Dumplin'

by Julie Murphy

  Or maybe it’s none of your business anymore, I tell myself.

  “Millie asked Malik. From the newspaper,” says Amanda. “He’s kind of hot if you can get past the unibrow. Or if you think unibrows are hot.”

  I turn back to her, grateful for the distraction, but suddenly very conscious of exactly how I’m sitting. Maybe if I sit up straighter, my back fat will disappear.

  “How’d she do it?”

  She laughs. “She sang to him. With a ukulele.”

  I cringe with embarrassment for her. Everyone probably laughed. “What happened?” I whisper.

  “Well, he said yes.” She says it like, Duh, why would he not?

  “Wait. Seriously?”

  “He’s doing the pageant thing, too. It was sweet. And he kissed her on the cheek. More action than I’ve seen.”

  Class drones on and I wonder how much of a jerk it makes me to expect that Millie would’ve been humiliated. If she had asked my opinion beforehand, I would’ve told her what a sweet idea it was, but I would’ve done everything in my power to stop her from going through with it. And it’s not that I don’t think she deserves to go to the dance and have an escort. I just don’t want her to be the butt of anyone’s joke. I would never wish that on anyone. And, yet, Millie’s been there. She’s been the punch line.

  But there she is, doing her thing, not giving a hoot what anyone else thinks.

  It almost hurts to know that she’s putting herself out there so fearlessly. It’s like seeing an old friend you’ve drifted from and remembering all the shared experiences you used to have.

  Class lets out and I’m pushed out the door in a current of students. I can hear Bo talking back and forth with José Herrera about calculus and then about a party.

  In the hallway, a wall of girls stops us. They stand with their hands joined, like a game of Red Rover.

  “Sorry for the delay,” one of them says.

  “This will only take a minute,” adds another.

  Bekah Cotter stands behind the row of girls in a pair of tiny denim shorts, gold flats, and an oversized white T-shirt that’s been tied into a knot at the small of her back. In iron-on letters the shirt reads Go to Sadie Hawkins with me . . . She spins a baton between her fingers, waiting for the crowd to settle.

  Amanda stands behind me, bouncing on her toes. “Just looking at those shorts gives me a wedgie.”

  Bekah takes one deep breath and, without announcing herself, she spins the baton in the air, throwing it over her shoulder and catching it as she does gymnastics so sharp and quick you can barely keep up with her. It’s amazing, and still, it’s nothing nearly as involved as I’ve seen her do at football games. Her pageant talent is going to kill.

  She throws the baton in the air and does some sort of crazy spinning flip, then she lands with her back to us and catches the baton as it’s about to hit the floor. With her ass in the air, it’s clear who she’s asking to the dance. On each pocket of her denim shorts, in glitter paint, are the letters B and O.

  The guys from World History push him up to the front of the crowd. He smirks and I can barely watch him as Bekah takes his hand. Bo glances to his side, and I know he sees me. But there’s no second for decision or thought. He nods. And now they’re Bekah and Bo. Bo and Bekah.

  I push Amanda out of the way and move against the flow of students heading for the parking lot. Keeping my eyes on the ground, I watch the sea of feet until I’ve found a bathroom. I sink down to my knees and dig through my backpack, looking for something. My phone? A grenade?

  At the bottom of my bag is a permanent marker. I uncap it, turn to the mirror, and, like the totally sane person I am, begin to write on my face.

  I didn’t actually consider the logistics of getting from point A to point B when I was scribbling across my face. After looking myself over in the mirror, I realize that there is no turning back. Even if I want to. I guess it’s called permanent marker for a reason.

  Walking to the parking lot as quickly as I can, I flip my hair over my head like Cousin Itt and rely on whatever sight I have through the strands, praying to Baby Jesus that I don’t get hit by a car.

  And there he is. Walking to his car.

  “Mitch!” I yell. “Mitch!”

  This is a bad idea. I think it’s actually safe to say that all my ideas are bad ideas.

  He turns. “Will?” Deep concern lines his face. “Did something happen? Are you okay?”

  When I’m within a few steps, I flip my hair back, letting him see my face.

  His concern fades into confusion. “snikwaH eidaS ot oG?”

  “Shit,” I say. “I wrote it in the mirror.”

  He glances down, trying to hide his smile from me as he twists his toe in the gravel.

  “So you wanna?” I ask. “Go to Sadie Hawkins?”

  “I don’t know.” His cheeks swell. He’s a boy struck with relief because I haven’t forgotten his birthday. I am a hideous person. “Are you gonna wear a dress?”

  “Are you?”

  He slips his hands into his pockets. “Yeah, I’ll go with you.” He reaches forward and rubs my forehead with his thumb. “That’s permanent, isn’t it?”

  “Forever,” I say.

  His eyes flood with light.

  I should’ve added, “As friends.” Go to Sadie Hawkins as friends? But it’s too late now. I won’t ruin this for him, though I worry I might have only done it for me.

  THIRTY-SIX

  It’s Friday night and I’m spread out on the couch watching a daytime talk show I’d recorded about second cousins claiming to be telepathic.

  Mom’s in the kitchen dyeing a tablecloth for the judges’ table.

  The announcer on the television show gives the cousins some kind of test, asking them questions they should be able to answer with their “abilities.” The first twin goes fifty-fifty and blames it on the time zone change and her jet lag from flying in from Louisiana to New York.

  When the show goes to commercial, my mom sits down on the love seat and unhooks her apron from around her neck. “Woo,” she says. “Gotta let that sit for a bit.” She picks the remote up and mutes it.

  “Wait,” I say. “Pause it. I don’t want to accidentally see what happens.”

  She fumbles with the remote for a minute before passing it to me to pause. “Let’s talk for a minute.”

  This is going to be about the pageant, and how I’m not taking it seriously enough. Or how she thinks I’m going to embarrass myself somehow.

  “Since Lucy passed, we haven’t had her disability coming in.”

  So not what I was expecting.

  “And her life insurance wasn’t much, but it was floating us these last few months.”

  I sit up. It takes me a moment for my vision to adjust. “Are we selling the house?”

  “No, no. Nothing like that. This place is paid off in a few years. I think I can make things work until then. I don’t want you worrying about that.”

  “Okay . . .”

  “But I can’t afford to get your car fixed.”

  There it is. My heart sinks. I know it’s stupid to worry about something like a car when there are obviously other things like food and utilities to think about. Especially when we don’t technically need that car. But that little red thing is my freedom in physical form. Clover City feels even smaller and more removed without my Jolene.

  “I’m sorry, baby.”

  “How much is it going to cost?”

  “About three thousand dollars.”

  I nod. That’s at least a year of working at the Chili Bowl.

  “Maybe we can start a little jar? Like, throw the day’s pocket change in.”

  I lie back down, and hit play on the TV. If I were a better daughter, I would tell her it’s fine and that I understand. I may not be the daughter she expected, but she never lets me go without.

  The cousins are back on. Audience members laugh quietly as they so obviously get question after question wrong.

  M
y mom stands and pulls the apron back over her neck.

  Before heading to bed, I sit down at my desk in my room with Riot curled into a pile in my lap. My emails are mostly junk mail, but buried beneath that is one from Lucy’s address.

  My stomach twists like a corkscrew. I open the email.

  But it’s spam. Some piece of junk about interest rates.

  I sit back in my chair and let my body exhale. If I’m getting junk mail from my dead aunt, then maybe other people are, too.

  I log out of my account. It takes a few tries, but I finally guess her password. DUMBBLONDE9. One of her favorite Dolly songs and her favorite number. I’m about to shut down her account, but I find myself distracted by the months of messages just sitting here. This in-box full of unopened messages is the truest reminder that we are temporary fixtures in a permanent world.

  I click through a few. There’s nothing that really catches my eye until the fifth page. The subject line reads: DOLLY PARTON NIGHT.

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  Cardboard stars and crepe streamers hang from the rafters, but they’re not enough to make me ignore the lingering body odor and forget that we’re in the gymnasium. The music reflects off the walls, reminding everyone that this place was not built for the acoustics.

  “This is cool,” yells Mitch into my ear.

  “Yeah.” Except it’s not. There are maybe fifteen people dancing, while everyone else spreads out on the bleachers. There’s this weird hormonal energy in the air that I’ve never noticed before. Maybe because students are getting away with an insane amount of PDA that would never be tolerated during normal school hours.

  Ellen sits perched on the bleachers with Callie and her boyfriend. Tim’s got one arm draped over El’s shoulder and his head is leaning so far back I think he might be asleep. Callie’s boyfriend is overattentive and rubs his hand up and down her thigh in a weird way that makes me shiver while she and El whisper back and forth, sharing secrets, I’m sure.

  I catch Callie pointing at me, and turn away. “Hey, I’m going to run to the bathroom.”

  Mitch’s lips form a question, but he just nods.

  In the bathroom, I turn the faucet on high and let the hot water rush over my hands until they’re red. I hate that I can’t just go in there and tell El about what a fool I made of myself when I asked Mitch to this thing. This distance between us started months ago. I know that. But maybe she didn’t. Maybe you only ever notice the distance when it’s you who’s being left behind. I should’ve shut my big mouth and not said anything about the pageant, but Ellen signing up somehow felt like scoring points for the other team. I don’t know.

  “Can I give you some advice?”

  I stand up straight, my brain coming back from its tangent. “Hi, Callie.”

  She watches me in the reflection of the mirror. “I know El has been, like, super good to you since you guys were kids. But you telling her she couldn’t enter the pageant? That was a shit thing for you to do.”

  I feel naked. Like, somehow, in the midst of all of her anger, El might have revealed every little one of my secrets and insecurities. “Callie, listen, I don’t know you, but I don’t have to know much to know that I don’t like you. So back off and mind your own business.”

  “Whatever.” She throws her hands up. “Ya know, she’s better off without you. At least now you’re not around to drag her down.” She turns, but then whips back around to add, “And you wanna know what else? If you would put a little effort in and take care of yourself, you’d be surprised how much of a difference it would make. And I don’t even mean that in a rude way. I’m just being honest.” Reaching down the front of her dress, she re-tucks her boobs into her bra. “By the way, despite what you and your friends might think, this pageant isn’t some feel-good after-school project where you get an A for effort.” She walks off. Which is good because I’m about two steps away from breaking her nose.

  The door swings shut behind her, and I listen as her heels clack against the linoleum floor.

  Maybe she’s right. Maybe my life would fall into place if I could shed a hundred pounds. I’m holding back the tears brimming in my eyes. Maybe it all comes down to me and this body.

  Mitch is dutifully waiting for me behind the DJ, who isn’t actually a DJ, but instead the varsity basketball manager armed with an iPod and speaker access.

  I knock his elbow with mine. “Let’s dance.”

  Mitch follows me out to the dance floor where I find Millie and her date, Malik. Amanda’s with them, too.

  I’m kind of starting to love Amanda. She’s brusque and odd and the opposite of everyone else I know. She’s the type of person who overcommits to tapping her foot to the music and takes every joke too far. Right now, with her head bopping and her limbs flailing, she almost looks like one of those one-man bands, but without instruments.

  I introduce them to Mitch even though we’ve all gone to school together forever.

  Amanda elbows me in the side and whispers, “Not bad. But he’s no peachbutt.”

  “What about you?” I ask. “Did you ask anyone?”

  She leans in, but doesn’t stop moving her head. “Options were limited, so I decided to fly solo.”

  “You’re not solo!” yells Millie. “You’re with us. Right, Malik?”

  Malik takes Millie’s hand. “Yeah, of course.”

  My damn heart explodes. Because, to me, Malik and Millie are homecoming/winter formal/spring fling/prom king and queen combined into one.

  The next song starts up and it’s the type of song that makes people rub their crotches together. Because they’re horrible human beings, Millie, Amanda, and Malik abandon us for the refreshments table.

  The space around us is filling in with horny teenagers. Mitch must see the panic in my face. He takes my arms and wraps them around his neck. His meaty hands barely touch my waist, but I suck in as deep as I can. I can’t help it. And, in the midst of the grinding and sloppy making out, we begin to slow dance.

  “I like takin’ it easy,” Mitch says. He is the epitome of southern gentleman in his creased khakis, plaid pearl-snap shirt, and brown boots.

  Slowly, I let my body ease into his.

  We dance slow to fast songs and fast to slow songs, creating our own rhythm.

  Patrick works his way over to us, basically dry humping as many girls as he can on his way. “Hey, man,” he says to Mitch. “I’d be careful with this one. She’s violent.” And then to me he says, “The baby maker still works. In case you were wondering.”

  I shake my head. “God save us all,” I say.

  Patrick rocks back and forth on his heels. “I hear you got some of your friends to join the pageant with you. You better make sure they know it’s a beauty contest and not a livestock show.”

  He’s gone before either of us can respond.

  Mitch takes a step forward, but I squeeze his arm, pulling him back.

  “You know he’s disgusting, right?” I say.

  “I’m not saying you’re wrong.”

  I only see Bo and Bekah during one slow song, like the kind of couple who have their pictures taken in white shirts and jeans or the kind who go on family vacations together during the summer.

  And I hate it.

  I rest my cheek against Mitch’s shoulder. Bo glances up, but this time I don’t look away. There on the floor of the gymnasium, our eyes meet. And I can imagine that it’s us dancing out here, all on our own. Not because the room is empty, but because no one else matters.

  “I went to a dance in middle school,” Mitch says. “My mom made me. I had to wear my Easter Sunday suit. I was the only kid that dressed up.”

  My eyes stay with Bo and I am acutely aware of the fire licking against my rib cage. “Did you have a date?” My voice is far away.

  “No one really had dates. I mean, you know, there were people who called each other boyfriend and girlfriend, but that was it.”

  Bekah says something and, after a moment that feels like good-bye, Bo
looks away. The two of them slip off behind a wall of people.

  I watch the empty space left by Bo. “Did you dance with anyone?”

  Mitch drags his finger up and down my spine, and I know that this little bit of contact is a leap for him. “Nope. Just sat in a folding chair next to the chaperones all night. Hung out with some guys doing layups on the other side of the gym. But no dancing.”

  “Well.” I lift my head. “You’re dancing now.”

  He grins. “Worth the wait.”

  Later, as we’re walking to the parking lot with sounds of the dance winding down behind us, my kitten heels dangle from my fingers, and Mitch holds his arm out for me. Inside the dance, the rules didn’t apply. I was allowed to lean my head on his chest and let him wrap his arms around me because it was a dance and that’s what you do at dances. But out here, outside of that bubble, it’s different. I don’t want to be the one to lead him on and turn this into something it’s not.

  He smiles. I hook my arm through his because I’ve ruined so much lately and I’m not ready to add this night to the list.

  “You’re still not talking to Ellen?”

  “Nope.” I hadn’t told him the exact circumstances, but I told him we’d gotten into a fight—a real one. I didn’t really want to share more and he hasn’t asked.

  “You guys have been inseparable forever. I remember when we were doing Where the Red Fern Grows in sixth grade and we were reading book reports in front of the class.”

  I nod. “She always cried when we got to the part with the dog.” She hated that book. El’s not the type of person who can read something that’s made her cry and think it was good because it touched her. No, books or movies that make Ellen cry infuriate her. Like, it’s some kind of betrayal.

  “So you finished reading the report for her.”

  “She practiced it in front of the mirror dozens of times. She was so pissed when she started crying.” I pick my head up after realizing I’d been leaning against his arm this whole time.

  He opens the car door for me. “How long are you going to let this go on?”

  For a split second, I think he’s talking about me and him. “She’s got new friends anyway,” I say after he slides in behind the wheel. “I guess I’m no match for Callie.”