Dumplin' (7 page)

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TWO MONTHS LATER

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HarperCollins Publishers

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Standing on my tiptoes to reach the top shelf, I feel my apron fall loose, the tie at my waist coming undone. I glance behind me to my right and then to my left to see Bo grinning.

He winks.

Bo has become the best and worst part of my day.

The watch on my wrist tells me it's 6:02 p.m. Time for my break. I shove the last bag of buns onto the shelf, carelessly crushing them no doubt, and turn to follow him. My feet carry me without my mind having any say. Behind me noise fades and all I hear are the echoes of Harpy's. Orders shouted out. Customers complaining. Marcus whistling. Meat sizzling. It all fades to zero.

Until earlier this summer I'd never known anything like this. It's the moment right before I grab the bag of trash piled on top of the crates in the back and kick the already ajar back door open.

It's the second before I drop the leaking plastic bag next to the Dumpster as Bo Larson crushes me up against the metal door and nothing but his lips touch me. It's that
millisecond of no hands. Just lips.

Then, like a dam releasing water, his hands roam and the moment is gone. And I remember how uncomfortable his touch on my soft body makes me feel.

When it hits, my mind turns back on like it's on a timer. Every moment feels rehearsed because as things between us progressed, I spent more and more energy trying to predict what he might do next. And now I know. I know that when he inches me toward the short Dumpster with the lid and holds his hand around my waist that he wants to lift me up. So I always reach back and hoist myself up, because the thought of him trying to lift me and failing makes me cringe every time. When his fingers trail down my chest and across my stomach, I suck in. Which is stupid because it never makes any difference in pictures and I doubt it does now.

It's in those moments that I'm a shadow of the person I was. The woman Lucy had meant for me to be.

But when he says my name, it's always a surprise. “Willowdean,” he says and each letter tickles all the way down to my toes.

Every night, when Ron sends us home, we walk to our cars, a few feet separating us. When we've slipped into the darkness outside the red glow of Harpy's, Bo brushes his fingers against mine before walking around to his driver's-side door. “Follow me.”

I don't even bother nodding because I will and he knows it.

He starts his car and I start mine. This thing between us is a roller coaster. The brakes might be out and the tracks
might be on fire, but I can't make myself get off the ride.

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I've learned so much about Bo. And yet he's still a mystery. Like the thing with red suckers. He used to have anger issues as a kid, so his mom would give him a red sucker and say,
If you're still angry after you've licked this lollipop gone, you can scream and kick and shout all you want
. But then there were things like his necklace, which he always tucked back into his undershirt every time it fell out. If I ever asked about it, he'd shrug it off and tell me it was some saint pendant from Holy Cross.

The old elementary school has become what I guess could be called “our spot.” I was such a wreck that first time we came here. But this old, half burned down elementary school has become our sanctuary.

I park beside him, pulling my keys from the ignition and opening my door all at once. He reaches over and pushes the door open for me.

I hop up into his truck.

He kisses my nose. Reaching beneath his seat, he pulls out a red gift bag creased with use and drops it onto the dashboard. “Happy birthday.”

My birthday was three days ago. I didn't tell anyone at work. Not because I didn't want people to know, but because telling people (mainly Bo) meant that there was pressure for them to do something for me. And that's not how Bo and I have worked. There are no strings. No responsibilities. “How'd you find out?”

He shrugged. “Heard Ron tell you happy birthday.”

“Can I open it?”

“No,” he says. “That's your gift. That bag is all you get.”

Rolling my eyes, I yank the bag from the dash. My stomach is in a hissy fit of nerves. The weight of the bag sinks into my lap. One small bag to fit an entire summer history.

He clears his throat. “I didn't have any tissue paper.”

His stare heats my skin. I close my eyes and pull a random item from the bag.

“A Magic 8 Ball,” he says.

A smile spreads across my face. I feel silly. “Well, I'll never feel the burden of decision again.”

“Keep going,” he says.

So I do. A metal Slinky, Silly Putty poppers, and a bag of saltwater taffy.

Bo blows bubbles into the Silly Putty and uses it to strip the ink from his owner's manual while I weigh the Slinky, letting it slide back and forth in my hands, like Jake.

“Thank you,” I say. “You totally didn't have to get me anything.”

He shrugs and scans the spread of items between us. “You forgot something.” He reaches for the bag. “Close
your eyes.”

I do.

I feel his hands against my cheek as he slides a pair of glasses over my nose. My hair catches in a hinge, but he's careful to be sure the glasses are tucked over my ears.

“Okay,” he says. “Open.”

He slaps the rearview mirror in my direction and I see a bright red pair of heart-shaped glasses. The lenses are dark and tinted and it takes a moment for my eyes to recognize myself. I pull my hair from where it's caught.

They're supposed to be funny. I get that. But I love them. They're transformative. In the mirror, I see a girl I don't think I've ever met. “They're great,” I say and immediately feel silly. They're cheap dollar-store glasses. Something he probably threw into his basket as an afterthought.

His body leans into me as he presses his lips against mine. My entire body softens against his weight.

“You should go home,” he whispers between kisses.

I nod. We keep on kissing.

I stay in the parking lot with Bo for far too long, but am lucky to find that my mom is dead asleep with her door closed when I get home. All summer I've made up reasons and excuses for why I've had to “work” later than normal. She's not too pleased by any of it, but never questions me. Plus, she's been sewing banners, interviewing new judges, and finding sponsors for the pageant, which means she's checked out of parenthood completely for a few months.

Lucy's door is closed, like it has been for the last two
months. I brush the door handle as I walk by, but don't open it. Ever since that day my mom started cleaning out her room, and we got into an argument, she's let it sit, like she's forgotten about it. I don't ever bring it up for fear that she'll pick up right where she left off.

As I'm falling asleep, my phone buzzes.

ELLEN: liar

Shit
. She knows. I mean, it's not like she hasn't been keeping secrets from me, too. I can't hear her talk about Tim without remembering what Callie said that night in Harpy's about their “oral mishap.” I know it was something small and that in the long run, it's nothing, but I can't help but wonder what else she's not telling me. Now, I'm her virgin friend who doesn't get it.

ELLEN: you freaking liar. you were supposed to come to tim's after work
.

Oh, thank baby Jesus. I'd completely forgotten about Tim's party, but she'll let that go much easier than she would if she'd found out about me and Bo.

My phone buzzes again.

ELLEN: you missed some real D-R-A-M-A

I flip over on my side and send a quick reply to say sorry and that we'll catch up in the morning before scrolling down to my next message.

BO: night

I sigh. I don't even care that I do.

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I wake up to the doorbell.

Before rolling out of bed, I stop to check my phone.

ELLEN: outside lemme in

I pull on an old pair of gym shorts and trip down the stairs to answer the back door. I find Ellen's face pressed to the glass as she makes fart noises with her mouth.

This whole summer has been this bizarre, new territory for us. We've always been opposites. Lucy always said that the greatest friends have nothing and everything in common all at once.
Y'all girls are different versions of the same story
, she would say. But these last two months, I feel like we're being pulled in different directions, and I'm the only one who seems to notice.

I slide the door open and for a second, El lets her face slide with it. She stumbles through the door and into a chair at the kitchen table. “Jesucristo, Will. I was melting out there.”

I check the time on the microwave. “It's early,” I mutter, slumping into a chair. I don't add that I was out until two in the morning with Private School Bo.

“It's payday for me. It is never too early to get paid.” She stands and opens a few cabinets, trolling around for some junk food. “And it's eleven. So not early. Your mom would shit her panties if she knew you slept in this late.”

“Whatever.” Crossing my arms on the table, I bury my head. “You're happy. Why are you so happy?”

“I don't know. I'm alive. Life doesn't suck. Schools starts in a week.” She slams a cabinet door shut and whirls around. “And maybe I am not so sucky at having sex anymore?”

“There can't be much to it, right?” But really the entire thought of THAT is terrifying.

“You'll see someday.” She bobs her head.

Nope
, I think.
Virgin for life. Team hymen here to stay.

“Get dressed. Time to get paid!”

“There are some chips in the pantry,” I say and head for the stairs. “Give me forty-five minutes.”

“You're lucky I've got trash TV on your DVR to catch up on,” she yells after me.

I take a quick shower and towel dry my hair before twisting it into a sloppy bun. I glance through my closet, and decide it's too hot to try and instead opt for gym shorts and an old T-shirt from one of my mom's pageants.

“All right,” I say, jogging down the stairs. “I gotta fill up Riot's dry food—”

“Already did,” replies Ellen.

I loop around to the kitchen to find her stowing away a half-eaten bag of chips.

“My mom's going to think I ate all of those,” I tell her. She wouldn't ever say anything, but she wouldn't need to.

“Your mom needs to get laid.” Riot hops up onto the kitchen counter and Ellen indulges him with a solid behind-the-ear scratch. “Took my mom's car and I basically drove here on fumes. Can we take your car?”

“Yeah. Sure.” El follows me out the back door and as I'm locking the gate behind us, I ask, “And what does getting laid have anything to do with my mom and chips?”

She shrugs and pulls on the door handle, waiting for me to unlock the car. Ever since Ellen lost her virginity, she thinks she's Dr. Ruth—that old lady sex doctor—and the cure to everything is more sexy times. It drives me crazy. I'm a virgin. I'm not stupid.

I unlock the car doors and slide in behind the wheel, both our lips whistling involuntarily as we're saturated with stale heat.

“Oh God,” says El, “roll down the mother flippin' windows.”

What I've always found ironic about Sweet 16 is that they don't go above a size twelve. I mentioned this to Ellen once, but I think she pretended not to hear.

The first time I went into Sweet 16 with El, I made a pointed effort to not be a total jerk about how uncomfortable I felt. But after coming in with her every Thursday to pick up her paycheck, I can say with confidence that I have enough evidence to form a scientific opinion of this place.

My Scientific Opinion: This place is a shithole and all the girls who work here are vapid skanks who treat me like
El's charity case friend.

The walls of Sweet 16 are covered with mirrors and mannequins with jutting hipbones, low slung jeans, and tiny T-shirts that say things like,
I'm too pretty to do homework
. I follow Ellen through the crammed racks, careful not to knock over the whole goddamn store with my hips.

“El-bell!” squeals Callie, who I've decided is my sworn enemy. “Mo-mo,” she calls behind her with one hand cupped around her lips, “El-ephant is here to pick up her moolah!” She reaches into a box below the register and hands El a pristine white envelope. “Hi, Willow!” Leaning toward me, she adds. “Oh my God. Pageant boot camp has been a miracle. I almost have a six-pack. But, like, I don't want to get too muscle-y. That'd be gross.”

“It's Willowdean,” I mutter, but she doesn't hear me because Morgan, the too-old-to-be-in-college-too-young-to-be-your-mom store manager, floats out from the break room. She's tall and willowy, all the things El will be once she grows into herself a bit more. “Oh my gosh, we got all this super cute stock and I am capital D dying over here. Seriously, my paycheck is, like, gone. Bills who?”

El laughs. Which pisses me off, because how was that funny?

“El,” she continues, using
my
nickname for
my
best friend, “you've got to come back and try this stuff on.”

El turns around and glances back at me.

I nod her on despite myself.

She claps her hands together. “Okay, but I have to be
quick!” She turns back again. “I promise this'll be fast. I bet none of it'll fit me anyway.”

I smile with my lips closed. Following her to the back, I stop, frozen in place by the raise of Morgan's brow. “Sorry,” she says, her lips twitching into a smile. The kind of smile that says you're not really sorry. “Employees only.”

“You okay out here?” asks El, her eyes catching mine.

“Yeah. Just hurry.”

She skips to the back behind Morgan as Callie stations herself behind the counter, swaying her hips to the beat of the poppy music playing on the speakers as she pretends to read some kind of sales report.

Squeezing between the racks, I think about how miserable this place must be on a Saturday. Callie turns the music up when the song changes to a hyper-techno beat and I take that as my cue to sneak into one of the fitting rooms. Each stall is made of a wall of curtains and consists of one little stool. The only mirror is the communal mirror outside. That's got to be a pain in the ass—to have to leave your room every time you want to see how something looks on you.

On the other side of the curtain, hangers scrape against metal. “Where'd El's friend go?” asks Morgan.

“I don't know,” says Callie. “I didn't see her leave, but she'd be pretty hard to miss.”

“Aw, be nice,” says Morgan. And it seems like it should be a kind thing to say, but her voice is laughing.

“Did El-bell find anything?”

“She's trying on some dresses in the break room.”

More hangers-against-metal scratching. “It's really sweet of El to hang out with that girl, but all she does is follow El around like a sad puppy dog. I mean, get your own life, right? It's sad.”

That's all it takes for my whole body to tense with anger. I yank the curtain aside and trip over the fabric as I do.

Their four eyes follow me to the bench outside of Sweet 16, where I slouch down as low as I can so that I can't see the two of them anymore.

If I could unzip my skin and step outside of myself, I would.

All the display windows in the mall are packed with formals for homecoming and pageant season. Across from Sweet 16 is a store called Frills with a glittering baby blue gown on display. Written across the window, in shoe polish, it says,
Clover City can only have one Miss Teen Blue Bonnet. Make it you. Check out our one-of-a-kind dresses!

I hate how much I despise the pageant, but it feels like a disease. And the whole town is sick.

“Hey.”

I twist around to find Bo sitting down on the back side of the bench.

“What are you doing here?” I ask, like an accusation.

“Shopping with my stepmom and brother.” He points to the shoe store next to Sweet 16. “I saw you sit down on the bench. My little brother's been trying on basketball shoes for forty-five minutes.” He smiles and dips his chin down into his chest. “What are you doing here, Willowdean?”

I want to touch him. I want to reach over and kiss his
face hello. But I don't. Because we're not pressed into darkness behind Harpy's or huddled together in the cab of his truck and because even though neither of us has ever said so, we are a secret.

“Here with my friend. She's picking up her paycheck.”

“Ellen?”

I nod. I've talked about El with Bo, but in a past tense kind of way. I don't know how to explain the strange gap that has formed between us, so it was easier to talk about her in the same way I talked about Lucy. Like she was a thing from a life before him.

I notice that he's wearing an old basketball tournament T-shirt and a pair of basketball shorts. “It's weird seeing you without your uniform on. I almost didn't recognize you.”

“Oh, I recognized you.” He stretches his legs out along his side of the bench. And his legs. I've never seen his bare legs. “So where does your friend work?”

I point back to Sweet 16.

His mouth opens and I know that I will forever judge him based on how he reacts to this information, but a voice interrupts him.

“Bo,” calls a tall, thin woman with shiny chestnut-brown hair cut into long layers. She's too young to be his mom and too old to be his sister.

Bo glances over his shoulder and then back at me. “My stepmom,” he whispers.

My face falls slack. I've been dreading the moment when our worlds collide.

Behind Bo's stepmom is his brother. He's as tall as Bo, but his round cheeks tell me he's at least a year younger.

“I let the time slip on by, didn't I?” she says. “Sammy's got basketball at one. Time to hop to it.” Her eyes travel to me, sitting there on the other side of the bench. “And who is this?”

“Ma'am.” I stand and hold my hand out to her because I'm southern and even if my mom says otherwise, I do have manners.

“This is Willowdean,” says Bo. There he goes, saying my full name again. “We work together.”

“Willowdean. Well, isn't that a mouthful?”

I half smile, about to say thank you—for what, I have no idea—when Ellen appears next to me and says, “But you can call her Will.”

I swallow and nod.

Bo's stepmom's head anchors to one side, like she's just seen the most adorable thing. “And you are?”

“This is Ellen,” I answer for her. “My best friend.” I take a deep breath. “Ellen, this is Bo. We work together.”

Bo gives Ellen a short wave, but she touches his arm and says, “So nice to meet you.”

His stepmom smiles. “Aren't you precious?”

I know that Ellen loves Tim. And yet jealousy creeps up my spine, paralyzing me. Over the course of the summer, I have given myself plenty of reasons why I shouldn't tell Ellen about what's been going on with Bo. But no matter how I spin it, I know that, to Ellen, my not telling her is as good as any lie. Actually, this might be worse.

“I guess y'all must go to Clover City High?”

We nod in unison.

“How wonderful that Bo will have some familiar faces on his first day!”

“Excuse me?” I blurt. There are many things wrong with the relationship between Bo and me. But the one thing that's right is that outside of work, our worlds do not intersect. And for as long as that's the case, it's easy to pretend that I am a normal girl, making out with a normal boy.

“Yeah, Bo and Sammy won't be back at Holy Cross this year.” She frowns a little. “It'll be good. Change is good, right, boys?”

Neither respond. Bo's lips press together in a thin line and I know that he knew this whole summer and didn't tell me. “Loraine,” he says to his stepmom, “we better get going. Sam's got practice.” He scoops up their bags and his stepmom leads the way, her hips swaying from side to side. And that's it. Not even a gaze or a shrug. Nothing that might promise me an explanation.

Anger boils all the way up from my toes to my cheeks.

“Seriously!” screeches El. “He is even hotter than you let on.”

“Let's go.” I storm ahead of her, toward the parking garage.

“Did you notice that, like, sexy bedhead thing he had going on? And that stubble?”

I noticed. Of course I noticed. But it doesn't matter. Because this is going to have to end. My illusions of our
after-school romance are dissolving like vapor.

I had a vision in my head of how I would survive the school year. We would both come to work and leave our real lives at the door. There would be no questions, only us. But there's a reason why Bo didn't tell me he was changing schools. There has to be. And even if there's not, he and I have to be done because I can't let this bleed over into real life.

I won't be ridiculed. I won't be one-half of the couple who everyone stares at and asks,
How did she get him?