Dumplin' (9 page)

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

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That night, at work, my phone rings. I leave Marcus at the front, and answer it as I'm walking to the break room. “Hello?”

“Hi. Hey. It's Mitch.” The line is dead for a second. “I was calling about that date?” He doesn't sound nearly as confident on the phone. It's kind of endearing, and also sort of like false advertising. But I guess it was pretty sweet of him to do more than text.

“Oh. Right. Of course.”

“How about this Saturday?” he asks. “Our first game is on Friday.”

“Yeah, that'll work.”

“Sure.” I can hear him smiling. “Cool.”

“Okay, so Saturday. But I'll see you at school before then,” I remind him.

“Right. Yes, I'll see you before then. Because of school. And because that would be weird if I avoided you until then.”

I laugh. “Right. Yes. Weird.”

After I hang up, I walk back out through the kitchen where Bo is leaning up against the cooker with his arms crossed. He chews on his bottom lip, his gaze following me until I turn the corner.

I feel good. It makes me feel good. To be wanted, but not had.

At the end of the night, I walk out with Bo and Marcus since Ron is still doing payroll. Marcus is in his girlfriend's car and gone in a matter of seconds.

Bo says nothing, but waits to pull out as I turn my car on and reverse out of my parking spot.

My car goes over the hump at the exit and my lights flash over the windows of the Chili Bowl across the street. Framed by the window is a huge NOW HIRING sign. Chili may be a southern specialty, but the Official Willowdean Opinion is: looks like dog food, smells like dog food, must be dog food. There is a very long list of things I would do before working there.

Bo passes me. I hold my eyes steady. Straight ahead.

Here I am, waiting to talk to the manager at the Chili Bowl.

The whole place has been built to look like a Lincoln Logs cabin. The walls are covered in mismatched frames holding pictures of Clover City locals from the last sixty years doing all kinds of things like, tailgating, drinking beer on the porch, or sprawling out on the grass for the Fourth of July parade.

I slide into a booth to wait for a manager with Harpy's sitting across the street, taunting me.

This is Bo's fault. Everything was fine until fifth period. My day was great. Work had been okay the night before and maybe I was a little too pleased with myself. An okay first day of school. A first date on the books. And an amicable-ish working relationship with Bo.

But then fifteen minutes into World History and in came Bo with a yellow folded piece of paper. A transfer slip.

“Class,” said Miss Rubio. “Welcome Bo Larson. He'll be joining us for the remainder of the year.”

Millie's best friend, Amanda, who I sit next to, lets out a low whistle.

He sat one row over and two desks ahead of me. As he settled into his seat, he looked over his shoulder and winked right at me.

“Isn't that the guy you work with?” she whispered.

“Yeah.” The sinking pit of dread in my stomach left me nauseous.

“How do you get any work done? His butt looks like a peach.”

“What?”

“Like the bottom of a peach,” she said. “Peachbutt.”

After school, I was on a mission. I didn't even stop to wait for El and Tim. I got in my car, slammed the gearshift into drive, and sped out of the parking lot as fast as I could. Miraculously, I did not take out any pedestrians on the way.

So that's what brought me here to the Chili Bowl.

“You here for the job?” A guy no older than twenty-five with floppy black hair plops down in front of me. “I'm Alejandro.”

I nod. “Yeah.”

“Pay is shit.”

“I need a job.”

“Okay.” He leans in closer, like someone might hear even though the place is empty. I think he's the anxious type of guy that might work in such a quiet place on purpose. “So here's the deal: have you been arrested?”

“No.”

“You've worked with food before?”

“Kind of. I ran the register at Harpy's.”

“Close enough. And, lastly, were you fired from your last job?”

“Nope.”

He twiddles his thumbs and takes a few measured breaths. “When can you start?”

And that's my interview.

I lean back in the booth. Outside of Harpy's, Ron sits on the curb, taking a smoke break. I feel like a jerk leaving them like this without any notice, but I can't face Bo four nights a week. “Now,” I say.

Ron's door is open. He's sitting there behind his desk in khaki shorts and a CCHS athletics booster club polo.

“Will.”

“I— Can we talk?” I push the door open a little further;
the hinges creak.

“What's going on, kid?”

I suck in a breath and exhale. “I need to quit.”

He presses his lips together as his thick brows furrow. I see the questions on his face, but all he says is, “Did something happen?”

I shake my head. “I'll return my uniform after I wash it.”

He nods. “It's no rush.”

And just like with Bo, I find myself wishing that he'd put up more of a fight.

Neither of us says anything.

“But thank you,” I add, breaking the silence. “For the opportunity.”

“Well, I'll miss seeing your face around here,” he says.

I drive the whole way home in silence with the windows rolled down, my thoughts swallowed up by the wind.

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

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After school on Friday, I head over to El's. We sit at the dining room table, sharing a bag of chips while her mom unpacks scrapbooking supplies. Sprawled out on the table in front of us are snapshots of Mrs. Dryver dressed as all different incarnations of Dolly Parton. After wiping my fingers on my jeans, I study one picture of her in a suede coat with fringe hanging from the sleeves and a long, fitted denim skirt. Her hair is smooth and round like Dolly in the early years.

“I like this one,” I tell her.

She rests her hand on my shoulder. “Oh, me too. I think that's my favorite hair. A drag queen out in Odessa styled that wig for me. Took him a week to get it just right.”

El picks up a photo of her mom in a floor-length red sequin gown. “Nice perm, Mom. So chic.”

“Ellen Sadie Rose, you wouldn't know chic if it bit you on the asset.” She tickles the back of El's neck with her long nails.

Where Ellen is long and lean, her mom is compact and curvy. But you see their connection in the way they twirl
their hair or chew on their bottom lips or how they whistle through their straws before each sip.

“Here,” says Mrs. D. “You take this one to keep.” She hands me a picture of her and Lucy from years ago. They stand in front of a neon sign that reads
THE HIDEAWAY
. Behind them is a large, smoke-filled crowd. Looks like some kind of bar or club, but whatever it is, it's somewhere Lucy never would have gone on her own. Mrs. Dryver wears fitted overalls with a tight red shirt underneath while Lucy's in one of her signature sack dresses, but with a touch of blue eye shadow. I'd never seen her wear makeup before. Mrs. D brought out the bravest parts of Lucy. I know Lucy was important to Mrs. D, but for Lucy, Mrs. D was a lifeline.

I slide the picture into the front pocket of my backpack. I love the photo so much, but it hurts, too. Mrs. Dryver is the perfect Dolly, and it was impossible for Lucy with her thick, pale legs and flat hair not to look sad in comparison. Her smear of blue eye shadow is an unheard call to the person she always wanted to be. No matter how high she held her chin, I can't unsee what she isn't. I feel like a traitor.

“Mom,” says El. “How come you never entered the pageant?”

It's something I've always wondered, too. Mrs. D's whole life is basically a pageant on steroids. She would have killed the competition.

She shrugs. “I thought about it. I think every girl in this town does. But I wasn't the same person I am today. I didn't have it in me back then to pretend I felt good enough about myself to enter a beauty pageant.”

Her words sink in. I wonder if that's why the pageant has bothered me more this year than in the past. The girls who enter have got to be proud enough of themselves to say they
deserve
to compete. That kind of unflinching confidence makes me uneasy in a way it never has before.

Ellen shoves a handful of chips into her face. “Let's go upstairs.”

I take the bowl of chips and follow her to her room. On her bed, we lie in opposite directions with her head at the foot of the bed and mine on her pile of pillows.

“So you quit Harpy's? Out of nowhere?” she asks with her mouth full.

“The Chili Bowl was hiring.”

“The Chili Bowl is always hiring,” she retorts.

I reach for some chips. “I don't know. I was tired of the uniform.”

I guess that's a good enough reason for El because she's quick to change the topic to something much juicier. “So when's your date?”

“Tomorrow.”

“You nervous?”

“I guess? But not really.”

“Mitch. I never would have guessed,” she says. “You really like him?”

“Yeah. I mean, I guess I needed something new.” I pull one of her pillows over my head, muffling my words. “I wouldn't have said yes if I didn't like him.”

“New? You've never even been kissed.” She ties my shoelaces together in a sloppy knot. “He doesn't seem like
your type.”

My insides are swimming in guilt. I can't tell her about Bo now. It's too late, and there's nothing left to tell. “I don't have a type.”

“Not yet you don't.”

Later, when I pull up to my house, the first thing I notice is the glowing square that is Lucy's room.

I should sit here for a moment and prepare myself for whatever it is my mom is doing to that room, but I don't. Instead, I tear my keys from the ignition and storm up the walkway to the back door. Riot is rubbing the length of his body against the sliding glass door. The first thing I hear is Olivia Newton-John blaring from the second floor.

I drop my purse on the counter and Riot runs up the stairs, a few steps ahead of me.

I don't know what I expect to find, but it's not the sight of my mother seated behind a card table with all of Aunt Lucy's furniture pushed up against the walls.

“What are you doing?” I spit at her. The framed Dolly Parton records that had lined these walls for my entire life are stacked at the end of the dresser, and sitting on top of Aunt Lucy's pastel-pink record player is my mom's iPod.

This is the worst-case scenario.

“Well,” says Mom, squinting over her sewing machine as she runs a seam. “I've always needed a craft room. We've talked about this. And my bedroom isn't cutting it anymore.”

“Your bedroom? You have the whole house.”

She pushes her reading glasses up the bridge of her nose.
“I know you're upset, Dumplin'. I do. But we can't let this room sit here like a tomb. We've got to move forward. Luce would understand.”

I don't understand.
“But you moved everything. Can't you work in here without changing everything? You even took down her records. Why would you do that?”

“Oh, baby, those records are so old. We're going to have to take down this wallpaper because of the squares those things left on the walls.”

I pick up as many records as I can carry and take them across the hallway to my room. If I had any free hands, I'd be slamming doors, too. After leaving the records on my bed, I go back for more.

“Dumplin'—”

I whirl around, the musty records pressed against my chest. “It's like you're trying to get rid of her.”

“You know that's not true,” she mumbles, holding a needle between her teeth.

“What are you even working on?”

“Backdrops. This year's theme is Texas: Ain't She Grand?” She marks the red satin with a pencil. “And aren't you supposed to be at work?”

“I quit.”

“You quit?” Her voice is higher than normal.

She straightens a long piece of satin through her sewing machine with her foot hovering over the pedal.

All my life, the pageant has invaded every facet of my world, except for this room. Because in the world I lived in with Lucy, no one cared about crowns or sashes. “It feels
disrespectful for you to be up here making your dumb costumes. I mean, what could be so hard about a Lady Liberty costume? Just throw some fabric over your shoulder.” My voice is breaking. I hold my eyes open wide, scared that if I blink a whole river of tears will come splashin' down my cheeks.

The sewing machine thumps a methodic beat, never ceasing, but only getting stronger and stronger with each stitch. The ever-constant needle taps against my head, waiting for me to crack.

“Dumplin',” she calls over the sewing machine, not even acknowledging what I just said. “Why don't you take yourself downstairs for a tall glass of ice water?”

Desperation swells in my chest and I think I might do anything to get her out of this room.

I march over to the dresser and yank the top drawer free. Without hesitation, I fill the detached drawer with everything I can reach—mostly records.

“Willowdean Dickson, you better hope that you did not ruin the track on that drawer.”

“It's like her being dead isn't good enough!” I yell. “You won't be happy until every bit of her is gone and you've filled this room with all the things she wasn't.”

Finally, the sewing machine stops. Mom stands, but says nothing.

I take the drawer and slam my bedroom door behind me. Dust swirls through the air and tickles my nostril. I sneeze loudly into the albums.

“Bless you,” my mother says from the hallway. She's so quiet, I almost don't hear her.