Dumplin' (11 page)

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HarperCollins Publishers

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“No. No. No.” I lay my head against the steering wheel and try the ignition once more. “Come onnnnn!” Sitting up, I smack my hand against the wheel, but all my sweet car gives me is a honking yelp.

She won't start. My sweet baby Jolene is dead in the water. It's Tuesday morning and the universe hates me.

I watch as my mom walks down the driveway and past her car with her lunch box and purse in hand. She taps on my window with the hard acrylic nail of her index finger. Once. Twice.

When I don't budge, she opens my door wide. “Let's go. I'll give you a ride to school.”

I slam my head against the headrest and let out a totally warranted sigh.

“Well, aren't you just having a come-apart?” Mom calls over her shoulder as she walks back up the driveway to her car. “I'll call Bruce to see about getting her looked at, but in the meantime your pained sighs aren't doing you a lick of good.”

The whole way to school my mom flips between the
oldies and the Christian radio station. We're not very religious, but going to church is part of Mom's personality. It's not even an act or anything, just her social outlet, I guess.

At school, she lets me out at the carport where all the freshmen and every other car-less soul hangs out. “Can you get a ride home with Ellen? I've got a pageant meeting.”

“Yeah, I'll figure something out.”

I'm halfway up the walkway when I hear: “Dumplin'! Dumplin'! You forgot your phone!”

My whole body goes straight like a steel rod. A few pimply-faced boys laugh. My mother's nickname for me is . . . whatever. I can't remember a time when she didn't call me Dumplin'. It doesn't bother me, I don't think. But it's not something she really calls me outside of the house—for obvious reasons. I mean, who really wants to be called a ball of dough in public?

I walk quickly back to the car, and Mom hands me my phone. “Please don't call me that outside the house, okay?”

She smiles. “Just my little pet name is all. Hey, dinner on your own tonight?”

I nod.

“Pageant season,” she adds again by way of explanation.

I take the phone and speed walk back up the sidewalk. Near the entrance, leaning up against a pole, is Patrick Thomas. He smiles, but it's more of a sneer. He's the type of person you want to be invisible to. But he sees me. And whatever decision he's just made about me can't be undone.

After second period, Mitch follows me out into the hallway. “Hey, I texted you a few times yesterday. I thought maybe we could hang out on Sunday. We could see a movie or something. I'd say Saturday, but coach wants us to come in and watch film for next week's game.”

I keep walking. He grabs my hand, stopping me.

“Who's your girlfriend, Mitch?” calls a freshman with his hands cupped around his mouth.

“We're not dating!” I yell back.

Mitch's cheeks flush red.

I yank my hand back and head in the opposite direction. I feel like a terrible person. But today is not my day, and I don't have it in me to play along with him like we might be anything more than friends.

Still, I owe him an apology.

“Will!” he calls after me.

I don't turn around. As I take the corner, I hear: “Oh, hey! Dumplin'!” Patrick Thomas drags each letter out. He grins as he points over my head. “And Mitch! My man. Finally met a lady your own size.”

I've been teased enough in my life to know that there are several ways to react to a bully. It only took me crying once in the second grade to realize that tears only lead to more bullying.

Lucy always said to ignore bullies. That they thrived on attention, and if you paid them no mind, you took away their fuel. I think that, for the most part, this is true. But Patrick Thomas is one of those jerks who needs no reason to keep talking. He likes the sound of his own voice that much.

Slight shock registers on Patrick's face as I take deliberate steps toward him. I think of him making oinking noises outside of Millie Michalchuk's car. I remember how he decided that Amanda Lumbard's corrective shoes made her look like Frankenstein. No one stands up for themselves to Patrick Thomas. Not even Hannah Perez, who is as rough around the edges as they come. The guy gives you a nickname and it sticks. But I won't be called Dumplin' by him. Nope.

Patrick is totally unprepared when I knee him square in the nuts. His expression transforms, all the blood draining as it heads south. He howls, but it's more like a small screeching dog. I clap my hands over my mouth.

I'm as shocked as he is. I had pictured it in my head. I saw myself walking up to him, shaking my finger in his face as I told him what I really thought of him. But then my body took over and this primal defense mechanism, said,
No, we will not stand for this.

Mitch pulls me back by my shoulders. Teachers swarm the scene, and I'm carted in the opposite direction.

This is probably bad.

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HarperCollins Publishers

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My mother is livid. And mortified. And many other things. But I have stopped keeping count.

Her fingers squeeze the steering wheel so tightly that I'm surprised her nails don't pop off. After leaving Mr. Wilson's office, she walked to the visitor parking lot like it was a race. I ran to keep up.

We drive home in silence. Mom barely slows the car as she turns into the driveway and comes within inches of the fence.

The car isn't even in park and I've got the door open and am off for the backyard. I slide the glass door shut behind me even though she's only a few feet behind.

I plop down on the couch and it's mere seconds before Riot is curling into a circle in my lap.

“You're grounded.”

My mother has never grounded me. Ever. No spankings. Nothing. I'm no angel, but I've never really done anything worthy of punishment.

I pick Riot up and place him on the cushion next to me before standing. I don't want him to get in the crosshairs of
whatever is about to go down.

“For what?” My voice is too big for our house. “For biting back after some guy called me that hideous nickname you've been calling me my whole life?”

She wraps her arms around her waist and shakes her head. I notice a rash of white hair at her temples that I've never seen before. “You're being so sensitive about this.”

“Maybe, Mom, you haven't noticed, but this is about so much more than that dumb nickname. You'll never come out and say it, but I know you can't stand that your daughter looks like this.” My arms flail wildly.

“What are you talking about?”

“Don't play dumb. I see it every time you turn on a weight-loss show or tell me about your friend who lost a ton of weight on the latest fad diet or when you inventory our pantry every time you come home to make sure I haven't eaten the whole goddamn thing.”

Her chin quivers and the possibility of her crying at this exact moment fills me with rage. “I want you to be happy.”

“I
am
happy,” I say, every syllable perfectly even. I don't know how much truth there is to that, but I can't imagine that fifteen or even fifty pounds would change how much I miss Lucy, how confused I am by Bo, or the growing distance between me and El.

“But that's what you think 'cause you don't know better. You're missing out on so much.” She takes a step toward me. “Boys and dating. That kind of stuff.”

I scrub my hands down my face. “You have got to be kidding me. News flash, Mom: a man will not cure my
troubles.”

“I just—” She stops herself.

“Mom, I do want to date. I want to have boyfriends. I deserve that. Even if you think that I don't.” I want for it to feel as true as it sounds.

She throws up her hands. “You're doing what Luce used to do when we were girls. You're taking my words and turning them into something else.”

My head shakes back and forth without hesitation. “No, Mom. All Lucy ever did was show you how ridiculous you sounded.”

“This has nothing to do with Luce, all right? She's gone and it's no thanks to the way she lived her life. I wish you wouldn't idolize her so much.” Her eyes fill with tears that don't quite spill. “She'd still be here, you know. If she'd just lost the weight.”

My body is the villain. That's how she sees it. It's a prison, keeping the better, thinner version of me locked away. But she's wrong. Lucy's body never stood in the way of her happiness. As much as I will always love Lucy, it was her own decision to stay locked up in this house.

“I was a big girl, too. You know that. Me and Luce both were.”

“I've heard it, okay? I've heard all the stories about how you trimmed down before high school. Good for you. You entered a small town beauty pageant and won. Quite literally your crowning achievement. Forget college or getting a job that doesn't require you wiping old people's asses. Never mind that. Because you slimmed down enough to
score a fake-ass crown! You must be so proud.”

A tear trickles down her cheek and she says, “Well, I think that's more than you can say for yourself.” She wipes away the tear.

“Lucy was more a mother to me than you'll ever be.”

Her lips squeeze together. “No work. No going out. Not until your school suspension is over. I'll be home at six.”

I take off upstairs and Riot follows at my heels. On my bed, I curl up on my side and listen to the sound of my phone vibrating against my desk as I get text after text. All from El I assume. I take the Magic 8 Ball from where it sits on my nightstand and hold it with all of its answers to all of my unasked questions tight to my chest.

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

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I stay in my room all day. Our old pipes notify me as Mom begins to do the dishes after work, and the floorboards announce her as she climbs the stairs. Before locking herself in her own room, her shadow hovers at mine, darkening the gap between the closed door and the floor.

Riot stretches his legs, pushing his paws against my chest, before jumping off the edge of my bed and rubbing himself against my bedroom door. When I don't move, he meows, letting me know that his sympathy has run short.

I crack my door and let him out as I flip on the light.

In the mirror, I find a drooping and smudged version of myself. I grab a pen from my dresser and jot down a note on my forearm to call Alejandro and tell him I won't be in for the next couple days. Judging by my first few shifts, I don't think my absence will be such a burden.

Careful not to make any noise, I navigate my way downstairs in the dark and swallow down a tall glass of water in three gulps. It feels silly, but my mother has conditioned me to need water any time I cry. That was always
her remedy.
Calm down and have a glass of water, Dumplin'.
Like, I might need to refill my well of tears before I run out.

Upstairs, the Magic 8 Ball lies on my bed, right where I left it. My phone vibrates, so I pick it up.

ELLEN: Oh my God. Are you okay?

ELLEN: I've called you like eight times and you know I hate talking on the phone. CALL. TEXT. SMOKE SIGNAL. MORSE CODE.

ELLEN: Is it true about Patrick Thomas? I told Tim to kill him.

ELLEN: He said he might after dinner.

ELLEN: Okay. Really freaking out now.

Fine,
I type.
Just—

I stop and hit the damn call button because all I want right now is my best friend. The phone doesn't even make it through a full ring before she picks up.

“Holy shit. Oh my God. Holy shit.”

“Hey,” I offer, my voice scratching against the receiver.

“Are you okay? What even happened?”

I sigh into the phone and it feels so good to not be chastised for it. Then I tell her. I tell her about Mom calling me Dumplin' in front of the carport, with all the freshmen and Patrick Thomas standing around, waiting for the first bell to ring. I tell her about the incident in the hallway, and how I'd never been made to feel so small for being so large. She curses and coos and does all the things that make calling her the right decision.

She goes off on a tirade about “piece of shit ninth graders
and their tiny peens” and how Patrick has failed his driving test so many times he can't try again until he's eighteen.

I tell her about the argument with my mom. “And I'm suspended for the rest of the week. Hopefully that will give everyone at school enough time to forget and let this whole thing blow over.” The noise from my mom's television stops abruptly. “Also, I'm grounded.”

“Wow. Okay, so this is the worst day ever, right? But the good news is that since this is the worst day ever, tomorrow can only be better. Even if it's by a little bit.”

I laugh. It feels good. “I guess we'll see.” A yawn pushes up from my chest. “I don't get how crying can make you so tired.”

“Adrenaline or something.”

“Smart.”

“Hey, you probably don't want to talk about this right now, but you have given me zero details on your date.”

“Yeah, well there's not much to say. It was incredibly . . . unremarkable.”

“Aw, man. I had high hopes for Mitch.”

“I'll talk to you in the morning.”

“Hey,” she says. “I love you. Listen to some Dolly. She'll make you feel better.”