“Dumplin’, I just brewed up some fresh sweet tea!” her mother calls from the kitchen. “Come and get it!”
Willowdean throws her head back, her eyes rolling. She sighs. “Itisgood sweet tea.”
She doubles back and leads me to the kitchen.
Ms. Dickson sits at the kitchen table in black-and-white polka-dot scrubs, her legs crossed, while she clips coupons. The moment she sees me, her eyes light up. “Millicent! I didn’t realize you were coming over! I thought that was Ellen sneaking upstairs.”
“It’s good to see you again, ma’am.” From what I know about Willowdean and her mother, they’ve had a bumpy relationship. Ms. Dickson isn’t perfect by any means, but I think that when I won runner-up at the pageant, the only people cheering louder than she was were Dale and Lee from the Hideaway. (Dale and Lee... well, Dale and Lee are a long story.)
“How’s your mama doing?” she asks, gripping my dangling hand as Willowdean pours us each a tall glass of sweet tea.
“She’s good, Ms. Dickson,” I say. “A little overprotective, but good.”
“Baby, call me Ms. Rosie.” She looks at me with sympathetic eyes. “We just want the best for our babies.”
“Except your best isn’t always our best,” chimes in Willowdean.
Ms. Rosie rolls her eyes. “Pains me to say it, but you’re not wrong.”
Willowdean doesn’t bother hiding her satisfaction. “We’re going upstairs,” she tells her as she hands me a glass with a striped bendy straw and a slice of lemon floating on top.
“Millie, you don’t be a stranger,” says Ms. Rosie. “And I hope we see you in the pageant again this fall,” she adds.
I grin wildly. “You just might.” But first things first: journalism camp. Well, actually: Malik. Then camp.
Upstairs, as I’m following Willowdean down to her bedroom, I linger for a moment in front of a room that would best be described as crafting heaven. A beautifully refurbished sewing machine sits in one corner with a long cutting table on the other side. Clear plastic cabinets sit against the other wall. Each drawer is color coded and full of fabric, thread, and yarn. There’s even a drawer labeled GLITTER, which is undoubtedly calling my name.
“Aunt Lucy’s old room turned pageant-prep/sewingroom,” says Willowdean, once she sees that I’m still at the other end of the hallway.
My eyes drift up, and that’s when I see that every inch of spare wall space is covered with Dolly Parton paraphernalia.
Willowdean treks back down the hallway toward me. Her gaze travels the room, and her expression is a cross between longing and satisfaction. “Our Dolly Parton shrine,” she says. “Well, really it was Lucy’s, but it’s ours now. We did all this during the Christmas break. Whatever’s not hanging in here has found a home in my room.”
“It’s magnificent,” I tell her.
In her room, Willowdean hovers above a record player as she cues up an upbeat Dolly Parton song. “It’s called ‘I’m Sixteen,’” she says as she turns it down just a bit. “A new favorite, but more importantly it’ll stop my mom from eavesdropping so easily.”
We sit on opposite ends of her bed, sipping on our sweet tea.
“Your mom is so cool,” I tell her.
She sputters out a laugh. “You’re kidding, right?”
“She’s, like, so nice and probably doesn’t even care that you date Bo.”
“Honestly, I think Bo might be her new favorite thing about me.”
“My parents could barely handle me entering the pageant against their wishes,” I tell her. “A boyfriend? That isdefinitely Not Until You’re Thirty-Five territory. I can’t even muster up the courage to tell them I want to go to a different camp this summer.”
“Hey,” says Willowdean, “I imagine it’s a whole lot easier to be the cool parent when the person who thinks you’re cool isn’t even your kid. So this boy trouble nine-one-one? What’s going on?”
“Oh, right!” I’d nearly forgotten why I was here in the first place and the text I had sent. I set my tea down on her nightstand and flop backward. “It’s Malik.”
“Y’all are so cute. And you asked him to the Sadie Hawkins with your ukulele! What could possibly be wrong with y’all?”
“Well, that’s sort of the problem,” I say. “There is no ‘y’all.’”
“Ohhhhhh.” She lies down from the other side of the bed, so that our heads are side by side, her golden curls spilling out and tickling my shoulders. Before this year, I spent a lot of time wishing I could be Willowdean. It’s like she never has to overthink or try too hard.
