Dumplin' (24 page)

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

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I take the couch for the night to give myself some quiet. I slip in and out of sleep the way you do when you're sleeping in a house that isn't your own. Except at El's. I could always sleep.

Maybe it's thirty minutes or two hours, I don't know, but the house creaks as someone walks down the hallway. I turn over so that I can catch a glimpse of whoever it is. Slipping through a sliver of moonlight, Hannah makes her way to the kitchen. Without thinking about it, I pull back my blankets and follow her.

She stands in front of the fridge, the white light turning her into a silhouette.

I flip the overhead light on.

She jumps a little and turns around, but the tension in her shoulders eases when she sees it's me. “I'm looking for a bottle of water.”

“Then what's up with the beer?” I ask, pointing to the can of Miller in her fist.

“Found them in the garage fridge. Thought I'd see if there were any more in here.” She opens the fridge door
wide to show me nothing but bottled water and Diet Dr Pepper. “No one's going to miss these, though.” She points to several cans on the counter. “You want one?”

“Yeah,” I say, surprising myself. I bet Millie's mom isn't too thrilled by the idea of beer in the house, so technically we're doing Mr. and Mrs. Michalchuk a favor. “Sure.”

We sit in the dark on the couch, sipping our beers. The moon shines against the windowpane, casting a shadow on the carpet.

“So what's up with that guy who dropped you off tonight?” asks Hannah.

“What guy?”

“I'm trying to be nice, okay?” It's true. In the dark, she seems like a less hostile version of herself. Like, maybe, she's most comfortable when no one can see her. “I heard Amanda and Millie blabbering about him when they came to bed. Peachbutt, huh?”

“Bo.” If she's willing to put the claws away, I can give her a few ounces of truth, I guess. “Bo Larson. We work together. We're, uh, friends.”

“Ah.” She takes a long slurp from her beer. “Bathroom Boy. I remember now. He's in my study hall. Dude's like an eight. A solid eight. I don't even like guys and I like looking at him.”

I search for her in the darkness. Did Hannah just come out to me? I don't know what to say or do, but I do know that I don't really care whether Hannah likes boys or girls. So I decide not to say anything. “Yeah, he's a little too delicious.” And a ten, I think. Definitely a ten.

“Friends, huh? Didn't look like friends when I saw you two.” I can hear her smiling. “In the girls' bathroom no less.”

I shrug. Which is dumb because she can't see me. “Friends who sometimes make out.”

She whistles.

My cheek and chest burn. I hope it's the beer.

She pops the tab on a second beer. “How'd that happen?”

“It's been on and off, I guess. I don't know. It's starting to become more and he wants to be something official. And it's so stupid because, yes, obviously that is everything I want but . . .”

“But guys like Bo don't date girls like us.” The way she says it. It's not mean. Or rude. It's true.

I nod. “Exactly. I don't get why he likes me, but I truly believe that he does. I really do. It's just that I don't think anyone else will understand what he sees in me.”

“That's a tough one,” she says. “People are shit. Look at people like Patrick Thomas. You dating a guy like Bo would be a field day for him.”

It's nice to talk to someone who understands. Hannah may not get what it feels like to wonder if you're going to fit into a chair with armrests or how anytime a floor creaks beneath your weight, everyone looks at you like you're about to break the entire building. She might not get what it's like to walk into a mall and know that 90 percent of the clothes won't fit you or that even thinking about going to a buffet is a bad idea, because a fat person at a buffet is
a joke waiting to happen. But she's not patting me on the back, and telling me to do what makes me happy. And there's some relief in that. “I wish that there was some kind of alternate plane we could exist on where he could be my boyfriend.” It's the first time I've said the word out loud and it sends a hum all the way through me to my toes. “And no one had to know.”

“But isn't that the point of labels like boyfriend and girlfriend? To make things easier for other people?” She slurps her beer. “Isn't that sad? It's like the whole world has to walk around with name tags on so we can all feel more comfortable? I guess things are less scary if you know what to call them.”

We drink our beers in silence. Her words sound right, but feel wrong. Yeah, labels make it easier for others to understand you, but I like the safety of knowing. Especially with Bo. That's why I haven't given him an answer yet. I can't bear to tell him no.

“Hannah, I want to ask you a question. It's rude, but I'm not asking to be rude.” Although, that doesn't really make it any better.

“Shoot,” she says.

“Why have you never gotten your teeth fixed?”

“Why should I have to?” she retorts immediately. Her voice softens as she adds, “Plus it's expensive. Mom's a hairdresser. Dad's a mechanic. Not like we have great insurance or anything.”

“You're right,” I say. “You shouldn't have to.”

She clears her throat. “I don't mean to be such a bitch,
you know.”

“It's okay.”

She laughs. “I wasn't apologizing. But it's hard not to have my claws out all the time. I don't have friends like you do. There's no one there to walk down the hallway with me.”

“You have friends. Don't be stupid.” But I can close my eyes and see her at school, wearing black from head to toe and with her mouth stretched over her teeth, so that maybe people will just forget.

“I wanted to sabotage this pageant from the inside out. That was the only reason I entered. I wouldn't be the girl with buckteeth. I'd be that girl who ruined the whole pageant.” She pauses. “But then my mom found out. She saw the welcome packet. She was so proud of me for entering. And now . . .”

“You're stuck actually doing this thing.” It makes sense. If people treated me half as bad as they do Hannah, I would want to ruin this whole thing, too.

“I'm going to bed,” she says. “Gimme your empties. I'll throw them out at my place.”

I finish the last of my beer. Her hand reaches out and I pass her my two cans. I feel the couch shift as she stands. I don't know where she is or if she's even facing me, but I say, “I'm your friend. Not in a corny way. Not because you said all that about not having friends. But because I like you. I like talking to you.”

It's so quiet that, for a moment, I think maybe she's not
even in the room. Her voice comes as a whisper. “Okay.”

I miss Ellen. I will never stop missing Ellen. But there's a sigh of relief that comes in having another friend who I can talk to about more than this dumb pageant. Even if it's only in the dark.

The next morning when I get home, I find my mom upstairs in Lucy's room. Neither of us has really been in here much since she started the craft room transformation. She's been caught up in pageant stuff, and I've been too wrapped up in myself, so Lucy's room has sort of been sitting here. Briefly, I wonder if, like me, she's snuck in here for moments at a time. Just to see Lucy. To be near her.

But today my mom's got her ridiculous Juicy Couture tracksuit on and has boxes labeled
DONATE
. She's not here to visit Lucy. She's here to get rid of her.

When my mother is frustrated, she cleans. Her cleaning out Lucy's room frustrates me. These two negatives do not equal a positive. She and I are still on eggshells over the dress, and honestly, if she doesn't let me wear it, I'm done for. I have no other options. A fat girl can't just walk into a thrift shop and—POOF—find a decent dress that actually fits.

And that's what really pisses me off about the dress thing. She's the head honcho. The lady calling the shots. All she has to say is yes. I have a hard enough time finding jeans to wiggle over my ass, you think she'd be shooting confetti cannons over me being able to find a not hideous/not
stretchy dress that zips. IT ZIPS.

But the room. There she is digging—pawing—through Lucy's things and every little movement feels like I've accidentally touched the coils of a hot stove.

“What are you even doing in here?” My voice is already too loud and too sharp.

She glances back at me. “I didn't hear you come in.” She turns back. “This stuff can't sit here forever. You know, I hope that when I die, you don't let my belongings gather dust for months like this.”

“These are Lucy's
things
, Mom. This stuff belongs to her.”

“Baby,” she says. “
Belonged
. These things belonged to her. We're coming up on a year in December. I'm not lettin' all this sit here like some kind of shrine.”

I shake my head. Tears spill out onto my cheeks. A year. A whole year. “Stop,” I say. “Please stop.”

She turns to me now. Panic flashes across her face. I think that maybe I will forever judge her based on what she does and says at this very moment. We don't have this kind of relationship. I don't cry on my mother's shoulder. We dance around each other, but never intersect.

Her house shoes slap against the floor as she takes the few steps toward me.

I lean forward, expecting her to hug me. And I don't mean her wrapping her arms around my waist, and commenting on how her fingers nearly touch. I mean a real hug. One I can sink into. “I'm taking all this stuff to the shelter this weekend. If there's anything you want, now's
the time to pull it out.” She pats my shoulder. “I'm going to go put together some lunch before you have to go to work.”

The door closes behind her, and I sink down onto Lucy's bed. The memory of the last few weeks wash over me.

I have no dress. A not-really-maybe boyfriend who I can't bear to be seen with in public, because I feel that repulsive when I think of us standing side by side. Mitch, who I've been horrible to. My mom. Ellen. And no Lucy.

I need Lucy. She should be here to tell me what to do. Some solution that would never even occur to me without her.

I consider the things I can change.

The dress.

I could eat lettuce until the pageant and maybe then it will fit like how my mom had imagined. But then what? It's that vicious dieting cycle, like when I was younger. I would lose the weight to wear the dress, and then what? I start eating food that's not lettuce and gain it all back. Maybe even some extra.

All the pageant season diets my mom and I have done flip through my head like index cards. Protein bars in fourth grade. Weight Watchers in fifth. Salads in second. And none of it ever worked.

She wins. My mom wins. I didn't even know this was some kind of competition with her until this moment. But I'm losing. I have no dress. Barely any talent. And an escort whose heart I'm breaking without him even knowing it.

If I do this pageant, I'll make a point—that's for sure. It
just won't be one I want to be remembered for.

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

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

Sitting in the break room later that night, I use a compact mirror to examine the green ring around my neck in the reflection. I snap the mirror shut like a clam, and take the fake gold necklace off and lay it out on the table. The gold chain is that twisty type of chain they sell at mall kiosks, and the charm says
Dolly
in a bubbly cursive script.

I ended up fitting as much of Lucy's stuff as I could in my closet. I tried my best to get all her Dolly collectibles, including a pair of glitter-encrusted shoes Dolly wore to a show in Vegas. The soles are signed in her big loopy signature, proving their authenticity.

Bo plops down in the chair next to me. “What's that?”

I drag the chain around with my index finger so that he can see it. “It was my aunt's.”

He nods.

“My mom's cleaning out her room. Again. It's happened in small spurts in the last few months. But I think she's serious this time.”

“I'm sorry.” He drags his finger along the chain. “When my mom was dying, she kinda cleaned out her room for us.
Like, as soon as she found it was bad, she started inviting people over and no one ever left empty-handed. By the time she was gone, all that was left were a few nightgowns and some shoes.” He concentrates on the necklace, his jaw twitching. “I was kind of mad at her for doing that. But I don't think I could have done it myself anyway. If it'd been up to my dad, we'd still be using her perfume as air freshener.”

Bo watches me for a moment before yanking on the leg of my chair and pulling me closer to him. He wraps his arm around me and I ease into his frame. My breathing hitches a little, but that voice in my head that begs me not to let him touch me is nothing more than a murmur. His lips press against my hair, sending calming vibrations through me.

“Am I interrupting something?” Mitch stands in the doorway with a brown grocery bag clenched in his fist.

I pick my head up so quickly that I hit Bo's jaw. “I'm sorry,” I say, but to which of them I'm not sure. Panic sinks all the way down to my toes, holding me in place. “Hi,” I say to Mitch. “Hey. What are you doing here?”

Bo stands, rubbing the spot where my head collided with his. “I better get back to work.” His voice is rigid.

The tension between them buzzes like an electric fence.

Mitch doesn't move out of his way, so Bo squeezes past him. He watches Bo go before stepping through the doorway. “The guy at the front told me you were back here.” He drops the bag on the table, and whatever's inside rattles for a second. “I got you some magic supplies. For your
talent.”

I try too hard to keep my voice light. “Sit down.”

He doesn't. “Who was that guy?”

“Bo. We work together.”

His two brows crinkle into one. “Do you like him?”

“What? We were talking, Mitch.” I sound defensive because I am. So we kissed once. We hold hands sometimes. That doesn't make us anything. And yet maybe it does. It's not like he caught me making out with Bo or in a state of undress, but I feel just as guilty.

“Do you?” he asks again.

I tuck my hair behind my ears and take a long moment before I answer. “I do.”

He shakes his head and pulls down on the bill of his baseball cap. “Good luck with the pageant, Will.” He turns on his heel and exits through the nearest door, which happens to be the employee exit.

My heart aches from losing one of my precious few friends, knowing all too well that if this is anyone's fault it's mine.

That night, Bo drives me home in silence.

I'm halfway up the driveway when I hear his door slam shut as he says, “I wish you would give me an answer.” He circles around the front of his truck.

“What?” I walk back toward him. “We have to do this tonight?”

“I want to be with you,” he says. “But I can't if you won't let me.”

“Why?” I drop my bag in the driveway. “Why do you want to be with this?” I wave my arm up and down the length of my body. Immediately, I hate myself for this. The only person making this about my body is me.

“Because I like you. I think I might feel a lot more than that for you, Willowdean. How is that so hard to believe? When I can't fall asleep at night it's not because of work or school or Amber or Bekah. It's you. You're the one that drives me crazy.”

I shake my head because it makes no sense. “Have you ever thought about what people will think? What they'll say when they see us together holding hands?”

“You never struck me as the type to give a shit what everyone else thinks.” His jaw twitches for a moment before he lowers his voice and says, “I want to go everywhere with you. I want to show you off. I want to wear a cheap suit and be your escort for that ridiculous pageant.”

My teeth chatter. I'm trying so, so hard not to cry. Because it's all there. I like him. He likes me. But there's so much more. I can't believe it even matters to me, but I'm not going to be skinny anytime soon, and I shouldn't care. I'm pissed that I didn't just throw myself at him right here in my driveway.

But I refuse to hate him for being another reason for people to whisper about me. “I can't. That might make me a coward, but . . .” The tears are more than a threat now.

He meets me where I am, and because of the downward tilt of the driveway, we are toe to toe, nose to nose. “Willowdean Opal Dickson, you are beautiful. Fuck anyone
who's ever made you feel anything less.” His chest heaves. “When I close my eyes, I see you. I can talk to you. In a way I never have with anyone else.”

Beautiful, he says. Fat, I think. But can't I be both at the same time? I lift my hand to his cheek, and the tension bubbling beneath his skin eases. I kiss him once more on the lips. I linger there for a moment, remembering all the details of everything I shouldn't be allowed to have. “I can't,” I whisper, knowing that I'm talking about so much more than just me and Bo.

I turn around and pick up my bag.

He stands in the driveway until I switch my bedroom light off, turning my house into a dark shell.