Dumplin - Julie Murphy Page 0,25

the back side of the bench.

“What are you doing here?” I ask, like an accusation.

“Shopping with my stepmom and brother.” He points to the shoe store next to Sweet 16. “I saw you sit down on the bench. My little brother’s been trying on basketball shoes for forty-five minutes.” He smiles and dips his chin down into his chest. “What are you doing here, Willowdean?”

I want to touch him. I want to reach over and kiss his face hello. But I don’t. Because we’re not pressed into darkness behind Harpy’s or huddled together in the cab of his truck and because even though neither of us has ever said so, we are a secret.

“Here with my friend. She’s picking up her paycheck.”

“Ellen?”

I nod. I’ve talked about El with Bo, but in a past tense kind of way. I don’t know how to explain the strange gap that has formed between us, so it was easier to talk about her in the same way I talked about Lucy. Like she was a thing from a life before him.

I notice that he’s wearing an old basketball tournament T-shirt and a pair of basketball shorts. “It’s weird seeing you without your uniform on. I almost didn’t recognize you.”

“Oh, I recognized you.” He stretches his legs out along his side of the bench. And his legs. I’ve never seen his bare legs. “So where does your friend work?”

I point back to Sweet 16.

His mouth opens and I know that I will forever judge him based on how he reacts to this information, but a voice interrupts him.

“Bo,” calls a tall, thin woman with shiny chestnut-brown hair cut into long layers. She’s too young to be his mom and too old to be his sister.

Bo glances over his shoulder and then back at me. “My stepmom,” he whispers.

My face falls slack. I’ve been dreading the moment when our worlds collide.

Behind Bo’s stepmom is his brother. He’s as tall as Bo, but his round cheeks tell me he’s at least a year younger.

“I let the time slip on by, didn’t I?” she says. “Sammy’s got basketball at one. Time to hop to it.” Her eyes travel to me, sitting there on the other side of the bench. “And who is this?”

“Ma’am.” I stand and hold my hand out to her because I’m southern and even if my mom says otherwise, I do have manners.

“This is Willowdean,” says Bo. There he goes, saying my full name again. “We work together.”

“Willowdean. Well, isn’t that a mouthful?”

I half smile, about to say thank you—for what, I have no idea—when Ellen appears next to me and says, “But you can call her Will.”

I swallow and nod.

Bo’s stepmom’s head anchors to one side, like she’s just seen the most adorable thing. “And you are?”

“This is Ellen,” I answer for her. “My best friend.” I take a deep breath. “Ellen, this is Bo. We work together.”

Bo gives Ellen a short wave, but she touches his arm and says, “So nice to meet you.”

His stepmom smiles. “Aren’t you precious?”

I know that Ellen loves Tim. And yet jealousy creeps up my spine, paralyzing me. Over the course of the summer, I have given myself plenty of reasons why I shouldn’t tell Ellen about what’s been going on with Bo. But no matter how I spin it, I know that, to Ellen, my not telling her is as good as any lie. Actually, this might be worse.

“I guess y’all must go to Clover City High?”

We nod in unison.

“How wonderful that Bo will have some familiar faces on his first day!”

“Excuse me?” I blurt. There are many things wrong with the relationship between Bo and me. But the one thing that’s right is that outside of work, our worlds do not intersect. And for as long as that’s the case, it’s easy to pretend that I am a normal girl, making out with a normal boy.

“Yeah, Bo and Sammy won’t be back at Holy Cross this year.” She frowns a little. “It’ll be good. Change is good, right, boys?”

Neither respond. Bo’s lips press together in a thin line and I know that he knew this whole summer and didn’t tell me. “Loraine,” he says to his stepmom, “we better get going. Sam’s got practice.” He scoops up their bags and his stepmom leads the way, her hips swaying from side to side. And that’s it. Not even a gaze or a shrug. Nothing that might promise me an explanation.

Anger boils all the way up from my