Dumplin- [NEW]

Dumplin’ looked up at the Texas stars, so close and so far away. She pulled out the kazoo and played one last, squeaky chorus. It echoed off the silent streets of Clover City.

“That’s the look,” Dumplin’ replied, adjusting the strap of her bright pink, one-shouldered dress. The dress was a miracle. She’d found it in the back of her late Aunt Lucy’s closet, sandwiched between a velvet robe and a pair of cowboy boots with actual rattlesnake skin. Aunt Lucy—or Lucy, as she’d insisted everyone call her—had been the undisputed, plus-sized queen of the Clover City pageant circuit back in the 90s. She’d never won the crown, but she’d won every single “Miss Congeniality.” People remembered her laugh longer than they remembered the winner’s name.

That night, Dumplin’ sat on the roof of her house, the way she and Lucy used to do. The pageant crown was still on its velvet pillow inside, unworn. But pinned to her t-shirt was the little girl’s pageant number: #43, scribbled on a piece of notebook paper. The girl had torn it off and handed it to her in the parking lot. Dumplin-

Dumplin’ held up a beat-up kazoo. “It’s a tribute. Lucy used to play ‘Yellow Rose of Texas’ on this thing at every family barbecue. She was terrible. Amazingly terrible. But she never cared who was listening.”

She didn’t win, of course. The crown went to a girl who could sing opera while doing a split. But as Dumplin’ walked off stage, the head judge—the one with the helmet-hair—caught her arm. Dumplin’ looked up at the Texas stars, so

She reached center stage. The spotlight was a hot, white sun. For a second, she forgot how to breathe. The mirror’s lie echoed in her head: You don’t belong here.

“Okay,” she said, sucking in a breath. “The talent portion. I’m not juggling. I’m not doing a dramatic monologue from Steel Magnolias .” Aunt Lucy—or Lucy, as she’d insisted everyone call

“Miss Dickson,” she whispered, her voice unexpectedly soft. “Your aunt Lucy. She did that same kazoo routine in 1993. She came in last place.”

“You look like a flamingo that just lost a fight with a cotton candy machine,” said her best friend, El, from the neighboring stall. El was already laced into a silver gown, looking like a elegant astronaut.

The first note was a squawk. A few people winced. The head judge’s pen froze. But Dumplin’ didn’t stop. She leaned into the squawk. She played “Yellow Rose of Texas” like it was a symphony, missing every other note, her cheeks puffing out, her whole body swaying with a rhythm only she could hear.