* * *

I thought I was safe. I thought I was safe because we’ve been together so long, and because I thought we were beyond the age where humiliating your girlfriend just because you can ceases to be amusing.

And so I thought I could take you to meet my family – the first girlfriend of mine who has ever met my family – without unbearable things happening.

The drive across Indiana is long and flat and boring. The drive across Illinois is only interesting because there is Chicago, where everyone drives like a maniac on their way to their last meal before the world ends, and for that span of Chicago our hearts race and our adrenaline pumps until I, too, am driving like a maniac on my way to my last meal before the world ends. You are laughing hysterically and signing wildly about how close the other cars are.

We have been on the road for far too long.

By the time we reach Wisconsin, I’m so sick of being in the car that I drive far faster than I know I ought to. This is how most people drive in Wisconsin. They’ve been charging through Chicago, and they’re still in that “Out of my way, asshole!” mindset, and they just want to get to wherever they’re going so they can be the hell out of their cars.

But not you.

No, not you, because you’ve spotted a sign for the Wisconsin State Fair, and you’re begging me to take you.

I should point out that we are still going to Madison. And that the Wisconsin State Fair is in Milwaukee.

But, God, you’re gorgeous, and you’re pouting, and my ability to say no to you can be measured in a quarter-teaspoon – with room to spare. I take the damned exit.

At first, the fair is safe enough. You’ve never been to a state fair, and everything is new and exciting. The animal barns. The 4H building. The horticulture exhibit. Things I did a thousand times in my childhood and adolescence, things that have long since ceased to hold interest for me, cause you to squeal in childlike delight every five minutes, and I regret the decision to come here less and less every time I see how brightly your eyes shine.

People just seem to want to give you things. Before we’ve been on the grounds half an hour, you have lapel pins for four Wisconsin State Senate candidates you can’t vote for, bumper stickers for three Wisconsin radio stations you can’t listen to, and fifty-cents-off coupons for five Wisconsin food products you can’t find in DC. Everyone at the Wisconsin State Fair finds you as irresistible as I do, and I revel in being able to snake my arm around your waist and kiss your temple, watching the disappointment on the faces of so many people who want to give you so much more than balloons and silly paper hats.

I breathe as often as I can remember to and tell myself that everything will be fine as long as I can keep you out of the Dairy Barn. Please, God, I beg. Please don’t let her want to see the Dairy Barn.

You want to see the Dairy Barn.

The first thing – the very first thing – I see once my eyes adjust to the lack of light inside the barn are the busts, and a thousand angry black slashes start darting in front of my eyes. I may have to throw up.

You rush over to the case. //Donna, come here!//

//Joey, please--//

//They’re busts, Donna! They’re busts made of butter!//

Oh, don’t I know it.

Every year, the court of the Butter Princess beauty pageant – the Miss Wisconsin of dairy farmers’ daughters – is immortalized in butter. Busts of beauty pageant princesses carved from 90-pound blocks of butter. How much more wrong can you get? Four of the busts are already carved this year, and I have to turn away from the revolving case.

So many memories, and all of them bad.

You’re enthralled by the display, and I take the opportunity to slip away. I’ll buy us a milkshake. That’ll be good. There’s a damned long line for milkshakes, and as long as I’m stuck here, I can pretend that there’s nothing in this barn that can hurt me.

Only I’ve forgotten about the book.

“Donnatella Moss.”

You know, for a woman with no perception of what her voice sounds like, you have an uncanny knack for speaking in exactly the right way to cut through a crowd of fair-goers and chill your girlfriend’s heart. Just thought you’d like to know that.

I grip my handful of dollar bills and for the briefest instant consider pretending I’m not the one you’re yelling at. But you’ve turned on the High-Powered, Super-Targeted Glare of Doom, and other people in the line turn to stare at me. Yeah, fuck.

I slink out of line without my milkshake.

You hold the book clutched to your chest. //You’re in here.//

I try for innocent. //Am I?//

I fail. //Don’t get cute with me, you warn and turn the book to face me. Miss Dane County, 1988. You’re in here.//

Yup. There I am, staring up at me. A picture of me at the age of 16. And a picture of the bust they made of me.

My name in lights, my head in butter.

//Can we get out of here, please?//

//No way. You had – you have this thing, and you never told me!//

//It’s not something I’m proud of, Joey.//

“What are you talking about?” People are staring at us, but I can tell how little you give a damn.

I’m shaking so hard I’m going to come apart at any second. I rip the book from you and grab your hand.

“Donna—“

“We’re leaving. Now.”

You clearly don’t understand what I’m upset about, but you shrug and let yourself be dragged, your hand in mine a calming, reassuring pressure. I am grateful for your hand – even though I’m so mad at the rest of you that I could easily hop in the car and leave you stranded here outside the Dairy Barn.

//Wow,// you sign as soon as I drop your hand. //My girlfriend the beauty queen.//

//Jesus, Joey, you--// I push my hair off my face and squint at the hazy August sunlight. Moving through this humidity is like trying to run in a nightmare. I shut my eyes and wait for the red and green sunspots to fade from behind the closed lids. //My parents are expecting us. Let’s go.//

“Donna. What’s wrong?”

I shake my head. The motion feels surreal in the heat. //It’s embarrassing.//

//How is it embarrassing? You were in a beauty pageant.//

//Three months of never crossing my legs, smiling so many huge fake smiles I thought my jaw was going to fall off, hardly eating – it was the Miss Wisconsin Dairy Maid pageant, for heaven’s sake, and I couldn’t eat anything even remotely dairy for months.//

//You grew up in a condo.//

We’re at the car, and I roll my eyes as we get in. //And don’t think I didn’t hear that from every other girl in the contest. My grandparents owned a dairy farm, which is how my grandmother got around it – it was her idea – but the other girls never let me forget I wasn’t one of them.// I sigh. //I’m sorry I dragged you from the fair, Joey, but it’s – can you imagine what Josh would do if he ever found out about this? There’s no limit to what he’d make me suffer. Or Ainsley? Every argument we’ve ever had about feminism – out the window.// I stare out the windshield at the horse barn.

You put your hand over mine on the steering wheel. //Donna, have you ever told this story to anyone? Does anyone outside your family know you were in the pageant?//

I shake my head no.

You pull your hand away and retreat into your seat, and we sit a moment in silence, in the shimmering, stifling heat. We think about what this means in relationship terms, that I would tell you this dark tale of my past. We’ve never been this close – or this scared of closeness.

I pull out of the parking lot and back onto the highway, headed towards Madison. We ride in silence for nearly an hour before you say my name, and I glance over. //Being beautiful does not make you any less of a feminist.//

I don’t know how or why, but this is the absolute best, most reassuring thing you could have said to me. “Thank you,” I choke out and return my full attention to the road.

//And your secret’s completely safe with me.//

We’ll get through this vacation yet.

* * *

Only there’s still my family to survive – my family, that’s had six years to adjust to the idea of their baby dating other girls but isn’t sure it’s ready for an actual girl.

I ring the doorbell, and the nervous sweat on my fingertip leaves a smudge on the button. You stand outside the circle of light, close enough for your presence to comfort me, but far enough away to cut and run should the need arise. Mom comes to the door, her face already split by an enormous grin. “Cy!” she calls into the condo, “get away from that television; your daughter’s here!”

I hear Dad curse as he fumbles the remote; meanwhile, Mom has me tangled up in a hug. Then she spots you in the shadows. “Donnatella, are you going to introduce me?”

“Oh. Yeah. Mom, this is Josephine Lucas.” I grab your sleeve and haul you forward. “Joey, my mother, Annabeth Moss.”

You shake her hand, and you’re not wasting any time. “Mrs Moss, do you have Donna’s butter bust?”

My mother’s teeth glint in the hall light as she grins and ushers you inside. “We don’t. They don’t keep well, so after the fair that year, we threw a huge party and ate it. But I have plenty of pictures. And please, call me Annabeth.”

Three minutes later, Dad sticks his head into the hallway. “You coming in, Pumpkin?”

I smile at him. “In a minute, Daddy. I’m just...plotting revenge.”