Dumplin - Julie Murphy Page 0,3

over his puffed-out chest. “Hey, Collin.” He nods to the girl. “Amber. Rory.” He leans back against the counter behind us, widening the space between him and his friends. “What’re y’all doing on this side of town?”

“Field trip,” says Collin.

Bo clears his throat, but says nothing. The tension between them vibrates.

The other guy, Rory, I think, studies the menu on the counter. “Hey,” he says to me. “Could I get two dogs? Mustard and relish only.”

“Uh, yeah.” I punch his order into the computer as I try not to let my eyes wander.

“Been a long time,” says Amber.

How is that even possible? There are maybe thirty people in each graduating class at Holy Cross.

Collin drapes his arm over Amber’s shoulder. “Been missin’ you at the gym. Where you been lately?”

“Around,” says Bo.

“Do you want a drink with that?” I ask.

“Yeah,” says Rory, and holds a fifty-dollar bill in front of my face.

“I can’t break anything bigger than a twenty.” I point to the small handwritten sign taped to the front of my register.

“Bo,” says Collin, “all I’ve got on me is plastic. You think you could do Rory a solid and make some change?”

For a moment, there’s this dead silence that sinks. “I don’t have my wallet on me.”

Collin smirks.

Amber, the Amazing Eye-Rolling Girl, reaches into her pocket and drops a ten on the counter.

I make change and tell Rory, “Your order will be out soon.”

Collin tilts his head toward me. “What’s your name?”

I open my mouth to answer, but—

“Willowdean. Her name’s Willowdean,” says Bo. “I gotta get back to work.” Bo heads for the kitchen and doesn’t bother turning around as his friends call for him to come back.

“I like the facial hair,” says Amber. “It suits you.” But he’s already gone.

She stares me down, and all I can do is shrug.

At home, I walk around to the back and let myself in through the sliding glass door. The front door’s been jammed for years. Mom always says we need a man to come over and fix it, but my aunt Lucy always said it was the perfect excuse to not have to answer the front door. And I tended to agree with her.

My mom is sitting at the kitchen table, still in her scrubs and with her blond hair piled high on top of her head, watching the news on her portable TV. For as long as I can remember, she’s always watched her shows in here because Lucy was almost always on the couch in the living room. But it’s been six months now since Lucy’s funeral, and she’s still watching her shows in the kitchen on her portable television.

Mom’s shaking her head at the news anchors when she says, “Hey, Dumplin’. Dinner’s in the fridge.”

I drop my purse on the table and grab the plastic-wrapped plate. The last few days of school mark the start of pageant prep season, which means my mom is on a diet. And when my mom is on a diet, so is everyone else. Which means dinner is grilled chicken salad.

It could be worse. It has been worse.

She clicks her tongue. “You’ve got a little breakout there on your forehead. You’re not eatin’ that greasy food you’re selling, are you?”

“You know I don’t even like burgers and hot dogs that much.” I don’t sigh. I want to, but my mom will hear. It doesn’t matter how loud the TV is. It could be two years from now and I could be away at college in some other town, hundreds of miles away, and my mom would hear me sigh all the way from home and call me to say, “Now, Dumplin’, you know I hate when you sigh. There is nothing less attractive than a discontent young woman.”

There are, I think, lots of things wrong with that sentiment.

I sit down to eat and liberally spread salad dressing across my plate, because on the eighth day God created ranch dressing.

My mom crosses her legs and points her toes, examining her chipped pedicure. “How was work?”

“It was fine. There was some old guy catcallin’ from the drive-thru. Called me sweetcheeks.”

“Awww,” she says. “Well, that’s kind of flattering if you think about it.”

“Mama, come on. No, that’s gross.”

She flips the dial on her TV, turning it off. “Baby, trust me when I say that the man market narrows as you age. No matter how well maintained you are.”

This is not a conversation I want to have. “Ron was out sick.”

“Bless his heart.” She laughs.