Dumplin' (18 page)

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

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It's homecoming, which means school is a total joke. The day's schedule is full of pep rallies, contests, and alumni tours. When I sit down for second period next to Mitch, there's a huge blue, yellow, and white mum spread out across my desk. Long, glittery ribbons hang from a cluster of fake chrysanthemums, and hot glued to that are two miniature stuffed teddy bears. One in a football uniform and the other in a pink dress and a tiara. Mums are like good food. The best kind is homemade.

“Oh.” I suck in a breath.

“You don't like it?” asks Mitch. He wears a small version of my mum around his arm. His hair is combed and his jersey is tucked into his jeans. “My mom can go overboard, and well, I can't really—”

I sink down into my chair. “No, it's not that,” I tell him. “I love it. No one's ever given me a mum before. Thank you. Really.”

“But?”

I sigh. “I have to work tonight.”

He smiles, but the rest of his face is heavy with
disappointment. “I guess you can't get out of that, huh?”

“I wish I could.” I really do. “But I just started back, and I'm going to have to take off time for the pageant, too.”

He squeezes my hand. “It's cool. At least tomorrow's Halloween.”

For a moment, I'm distracted as Ellen and Callie file into the classroom, laughing back and forth about the costumes they have planned for tomorrow night. I hated dressing up with her. She'd always try to put together some couples costume that suited both of us, but no matter how hard she tried, it never quite worked. She doesn't even look in my direction.

There are lots of things I can't remember. Like, the periodic table. My mother's birthday. Or my locker combination at work.

But if there's one thing I can't forget, it's those words we spat at each other.

Maybe we're outgrowing each other. Holding each other back. I miss out on lots of things because of you.

I hate it. I hate that she thinks she's better off without me. Like I'm this sad, fat girl stepping on her heels.

I know I should apologize.

But maybe she should, too.

I wear the mum all day long. It's so big I have to wear it around my neck. Hannah and Amanda make fun of me. Millie thinks it's adorable. But by the end of the day, my neck is sore and my shoulders are hunched from the weight of it.

For Halloween, Ron asks us to wear costumes because
the elementary school PTA is hosting a trunk-or-treat party in our parking lot. Like I told Mitch on our Most Awkward Date Ever, Halloween isn't my thing. Outside of school parties, my mom never really took me anywhere for Halloween. Well, except to church “harvest parties,” which were just covers for Halloween parties. Besides, we were only able to dress up as biblical characters. If you're a guy, that's not a big deal, but if you're a girl all you've got is Eve (leaf bikini, anyone?), Esther, the Virgin Mary, or a prostitute. Plus, all that's in my costume arsenal is the Betty half of Betty and Wilma from the Flintstones costume that El and I wore a few years ago.

Ron's dressed in all black like Zorro with a plastic sword tied to his hip. “Well, I figured none of y'all would come dressed.” He drops a cardboard box down on the counter. “I borrowed some hats and whatnot from the church drama department.”

Marcus picks a devil headband from the top and holds it up for inspection. “What is this, some leftover from last year's Hell House?”

Ron takes the devil horns from him and drops them back in the box. “Let's maybe stick to the less controversial stuff. And the candy is for the kids only. No teenagers.” He walks outside to the popcorn machine on the sidewalk where he'll be handing out complimentary bags of popcorn.

Bo takes the blue-and-white-striped conductor hat and then reaches over my shoulder to grab a lollipop from the bowl of candy. Despite Ron's request, Marcus goes
for the devil horns, and I reach for the sequined flapper headband with a big white feather.

Besides the rare kids' meal, it's pretty quiet. I get bored enough to clean out the employee fridge. When I'm done, I find Callie and her boyfriend, Bryce, standing in front of the counter. Bryce is wearing jeans and a T-shirt cut to look like a Peter Pan tunic, while Callie is supposed to be some kind of warped version of Wendy Darling in a sexy blue nighty.

“What are you doing here?” Each word comes out like acid.

“Whoa,” says Callie. “Someone's attitude is turned up to ten.”

The bell above the door chimes and the situation goes from bad to worse. Ellen is dressed like Tinker Bell, and really, besides being one of the tallest girls I know, she makes the perfect Tink. Tim is dressed as Hook. Unlike Bryce, he's actually committed to his costume.

I hate it. I hate their dumb coordinated costumes. And I hate the way El looks like I'm violating her by breathing the same air.

Tim's eyes go wide for a second while El studies the floor. I try not to gasp. He did this. He made this happen. I would've preferred he not bring Callie and Bryce, but this is my chance. I've got to take it.

Ellen looks up. “I didn't think you worked here anymore.” That's all she has to say. After all these weeks of silence, that's all she's got.

“I came back.” Despite our audience, this moment feels
starkly personal. “Hi, Tim.”

He nods in my direction, and does nothing more to acknowledge me. I want to call him a traitor, but it's obvious whose side he's on.

“Let's go,” says El.

“That's it? I haven't talked to you in weeks and that's it?” I can sense Marcus and Bo watching now, too.

Callie turns to Ellen. “You don't owe her anything.”

El's eyes don't move. “I'm doing pretty good on my own, so, yeah, I guess that's it.”

The four of them leave and, as they do, Tim shrugs in my direction.

Marcus and Bo know better than to ask me what's going on.

Marcus spends his break in the parking lot as he travels from trunk to trunk with a paper Harpy's bag.

“Like the feather,” says Bo from the kitchen as he points to my hair.

I forgot I was wearing this thing. All I've been able to think about is Ellen. I can't believe that happened. This part of me kept holding on to the hope that we would break the silence somehow—and it would be fine. But it's not. I touch my hand to the feather, letting the edges tickle my fingertips. “Yeah. Thanks.”

“I'm glad you're back.”

I nod. I'm glad I am, too. This little grease hut feels like a slice of normal. And so does he. I wish that wasn't true, but it is.

He pulls the conductor hat off and repositions it on his head. “And I'm sorry you felt the need to leave.”

“It's okay.” I stack and restack the same pile of to-go bags before asking, “Are you missing Holy Cross?”

He smirks. “I actually miss my uniform.”

“What? Why?”

“I don't know. It's kind of nice to not have to think about clothes in the morning.” He brushes his thumb along his lower lip. “I guess you could say I'm not a morning person.” Hearing him talk this much after two months of silence is like a downpour after a drought.

“And then my brother hates it.” He chews the skin around his thumb for a second before adding, “But it's my fault we had to leave HC.”

I'm about to ask him why, when Marcus walks back in. “Y'all, those moms are not foolin' with that candy.”

Heat spreads to my cheeks, like we've been caught making out.

At the end of the night, we all walk out together, the two of them laughing about Ron's Zorro costume. Bo still wears the conductor hat, and I can't even look at him without smiling like a total idiot.

Outside, Mitch is leaning up against my car.

It's horrible of me, but I resent him being here. I'm like one of those people who doesn't like for their food to touch. I need for Mitch to stay on his side of the plate.

“Hey,” I say to Marcus and Bo. “I'll see y'all later.” I turn to Mitch. It might be physically impossible, but I feel Bo's eyes on my back like a weight. “Um, hi? Nice costume.”

Mitch is dressed like Indiana Jones in khaki pants and a bomber jacket with a wide brim hat. “It's Saturday night,” he says. “It's Halloween.”

I laugh. “Which basically means I want to go home.”

He shakes his head. “Nope. Not happening. I'm going to show you why Halloween is awesome. Let's go. Get in.”

“I don't have a costume.”

He shrugs. “You're a fast-food employee. Or a candy striper.”

My feelings for him swing from hot to cold and back. I don't want him here. I want him here. He's crowding me. He's not close enough. I feel a smile flicker on my lips. “Okay. Prove me wrong.”

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

..................................................................

In the car, I text my mom to let her know I'll be home a little late, but there's another message waiting for me.

BO: glad you're back.

I bite in on my lips, making them disappear, and drop my phone into the cup holder.

Mitch drives us to Stonebridge, the richest neighborhood in Clover City. I guess maybe it's not rich by normal standards, but it was built in the last ten years and it's gated. The gates are always open, but whatever.

After parking on a random street, he tosses me a pillowcase.

“Wait. We can't go trick-or-treating this late.”

“It's not that late.”

“It's past midnight.”

“Well, we are.” Mitch doubles back. “Forgot something.” He runs back to his car and comes back with a brown whip twisted around his fist.

“Are you shitting me with that thing?”

“What? It makes the costume more authentic.”

We walk down the center of the street for a while, looking
for a house with the lights still on. The pavement is smooth and pale, nothing like the patch-riddled street I grew up on. Every house is huge and hulking, but crammed together with only slivers of plush, green grass between them.

When this place was first being built, my mom and Lucy used to drive through here every few weeks with me in the backseat. We watched as all the houses were built and each street added. I remember being in awe of the new street signs, like some virgin territory had been discovered and we were some of the first to visit it. I had no understanding of how small Clover City was, but, to me, this was where all the glamorous people lived. Movie stars, musicians, models. And back then, my mom was still glamorous to me. I thought the three of us would get our fancy house someday.

The first house we stop at is redbrick, with a huge bay window and a glowing chandelier visible from the street. Mitch rings the doorbell, and I stand half behind him. It's late and whoever answers isn't going to be thrilled to have two teenage kids at their doorstep.

No answer. Mitch rings again.

I start walking back down the sidewalk. “No one's answering. Let's go.”

“Wait!” says Mitch.

The door creaks open to reveal a woman in a bathrobe, with water dripping down her neck and her hair wrapped in a towel. She's too old to be my mom, but not old enough to be my grandma. “Can I help you?”

Mitch holds his pillowcase out without hesitation. “Trick or treat!”

The woman looks like she's woken up in a different time zone. “Oh.” She holds her wrist up to check the time, I guess, but there's no watch there. “Right.”

She closes the door almost all the way, and returns moments later with a bowl of candy. Without hesitation, she dumps half the bowl into Mitch's bag.

He nudges me forward, and, despite how foolish I feel, I open my pillowcase.

She pours out the remainder. I guess this lady figures if two high school kids have the balls to go trick-or-treating this late at night in the nicest neighborhood in town, we deserve some candy.

Bathrobe Lady pats her stomach. “I shouldn't keep all this in the house anyway.”

Mitch tips his hat. “
Gracias, señorita
.”

As we're walking down the pathway, he bumps into my shoulder. “See,” he says. “That was fun.”

Most of the houses we visit have reactions like Bathrobe Lady, don't answer, or turn their lights off when they see us outside.

At one house, an old man in boxer shorts answers. His face is perpetually frowning with wrinkles so thick he could be melting. “Get outta here, ya damn hooligans!” he yells.

“Trick or treat!” says Mitch over the sound of a small dog yelping behind the man.

“Oh, I'll trick ya.” The man opens the door fully to reveal a shotgun at his side. “I'mma whip y'all's asses!”

Mitch grabs my hand. “Run, run, run!”

We haul it down the driveway and around the corner as the old man's heckling laugh echoes behind us.

When we're a safe distance away, I stop with my hands braced on my knees. We're both heaving. “That. Crazy. Bastard.” I take a fresh gulp of air. “Could have killed us,” I say.

“Nah,” he says. “He wanted to scare us.”

I stand up straight, letting the muscles in my back stretch. “Mission accomplished.”

I hold up my bag of candy, much heavier than I ever expected it to be. “I think it's time to call it quits.”

Mitch holds a finger up and winces a little. “One more house,” he says. “Please?”

Beneath the moonlight, he looks different. Almost mysterious. And maybe cute. A small laugh escapes me. “One house,” I say. “Choose wisely.”

He settles on a huge white house with a long driveway down at the end of the cul-de-sac.

Mitch rings the doorbell, and after a few minutes, an exhausted woman in a witch hat and a sweat suit answers the door. “Oh, darn,” she says before Mitch even has a chance to say trick or treat. “We ran out a little while ago.”

“Indiana Jones!” cries a boy in a pirate costume a few feet behind her. It's a homemade costume. The kind pieced together with great attention to detail. “So cool!”

Mitch beams.

“It's okay,” I say to the lady. “We're just out foolin' around. We should head home.”

She wishes us a good night.

We're halfway down the driveway before we hear the kid yell, “Hey! Hey! Wait up!” Pirate Boy is sprinting toward us with a plastic pumpkin dangling from his fingers. He skids to a stop in front of us and holds out a piece of candy for each of us. “I like your costume,” he says to Mitch.

“Thanks, little man. Your pirate costume is pretty cool.” Mitch doesn't talk to him like he's some little kid. Because to Mitch, he's not. To Mitch, everyone's somebody.

The kid runs back inside to where his mom is waiting at the doorway.

We sit on the curb with our candy at our feet. It's the first night this year that feels like fall might actually be on its way, and each breeze sinks into my southern bones.

“I told you Halloween was awesome,” he says.

I lie back on a patch of rich people grass (real Texas grass is crunchy and brown) between the road and the sidewalk. “It was okay.”

“When that kid saw me, he saw Indiana Jones. Not some guy who botched play after play in last night's game. Or some dude who plays video games all day. To him, I was someone else.” He lies down next to me.

“But doesn't it kind of feel like you're hiding from yourself?” I turn to him; the grass tickles my cheek. “I get not wanting to be yourself. But isn't it almost sadder to pretend otherwise?”

“I don't know. I think you gotta be who you want to be until you feel like you are whoever it is you're trying to become. Sometimes half of doing something is pretending that you can.” He turns on his side and props himself up
with his elbow. “Like, that first time I talked to you, you terrified me. You kind of still do. But the more I act like you don't, the less you actually do.” He pauses. “Terrify me, I mean.”

I get what he means, because I think I've played pretend my whole life. I don't know when, but a really long time ago, I decided who I wanted to be. And I've been acting like her—whoever she is—since. But I think the act is fading, and I don't know if I like the person I am beneath it all. I wish there were some kind of magic words that could bridge the gap between the person I am and the one I wish I could be. Because the whole fake it till you make it thing? It's not working for me.

“What?” he asks.

I shake my head and clap my hands over my mouth, smiling against my fingertips. “I terrify you?” The thought of it makes me feel bad, but it's kind of nice, too. To not feel like the one who's about to jump out of their skin all the time.

Mitch pulls my hands down, away from my face. His palms are sweaty, and I'm realizing how close he is. I can see the pores in his nose. “I think the good stuff is always supposed to be a little bit scary,” he says.

His lips brush mine. I stay very still as he curls his arm around my waist. We don't kiss with our tongues, just with our mouths open. I can feel the terror and exhilaration in his trembling touch.

But I am not terrified. Not at all. And it's then that I know this moment is a lie. I know what I should be feeling
and it's not there.