concrete like quicksand.
The truth, I've had this hideous crush
on Bo since the first time we met.
His unstyled brown hair swirls into
a perfect mess at the top of his head.
And he looks ridiculous in his red and
white uniform, like a bear in a tutu,
polyester sleeves strain over his arms,
and I think maybe his biceps and
my hips have a lot in common,
except the ability to bench press.
A thin silver chain peeks out from
the collar of his undershirt and
his lips are red with artificial dye.
Thanks to his endless
supply of red suckers.
He stretches an arm out toward
me like he might hug me.
I drag in a deep breath.
And then exhale as he stretches past me
to flip the lock on the delivery door.
Ron's out sick so it's just me,
you, Marcus and Lydia.
I guess she got stuck working
a double today so, heads up.
Thanks, school's out for you, I guess.
Yep, no more classes, he says.
I like that you say classes and
not school.
It's like you are in college and only
go to class a couple of times a day in
between sleep on couches or,
I catch myself.
I'm gonna go and put my stuff up.
He presses his lips together.
Holding them in an almost smile.
Sure, I split off into the breakroom and
stuff my purse into my locker.
It's not like I've ever been
extra-eloquent or anything, but what comes
out of my mouth in front of Bo Larson
doesn't even qualify as verbal diarrhea.
It's more like the verbal runs,
which is gross.
The first time we met,
when he was still a new hire,
I held my hand out and introduced myself.
WillowDean, I said, cashier, Dolly Patton
enthusiast and resident fat girl.
I waited for his response,
but he said nothing.
I mean, I am other things too, but.
Bo, his voice was dry, but
his lips curled into a smile.
My name's Bo.
He took my hand and a flash of memories
I'd never made jolted through my head.
Us holding hands in a movie or
walking down the street or
in a car then he let go.
That night when I replayed our
introductions over and over in my head,
I realized that he didn't flinch when
I called myself fat, and I liked that.
The word fat makes people uncomfortable.
But when you see me the first thing you
notice is my body and my body is fat.
It's like how I notice some girls have
big boobs or shiny hair or knobby knees.
Those things are okay to say,
but the word fat,
the one that best describes me makes
lips frown and cheeks lose their color.
But that's me, I'm fat.
It's not a cuss word, it's not an insult.
At least it's not when I say it.
So I always figure,
why not get it out of the way?
Chapter two.
I'm scrubbing down the counter
as two guys and a girl walk in.
Work is so slow that I've damn
near wiped the enamel off.
What can I get y'all,
I ask without looking up.
Bo!
Starting point guard for
the Holy Cross Bulldogs.
Yells the guys on the right in
an announcer's voice with his hands cupped
around his mouth.
When Bo doesn't immediately appear,
both boys bark his first name over and
over again.
Bo, Bo, Bo!
The girl situated between
them rolls her eyes.
Bo, yells Markus.
Get out here, so
your friends will shut up!
Bo rounds the corner, as he stuffs his
visor into the back pocket of his pants.
He crosses his arms over
his puffed-out chest.
Hey, Collin, he nods to the girl.
Amber, Rory.
He leans back against the counter behind
us widening the space between him and
his friends.
What are you all doing
on this side of town?
Field trip, says Collin.
Bo clears his throat but says nothing.
The tension between them vibrates.
The other guy, Rory, I think,
studies the menu on the counter.
Hey, he says to me, could I get
two dogs mustard and relish only?
Yeah, I punch his order into the computer
as I try not to let my eyes wander.
Been a long time says Amber.
How is that even possible?
There are maybe 30 people in each
graduating class at Holy Cross.
Collin drapes his arm
over Amber's shoulder.
Been missing you at the gym,
where you been lately?
Around, says Bo.
Do you want a drink with that?
I ask.
Yeah, says Rory, and
holds a $50 bill in front of my face.
I can't break anything bigger than a 20.
I point to the small handwritten sign
taped to the front of my register.
Bo, says Collin,
all I've got all on me is plastic.
You think you could do Rory a solid and
make some change?
For a moment there's this
dead silence that sinks.
I don't have my wallet on me.
Collins smirks.
Amber, the amazing eye rolling
girl reaches into her pocket and
drops a ten on the counter.
I make change and tell Rory,
Your order will be out soon.
Colin tilts his head toward me.
What's your name?
I opened my mouth to answer but,
Willowdean.
Her name's Willowdean, says Bo.
I gotta get back to work.
Bo heads for the kitchen and
doesn't bother turning around as his
friends call for him to come back.
I like the facial hair,
says Amber, it suits you.
But he's already gone.
She stares me down and
all I can do is shrug.
At home, I walk around to the back and let
myself in through the sliding glass door.
The front door has been jammed for years.
Mom always says we need a man
to come over and fix it.
But my Aunt Lucy always said it was
the perfect excuse to not have to answer
the front door, and
I tended to agree with her.
My mom is sitting at the kitchen table
still in her scrubs and with her blonde
hair piled high on the top of her head
watching the news on her portable TV.
For as long as I can remember
she's always watched her shows in
here because Lucy was almost always
on the couch in the living room.
But it's been six months now
since Lucy's funeral and
she's still watching her shows in her
kitchen on her portable television.
Mom's shaking her head at the news
anchors when she says, hey dumplin',
dinner's in the fridge.
I drop my purse on the table and
grab the plastic wrapped plate.
The last few days of school mark
the start of pageant prep season,
which means my mom is on a diet.
And when my mom is on a diet so
is everyone else,
which means dinner is
grilled chicken salad.
It could be worse.
It has been worse.
She clicks her tongue, you've got
a little breakout there on your forehead.
You're not eating that greasy
food you're selling, are you?
You know I don't even like burgers and
hot dogs that much.
I don't sigh.
I want to, but my mom will hear.
It doesn't matter how loud the TV is.
It could be two years from now, and
I could be away at college in some
other town hundreds of miles away.
And my mom would hear me sigh
all the way from home and
call me to say, now dumplin',
you know I hate when you sigh.
There is nothing less attractive
than a discontent young woman.
There are, I think,
lots of things wrong with that sentiment.
I sit down to eat and liberally
spread salad dressing across my plate
because on the eighth day
God created ranch dressing.
My mom crosses her legs and points her
toes, examining her chipped pedicure.
How was work?
It was fine.
There was some old guy catcalling from
the drive through, called me sweet cheeks.
Aw, she says, well that's kind of
flattering if you think about it.
Mama, come on.
No, that's gross.
She flips the dial on her TV,
turning it off.
Baby, trust me when I say that
the man market narrows as you age,
no matter how well maintained you are.
This is not a conversation I wanna have.
Ron was out sick.
Bless his heart, she laughs.
You know he had the biggest
crush on me in high school?
At least once a week since I
took the job she brings this up.
When I first applied
during Thanksgiving break,
Lucy told me she always suspected that
it had been the other way around.
But the way my mom tells it,
every guy in town had a thing for her.
Everyone wanted a piece of
Clover City's Miss Teen Blue Bonnet,
she slurred one night after
a few glasses of wine.
The pageant is my mother's
single greatest accomplishment.
She still fits into her dress,
a fact she won't let anyone forget.
Which is why, as head of the pageant
committee and the official hostess,
she takes it upon herself to squeeze
into the dress as a yearly encore for
all of her adoring fans.
I feel the weight of Lucy's cat,
Riot, settle in on top of my feet.
I tap my toes and he purrs.
I saw a bunch of girls doing some kind
of pageant boot camp after school.
She grins.
I tell you what,
the competition gets stiffer every year.
What about you?
How was the home?
You know, just one of those days.
She flips through her checkbook and
massages her temples.
We lost Eunice today.
No, I say.
I'm so sorry, mom.
Once a year, like Cinderella,
my mom's life is glamorous.
It's the life she expected to live.
But for the rest of the year
she works as an orderly at
the Buena Vista Ranch Retirement Home
where she does exotic things like
dole out daily prescriptions,
feed the elderly, and wipe their asses.
Eunice was one of my mom's favorites.
She always confused her for one of her
sisters and whispered childhood secrets in
her ear every time my mom
bent down to help her up.
She had her after lunch ambrosia and
closed her eyes.
She shakes her head,
I let her sit there for
a minute because I
thought she was napping.
She stands and kisses the top of my head.
I'm going to bed, dumplin', night.
I wait for the sound of her door clicking
shut before I bury my dinner in the trash
can beneath one of those free newspapers.
I grab a fist full of pretzels and
a soda before running upstairs.
As I pass Lucy's closed door I linger for
a moment, letting the tips of
my fingers brush the knob.
