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Dumplin’ caught her eye and winked. She played on, even worse than before. She added a little shuffle dance step. Her dress strap slipped. She didn’t fix it.

Dumplin’s heart swelled. “Did she cry?”

“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.

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.

Not a mean laugh. A real one. It came from a little girl in the front row, a girl with pigtails and a face full of freckles, who was clutching a pageant program. The girl’s mother tried to shush her, but the girl just laughed harder, a bright, bell-like sound.