Dumplin - Julie Murphy Page 0,2

door cracks open and all I hear is Bo’s voice. “I heard you the first three times.”

My bones tingle. I don’t see him until he opens the door a little wider to let me in. Natural light grazes his face. New stubble peppers his chin and cheeks. A sign of freedom. Bo’s school—his fancy Catholic school with its strict dress code—let out earlier this week.

The car behind me at the drive-thru backfires, and I rush inside. My eyes take a second to adjust to the dim light. “Sorry I’m late, Bo,” I say. Bo. The syllable bounces around in my chest and I like it. I like the finality of a name so short. It’s the type of name that says, Yes, I’m sure.

A heat burns inside of me as it rises all the way up through my cheeks. I run my fingers along the line of my jaw as my feet sink into the concrete like quicksand.

The Truth: I’ve had this hideous crush on Bo since the first time we met. His unstyled brown hair swirls into a perfect mess at the top of his head. And he looks ridiculous in his red and white uniform. Like a bear in a tutu. Polyester sleeves strain over his arms, and I think maybe his biceps and my hips have a lot in common. Except the ability to bench-press. A thin silver chain peeks out from the collar of his undershirt and his lips are red with artificial dye, thanks to his endless supply of red suckers.

He stretches an arm out toward me, like he might hug me.

I drag in a deep breath.

And then exhale as he stretches past me to flip the lock on the delivery door. “Ron’s out sick, so it’s just me, you, Marcus, and Lydia. I guess she got stuck working a double today, so ya know, heads up.”

“Thanks. School’s out for you, I guess?”

“Yep. No more classes,” he says.

“I like that you say classes and not school. It’s like you’re in college and only go to class a couple times a day in between sleeping on couches or”—I catch myself—“I’m gonna go put my stuff up.”

He presses his lips together, holding them in an almost smile. “Sure.”

I split off into the break room and stuff my purse in my locker.

It’s not like I’ve ever been extra eloquent or anything, but what comes out of my mouth in front of Bo Larson doesn’t even qualify as verbal diarrhea. It’s more like the verbal runs, which is gross.

The first time we met, when he was still a new hire, I held my hand out and introduced myself. “Willowdean,” I said. “Cashier, Dolly Parton enthusiast, and resident fat girl.” I waited for his response, but he said nothing. “I mean, I am other things, too. But—”

“Bo.” His voice was dry, but his lips curled into a smile. “My name’s Bo.” He took my hand and a flash of memories I’d never made jolted through my head. Us holding hands in a movie. Or walking down the street. Or in a car.

Then he let go.

That night when I replayed our introductions over and over in my head, I realized that he didn’t flinch when I called myself fat.

And I liked that.

The word fat makes people uncomfortable. But when you see me, the first thing you notice is my body. And my body is fat. It’s like how I notice some girls have big boobs or shiny hair or knobby knees. Those things are okay to say. But the word fat, the one that best describes me, makes lips frown and cheeks lose their color.

But that’s me. I’m fat. It’s not a cuss word. It’s not an insult. At least it’s not when I say it. So I always figure why not get it out of the way?

TWO

I’m scrubbing down the counter as two guys and a girl walk in. Work is so slow that I’ve damn near wiped the enamel off. “What can I get y’all?” I ask, without looking up.

“Bo! Starting point guard for the Holy Cross Bulldogs!” yells the guy on the right in an announcer’s voice with his hands cupped around his mouth.

When Bo doesn’t immediately appear, both boys bark his first name over and over again. “Bo! Bo! Bo!”

The girl situated between them rolls her eyes.

“Bo!” yells Marcus. “Get out here so your friends will shut up.”

Bo rounds the corner as he stuffs his visor into the back pocket of his pants. He crosses his arms