“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.
“Okay,” she said, sucking in a breath. “The talent portion. I’m not juggling. I’m not doing a dramatic monologue from Steel Magnolias .”
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.
She wasn’t a winner. She wasn’t a loser. She was Dumplin’. And for the first time, she realized that wasn’t an insult. It was a promise: to take up space, to be loud, to be off-key, and to be absolutely, unapologetically, gloriously herself.
El grinned. “That’s the most beautiful disaster I’ve ever heard.”
“What, then?” El asked, peeking over the stall door. Her eyes widened. “Is that… a kazoo?”
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.
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