by Julie Murphy
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.
TWENTY
Getting ready for my date with Mitch is like a freaking makeover montage in my bedroom. El makes me try on everything from my eighth-grade graduation dress to this formless, chiffon floral tunic my mom bought me last Christmas. “It makes you look so mature,” my mom had said.
I didn’t take it as a compliment.
We settle on jeans and a black-and-white-striped shirt with my dark blond hair spread out across my shoulders.
I told Mitch to pick me up at five because my mom had a pageant board meeting until six and I didn’t really feel like getting the how-to-be-a-lady/what-boys-want-in-a-girl talk from her. And, of course, there’s the fact that I’m pissed at her.
After locking the back door behind me, I sit on the curb next to our mailbox. I can both hear and smell it from around the corner. He drives an old maroon Suburban that probably hasn’t passed inspection for the last five years. He parks in front of me and hops out the minute the engine whines to a stop.
“Was I late?” He pulls me up by one hand, and I mean really pulls me up.
“No. No, not at all.”
“I figured because you were sitting out here, and I guess guys normally go to the front door to pick up their dates.”
“Oh,” I say, hiking my thumb back to our front porch. “We don’t use the front door. It’s been broken for years.”
His heads cocks to the side. “Well, you look real nice.”
“You too.” He really does. He’s wearing a too-long-even-for-him button-down shirt and starched jeans, like with a crease and everything. And boots. Not those pointy-toed cowboy boots you see in movies, but round-toed work boots. Gram used to say that you should never trust a man in clean boots.
The front seat of Mitch’s car is clean-ish with dust and lint deeply embedded in every crevice. But the back half is drowning in a sea of clothes—lots of camo and boots—and fast-food cups.
He takes me to a Chinese restaurant called Mr. Chang’s Chinese Palace, a local favorite in an old shopping center with fast cash loan offices, insurance storefronts, and one of those tax places that make their employees dress like the Statue of Liberty.
The hostess seats us at an iridescent booth that looks like one of those giant clamshells from The Little Mermaid that Ariel and her sisters hang out in. To my surprise, Mitch slides in next to me rather than across from me and I can’t stop the “oh” that slips from my lips.
The waitress comes for our drink order and Mitch asks, “Hey, you know those little crispy things? Could we get some of those and that orange sauce?”
“Um, okay,” says the waitress, a girl who I recognize as a senior from when I was a freshman.
Once she leaves, Mitch turns to me. “I used to hate coming to Chinese restaurants when I was a kid because they never bring bread out or put crackers on the table, so my mom always asked for those crispy things—”
“Wonton strips.” I have to stop myself smiling. “That’s what they’re called.”
“Yeah. Well, they’re delicious.”
We look over the menu in silence. As the waitress approaches with our drinks, Mitch leans in and whispers in my ear, “You can order whatever you want.”
I’m tempted to point out to him that everything on the menu is about the exact same price, but instead I thank him.
Once the waitress takes our orders, Mitch holds a wonton out for me. “You want one?”
I shake my head. “I saw that you guys won last night.”
He nods. “Just barely, but, yeah. A win is a win.”
We sit in silence for a moment as the local radio station plays over the speakers and our feet brush up against each other.
Mitch coughs into his fist. “So I guess Ellen Dryver’s your best friend, right?”
I reach for my glass of water and do that thing where your mouth can’t quite find the straw. “Yeah. She is.” I tell him some about Lucy and Mrs. Dryver and how Dolly Parton brought us all together.
“You’re, like, a die-hard Dolly Parton fan? I mean, isn’t she really old?”
I don’t know if there’s a how-to-go-on-a-first-date-without-making-a-total-fool-of-yourself handbook out there, but if there is I’m pretty sure ’fessing up to your weird Dolly Parton obsession is not on the do list. But I feel this intense sense of loyalty to her that I can’t shake. “Okay, so here’s the deal: yes. I am a huge Dolly Parton fan. But there’s something you have to understand about Dolly Parton fans: we’re nuts. And since there’s such a high level of crazy amongst all of us, I am, in comparison, not as batshit as most others. Like, there are people out there who have devoted their lives to creating ceramic Dolly Parton dolls. Some people even leave their jobs and families behind just to be near her.”
“Okay,” he says. His brow crinkles together, and I can see that he’s really making an effort to understand. “Okay, but on, like, a scale of one to ten?”
“On a scale of one to ten, ten being total nut job, I guess Ellen and I would be fours. Maybe fives? Mrs. Dryver is a total eight, but not quite a nine because she hasn’t had plastic surgery. Yet. And I guess Lucy was about a seven.”
“Was?” he asks.
The memory of her sinks through me and settles deep in my bones. “Was. She died in December of last year.”
He sits back. “Oh, wow. Hey, I’m really sorry.”
“Thanks. It’s fine.” I reach for a wonton. “What about you? Who’s your best friend?”
Please don’t say Patrick Thomas. Please don’t say Patrick Thomas.
He pops all the fingers on his right hand and then his left. “I’m close with all the guys on the team. It’s hard not to be. But I guess I’d have to say Patrick Thomas.”
I bite down on my lip and give myself five seconds to come up with something to say. One . . . two . . . three . . .
“You cringed,” he says.
“What? No, I didn’t.”
He laughs. “Yeah. You did. It’s fine, really.”
My shoulders slump. “Okay.” I shift around in the seat to get a better look at him. “It’s just that he’s such a—”
“Dick.”
“Yes. Exactly. And you’re not.”
“I’ve known him forever. Sometimes I still think of him as that same kid from when we were really little, and then I remember that he always was a dick.”
I get what he’s saying. When you’ve known someone for so long, you don’t see the same things in them that everyone else does. But then when you’re friends because of who you were and not who you are, it’s hard not to find the common thread that stitches you together. Still, I guess it’s not my job to police his social life. “Okay, I can buy that.”
He shrugs and then drums his fingers on the table. “Uh . . . so, what’s your favorite holiday?”
“Fourth of July, I guess?”
He wipes the sweat from his forehead using a napkin. “I’m a Halloween kind of guy.”
The waitress swoops in and places a bowl of egg drop soup down in front of each of us.
“I hate Halloween.” I always have.
El loves Halloween and drags me to a different party every year. But, as a kid, I never fit into the costumes and was always left with whatever we could scour from my mom’s and Lucy’s closets. I guess the magic of being someone else is lost when you can never quite shed your own skin. I drew the line in fifth grade when my mom sent me to school as the modern-day queen of England in her old yellow suit with my hair curled up high and sprayed white. All the other girls in my class went as princesses or pop stars or witches. I mean, fat kids have enough problems finding clothes. The added pressure of Halloween is unnecessary.
“You’re mis
sing out on Halloween. Big-time.”
I want to tell Mitch why I hate Halloween because I feel like maybe, being pretty big himself, he’ll understand, but I’m not sure how to form the words or even if I’m ready to peel back that layer of myself to let him see. Just ’cause he’s a big guy doesn’t mean I can tell him all of my Fat Girl Secrets.
We slurp our soup in silence until the busboy brings our dinners. After we’ve finished eating, Mitch pays for our meal using all five-dollar bills.
At my house, Mitch gets out of the car to open the passenger door for me.
“Thanks for dinner,” I say.
“My pleasure to feed you.” He holds out his hand for me and I stare at it for a moment before he solidly shakes my hand.
“Um, good night.”
And that is my very first date. Dolly Parton, my dead aunt, our favorite holidays, best friends, and a handshake. Now I have to sit next to him in class for the rest of the year.
I can’t even bring myself to call Ellen for the blow-by-blow. Making out with Bo next to a Dumpster felt more romantic than that date. I like to think I’m not high maintenance or anything, but is it so bad to want some chemistry? A little bit of spark that makes me feel like we’re the only people in the world for ten minutes.
Inside, Mom is sitting at the kitchen table on the phone, taking notes in a bedazzled notebook. “It’s that we can’t really choreograph the dance routine before registration.” She pauses. “Yes, I trust your abilities, but this year is all new blood, Judith. And I— Hold on a moment.” She cups her hand over the receiver and turns to me. “Who was that who dropped you off?”
“A friend.” On the other line, Judith is still yammering on about the pageant choreography, which has really never looked like anything more than measured walking. “I’m going to bed.”
Upstairs, I sift through the stacks of Lucy’s records before placing one on the player. I watch as the needle follows the grooves of Dolly’s voice.
TWENTY-ONE
Last night was my first night at the Chili Bowl. No one, I mean no one, comes into the Chili Bowl. If my first shift was any indication, it is mathematically impossible for the electricity to still be on.
At the end of the night, when Alejandro locked the door behind us, he sighed through his nose and said, “Just not chili season yet.”
I can’t imagine the time of year makes all that much difference when South Texas is only known to have two seasons: Hot as Balls and Not Quite as Hot as Balls.
Because I had nothing to do last night except relive the most awkward date ever, I compiled a list of pros and cons regarding my most recent life choice.
Pros and Cons of Working at the Chili Bowl
PROS
• I can wear jeans. No more polyester dresses that zip up the front.
• I don’t like chili, so I won’t be stuffing my face any time soon.
• No Bo.
• No drunk teenagers who want chili five minutes before we close.
• Minimal cleaning because of the whole no-one-comes-here thing.
• It’s quiet.
CONS
• I smell like chili.
• Fewer hours = less money
• No Bo.
• It’s too quiet.
Bo is everywhere. His lips red as ever. In fifth period, I feel his eyes on me like a shadow. Sometimes I find myself roaming the halls, not quite realizing what I’m doing until I catch a glimpse of him.
But not only that. My whole mind has turned against me. Every time I blink, all I see are my flaws. My body in a fun-house mirror. Hips too wide. Thighs too big. And a head too small for the rest of me. Before this summer, I’d always been happy in this skin. Proud even.
But then came Bo. Since that first time we made out in the cab of his truck, I’ve felt myself cracking. Something about the way his skin felt against mine drew all these doubts to the surface that I didn’t even know I had.
I thought that when he went away, so would these feelings. But they’re there, and the best I can do is try to ignore them.
I ask Miss Rubio for a bathroom pass. I don’t have to go to the bathroom, but I need out. Fifth period has become this horrible little slice of hell where the volume in my head is turned up.
I let the combined aromatic scent of metal and sweat shock my senses as I walk through the hallways and to the nearest bathroom.
I’m splashing my face with water when the door swings wide open and a voice calls, “Hello?”
“Um, yeah?” I pull a paper towel from the dispenser.
“Willowdean?” Bo holds the door open and glances back to the hallway. “Is anyone else in here?”
“Are you kidding me? This is the girls’ bathroom!”
“I need to talk to you.” He walks in.
“There could be girls in here.”
He shakes his head, his brown hair swishing. “They would’ve said something by now.”
“You can’t be in here.”
“Give me five minutes.”
I emit a heavy sigh and lean up against the door, prepared to stop anyone who might try to come in. “What?”
“You quit.” He crosses his arms and holds a wide stance. “What did I do?”
I pull my ponytail loose to let my curls breathe.
“Are you trying to get me to kiss you?” he asks.
“What? No. Why would you say that?”
“Then put your hair back up.”
Jaw slack, I stare at him, waiting for him to say something else.
He doesn’t look away. “I’m serious.”
I flip my hair over and gather it into a ponytail so that he can’t see the blush spreading across my cheeks and down into my chest. With my teeth, I pull the hair tie off my wrist and whip my head back up, hoping that the redness is gone. Or that maybe he’ll think it’s from hanging my head upside down. “Listen, you’re in one of my classes. Things didn’t work out between us. But I can’t work with you and go to school with you.”
“Things didn’t work out? You ended it. I didn’t even get a choice.”
“Yes, you did. You made choices all summer.” But so did I. “Listen, I can’t do this. Okay? I can’t.”
He shakes his head, but that doesn’t stop him from leaving.
I wash my hands over and over again, trying to force the noise out of my head.
The door to the handicap stall swings open and my heart jumps. Hannah Perez with her mouth of too-big teeth. Her combat boots smack against the tile until she’s there standing next to me. As she watches me in the mirror, she reaches over and turns the faucet off.
I should be scared that Hannah might tell someone about me and Bo. But the sad truth is that no one will listen to a girl like Hannah Perez. That doesn’t stop me from feeling completely exposed, though.
I leave without drying my hands, rubbing them against my jeans instead. Once I’m in the hallway, I gulp down air like I’ve been suffocating.
TWENTY-TWO
“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 ra
dio 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. I wish I were invisible. 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 away 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.
