Dumplin' (19 page)

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

..................................................................

The next day is like someone has dropped an atomic bomb in our house. It starts when my mom gets home from church and decides to try her pageant dress on.

“Dumplin'?” she calls from her bedroom. “Baby, my zipper's stuck.”

I trudge up the stairs. My mother has fit in her old pageant dress every year since she was crowned. Including the year she gave birth to me. From the way Lucy told it, the house was a Jazzercise fun house, and it was a close call, but she did it.

I've seen this dress—a sea-foam-green sequined bodice with a chiffon skirt—so many times that it's not even pretty anymore.

Since the house is so old, there's no actual master bedroom upstairs. Just a shared bathroom at the end of the hallway. It's weird to think that my mom's and Lucy's rooms are the same rooms they grew up in their whole lives. I imagine them as teenagers slamming doors in each other's faces or sneaking back and forth from room to room. I've heard so much about their lives together before me, but
sometimes I wonder about what they chose not to tell me and it's those blanks that I like to fill in.

I walk down the hallway and reach for the glass knob and open the bedroom door.

Oh shit
.

From the doorway, I can tell that the zipper isn't the problem. There's a good one-inch gap between the fabric across my mom's back.

Sweat dampens her forehead as she waves me closer.

I make a show of pulling on the zipper for a minute or two before saying, “Uh, Mom? I don't think the zipper is the issue.”

She whirls around and looks over her shoulder so that she can catch her own reflection. “Godammit,” she spits.

Okay, so my mom has maybe said the Lord's name in vain two times in her entire life. And only once that I can really remember.

“Unzip me.”

The zipper slides down like a sigh of relief.

She sits on the edge of the bed, holding the front of the dress to her chest. “Okay, so I'm gonna have to go on a cleanse and add in some cycling and Pilates classes.” She says Pilates like “Pee-lates,” the twang in her voice becoming more and more pronounced with the added anxiety. “I think Marylou's got a class I can get into tomorrow night.”

“But I have to go to work,” I say. “I need the car.”

She looks up at me with her eyebrows raised, like, this is a crisis and I do not understand the gravity of the situation. “Well, sweetheart, we're going to have to make it
work. You keep taking the car to school and I'll have it in the evenings. Most girls your age don't even have cars. We get what we get. We don't fret.”

I don't bother fighting her on it.

I sit in the break room picking on the apple my mom gave me when she dropped me off. I swear, when she pulled into the parking lot, she held her breath, like she might catch some extra calories if she inhaled too deeply near so much trans fat.

I expected to hear from Mitch yesterday. A follow-up call of some sort to make sure we were cool after Halloween. Or maybe, like, a customer service call to rate my satisfaction. But nothing.

I woke up yesterday morning and had to convince myself that he'd actually kissed me. It wasn't a bad kiss. There wasn't that heart-stammering feeling I had had with Bo.

Today, though, he was his usual self. With no mention of The Kiss. I started to think that maybe he really was someone else that night, and it was the magic of Halloween. But the guilt and regret I feel is all too real.

Then, at the end of the day, when we walked to the parking lot, he took my hand firmly in his. It was hard not to feel like we hadn't skipped a step somewhere. I wasn't about to embark on another relationship that was all action and no definition. Before I left he handed me a small hardback book called
Magic for the Young and the Young at Heart
. “I remember you saying you needed a talent. For
the pageant.”

I shoved the book in my backpack and thanked him.

“There's a note inside,” he said. “But read it later.”

There's a knock on the break room door, even though it's open.

“Hey,” says Bo.

I smile involuntarily. “Hi.”

“I wanted to make sure you got home okay the other night.” He fiddles with his fingers, and then shoves his hands in his back pockets. “I felt weird leaving you with that guy, but I recognized him from the dance.” He clears his throat. “You guys must be pretty close, huh?”

My cheeks burn. “Oh, right. Yeah, that was Mitch.”

He coughs into his elbow. “Cool.”

A slight laugh slips from me. “Cool.”

He turns on his heel and heads back to the kitchen.

I release a slow breath through my pursed lips. I think that must have been the tamest interaction of all time. And I feel like I'm on fire.

After we close up, the first thing I notice outside is the lack of my mom's car. I'm dialing her before the back doors even close.

“Hello?” Her voice is thick with sleep.

Dammit
. “Mom?”

“Oh, Dumplin'!” I can hear her grabbing her keys and slamming the sliding glass door. “On my way, baby!”

The line goes dead.

Marcus and Bo watch me.

“You guys go on,” I say.

Marcus nods his head toward where Tiffanie's waiting for him in her car. “You wanna bum a ride?”

“Thanks, but she's on her way.”

Marcus and Bo share a look. “I'll wait with you,” says Bo.

Marcus nods a “thanks” to Bo and leaves.

“I can wait inside,” I tell him. “Ron'll be here for a while still.”

“It's cool.” He digs his keys out of his pocket. “Let's wait in my truck.” He must see the pause in my expression. “Just sittin',” he says. “I'll even put the armrest down.”

Once we've settled, Bo is indeed true to his word and lowers the armrest between us.

We sit in silence for a while, listening to the hum of the road at our backs. The scent of him hits me, all artificial cherry and aftershave. I guess I stopped noticing it over the summer, but it's been a while now since I've been in his truck. I don't quite understand how something can feel so comfortable and foreign at the same time. Like, déjà vu.

I reach forward and flip through some stations. Bo says nothing about me commandeering his radio.

“I can't hear Dolly Parton anymore without thinking of you.”

My stomach flips as I laugh nervously. “Well, lucky for you she's not on the radio too much anymore.” My voice comes out more abrasively than I mean for it to. But really, I love that I've staked my claim on his memory. Except that I can't think of Dolly without seeing El or Lucy. And that
doesn't seem very fair.

“Why Dolly?” he asks. “I don't really get it. She's so . . . fake.”

“Her boobs are, yeah. Obviously.” I trace patterns on the armrest, looking for the right words. “She's the kind of person who looks like she's never had a bad day. I guess she's sort of my guru. Like, her music is good, I guess. But it's
her
that makes it good. With her big hair and fake boobs. I've never seen anyone who's living the life they set out to live like she does.”

He studies me, but doesn't say anything. “It's like every day is Halloween for her.” Mitch in his costume flickers in my memory. “But for Dolly, it's not dress up or make-believe. It's her life. And it's exactly how she chose for it to be.” I stop myself before I get too cheesy.

“Huh.” He crosses his arms and sinks down further into his seat. “I've always thought of her as some kind of cartoon character. But maybe not.”

The Harpy's light above us cuts out and we let the radio do the talking.

“No car?” he asks after a while. “What's the story there?”

I lean my head against the headrest. “It wouldn't start. About two months ago maybe.” Is that all? It feels like it's been forever since everything happened and I entered the pageant. And since I lost Ellen. “It's been in the shop ever since. Can't afford to get it fixed.”

“I feel ya,” he says. “Money's supposed to make things easier, but it's always doing the opposite. I sort of wish we
worked on a barter system.”

His words grate on me. Bo's gone to private school for the last few years, and that's anything but free.

“What?” he asks.

I shake my head.

“No. Come on. Out with it.”

After a long moment, I say, “Well, I mean, you went to Holy Cross. I get that you're trying to be nice, but I don't think it's fair to say you actually know what it feels like to be broke.”

“Wow,” he says. “That's a pretty broad assumption.”

Headlights flood the cab of the truck from behind us. “Whatever,” I say. “You asked. Good night. Tell Bekah I said hi.”

I slide out of his truck and slam the door behind me.

He rolls down the window. “Just so you know,” he calls to me. “Not everyone who goes to private school is rich. Especially not the poor kids who can play basketball.”

The window rolls back up, dividing him from me, before I have a chance to add anything else.

My cheeks burn with embarrassment. But more than anything, I'm confused. Why wouldn't he tell me about being on scholarship?

My mom gets out of her car and runs up to Bo's window. I watch from the other side of the truck as she uses one knuckle to knock on the glass. She talks in the high-pitched voice she only uses when communicating with “menfolk.” Bo says something and her whole face lights up. She touches his forearm and holds her other hand to her
chest. “Bless your heart, Bo!” I hear her say.

She walks to the car and I follow. “Uh? Mom?”

We get in the car and she says, “I'm so sorry, Will. That Pee-lattes kicked my behind and I was out like a light the second I got home.”

“It's fine,” I grumble as she's turning out onto the street. “But what was that about?”

“Your sweet coworker. Bo, he said his name was?” She laughs, and out of the corner of her mouth says, “That boy's jawline could cut glass.”

“Mom.”

“I said we were shuffling around, sharing a car, and I appreciated him waitin' on me.” She turns, but not hard enough for her blinker to stop ticking. “But then he said y'all work the same schedule and he could drive you home every night.”

“Mom! You said no, right?” Panic rips through me. Click. Click. Click. The blinkers still going.

“Well, why would I do that? He was so kind to offer. Don't let me stand in the way of a good deed.”

I sigh. A huge dramatic sigh.

“Willowdean,” she says. “Enough with that sighin'. Count your blessings.” She pulls into our driveway. “Especially the good-looking ones.”

“I hate you,” I say as I climb out of the car.

“Well, aren't you a wretched thing,” she calls after me. “And maybe do your hair before your next shift! A well-styled head of hair is a head above the rest.”

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

..................................................................

The bell for World History rings and I barely make it through the door before Miss Rubio shuts it behind me.

I stop. Right there, in Amanda's usual seat next to mine, is Bo. I think my brain is dribbling out my ears. From the back of the room, she shrugs and mouths,
Peachbutt wouldn't move
. I wave my hand at the air to tell her it's fine. But really it's not, because what the hell is even happening?

Seating for World History isn't assigned, but no one has budged since the first day, so it goes without being said. Knowing Amanda, there was a confrontation when she saw him in her seat, but someone had to lose. And it wasn't Bo.

He sort of half smiles when I sit down, and says, “Willowdean.” And that's it. That is the only word he says for the whole damn period.

When the bell rings, I scramble out the door as fast as I can.

I meet Mitch in the parking lot and his face brightens because he thinks this stupid grin on my face is for him.
No
,
I want to tell him.
Don't give me that sweet smile. I don't deserve it.

The next day, Bo's there again in Amanda's seat. I watch from the corner of my vision as he brushes his knuckles across his chin. I want to touch him. It seems inevitable. He's a negative and I'm a positive and all that stands between us is a matter of time.

Like yesterday, he says my name at the beginning of class, but this time adds, “I'll see you tonight.”

There is a chorus of bees in my stomach as I listen to Bo whistling in the kitchen. Bo always whistles when he thinks no one is listening. But normally it's no song in particular, just a hodgepodge of tunes. But tonight his lips press together and whistle “Jolene” by Dolly Parton. Which turns my knees to mush.

Ron comes out from his office and hums along as he restocks the receipt paper. With a few minutes to go before closing time, Marcus barks, “Don't you know any other songs?”

The whistling stops for a moment as Bo flips a burger. The burger lands, sizzling against the griddle, and he begins to whistle again.

Marcus watches us curiously when, at the end of the night, we both walk toward Bo's truck.

I get into his truck just as his phone rings. He picks it up, and I watch as he listens for a moment. The vein in his neck bulges, his head shaking. Through his clenched teeth, he says something and hangs up before sliding in behind the wheel.

“Who was that?”

He chews on the inside of his bottom lip for a moment. “My brother.”

“Oh.”

“He just needs me to pick him up after I drop you off.” He stares straight out into the field behind Harpy's. “We don't really get along.”

I don't have any siblings, but I know what it feels like to butt heads with someone you see every morning and every night.

“I envy him sometimes,” he says. “It wasn't the same for him when our mom died. I don't know how true it is, but sometimes it feels I absorbed more of the blow than he did.”

I nod. I knew Lucy in a way my mom never did, and it's hard not to feel like I carry the heavier burden because of that. “I'm sorry,” I say as we're buckling our seat belts. It's like a hot potato that I've been holding on to for days. “For what I said about you going to private school.”

He grips the steering wheel and cranes his neck back while he reverses out. “It's fine.”

We sit at the stoplight in silence until it turns green. “What happened then? You were on a scholarship, I guess?”

“Yeah.” I love the way he drives with one hand anchored to the bottom of the wheel as he uses his palm to spin it when he turns, like he's driving an eighteen-wheeler or something.

“Left on Rowlett,” I say.

“I was in eighth grade when one of the Holy Cross dads
saw me playing. I don't want to say I was really good, but I guess I was. I just didn't know it because no one gives two shits about basketball in this town.”

“Except at Holy Cross,” I say. Holy Cross is too small for a football team, but their basketball team always wins district and sometimes state.

“Yeah, so I guess a bunch of the dads got together and talked to my dad about me going there. But we couldn't afford it. Not with everything that had happened with my mom. You can't give high school kids sports scholarships. At least not according to the athletic association they compete in. They put together this academic scholarship for me. And for my brother, too. My dad said I couldn't go unless he went.”

“But you said it was your fault that y'all had to leave, right?” I point to my driveway a few houses down. “This is me up here on the left.”

“I blew my knee out at the end of the season last year. We didn't have insurance then, so I'm not really sure how everything got paid for. More of those rich dads, probably. But I wasn't going to be playing anytime soon.”

The car idles in front of my house. I wish the drive home were three times as long. “But you were on an academic scholarship? They wouldn't take that away from you.”

He crosses his arms. “After my injury I got in a fight with a guy on my team. Collin, that kid who swung by Harpy's over the summer.”

“Over what?”

He shakes his head. “What every guy gets in a fight over. A girl.”

The air in his truck is dense, and I can feel it all the way down to my bones. “The girl who was with him?”

“Amber. We dated for two years. But I was a shitty boyfriend to her anyway.”

I want to ask him how, but I don't know if I want to know the answer yet.

“I broke Collin's collarbone. He broke my nose. When we went to enroll for the next year, they said funds had dried up. The donor had to pull their donation. And now my little brother hates me.”

“He misses it?”

He smirks. “Yeah, that kid was a king there. He'd been dating the same girl since seventh grade. Who does that?” He shakes his head, still smiling. I can see what he doesn't say: that he loves his little brother more than is healthy and would probably play on a busted-up knee to make him happy. “He's a freshman now. He took the whole thing worse than I did. And then because he's fifteen and everything's shit when you're fifteen, his girlfriend broke up with him. Said she couldn't do long distance.”

“Long distance?”

“Yeah, the place is about a ten-minute walk from our house.”

“Wow.” My hand hovers over the door handle.

“Let me walk you to the front door,” he says.

“No, it's fine.”

He persists. “Really.”

“We actually use the back door.”

“Why?”

“The front door's jammed. It's been like that for a long time.”

“So why don't you fix it?” he asks.

“I don't know. Just one of those things we never got around to. And now we're so used to it that it doesn't matter.”

His lips twitch like he's got something to say, but he stays quiet.

I let myself out of the truck and hold the door open a second as a thought forms in my mind. “Why have you been sitting next to me these last two days? In class. You can talk to me at work.”

He does that thing again where he brushes his knuckles across his chin. “I guess I would rather talk to you everywhere.”

Behind the fence, in my backyard, I smile.

I dump the contents of my backpack on my bed, hoping to at least do some homework before I fall asleep. Splayed out between my textbooks, with a bent cover, is the how-to magic book that Mitch gave me. I pull it to my chest and slump down to the floor. I'd completely forgotten about my talent—or even the pageant—for a few days. Bo coming back into my world, if only in the tiniest of ways, turns my brain into a vacuum, where nothing else can exist, because I'm so consumed.

But I don't want that. I can't want that.

Thumbing through the pages, I find several different tricks, but none of them grab me. A note slips from the pages, and I unfold it.

Will—When I was a kid, I went through a magician phase where I wore capes and top hats everywhere. I thought maybe you could use some magic of your own.—Mitch

I slide the note back between the pages and sigh. It's ridiculous. Me, performing silly magic tricks. But what else is there for me to do? I don't have a self-defining talent like Bekah or even something I stuck with long enough to fall back on.

I lean back against my bed with the book in my lap, and begin to practice the motions of hidden coin illusion. This feels like settling. A missed opportunity. But I don't think that makes it wrong.

I try to channel that spark of energy that made me enter the pageant in the first place. But that little bit of magic is nowhere to be found.