Dumplin - Julie Murphy Page 0,31

Framed by the window is a huge NOW HIRING sign. Chili may be a southern specialty, but the Official Willowdean Opinion is: looks like dog food, smells like dog food, must be dog food. There is a very long list of things I would do before working there.

Bo passes me. I hold my eyes steady. Straight ahead.

Here I am, waiting to talk to the manager at the Chili Bowl.

The whole place has been built to look like a Lincoln Logs cabin. The walls are covered in mismatched frames holding pictures of Clover City locals from the last sixty years doing all kinds of things like tailgating, drinking beer on the porch, or sprawling out on the grass for the Fourth of July parade.

I slide into a booth to wait for a manager with Harpy’s sitting across the street, taunting me.

This is Bo’s fault. Everything was fine until fifth period. My day was great. Work had been okay the night before and maybe I was a little too pleased with myself. An okay first day of school. A first date on the books. And an amicable-ish working relationship with Bo.

But then fifteen minutes into World History and in came Bo with a yellow folded piece of paper. A transfer slip.

“Class,” said Miss Rubio. “Welcome Bo Larson. He’ll be joining us for the remainder of the year.”

Millie’s best friend, Amanda, who I sit next to, lets out a low whistle.

He sat one row over and two desks ahead of me. As he settled into his seat, he looked over his shoulder and winked right at me.

“Isn’t that the guy you work with?” she whispered.

“Yeah.” The sinking pit of dread in my stomach left me nauseous.

“How do you get any work done? His butt looks like a peach.”

“What?”

“Like the bottom of a peach,” she said. “Peachbutt.”

After school, I was on a mission. I didn’t even stop to wait for El and Tim. I got in my car, slammed the gearshift into drive, and sped out of the parking lot as fast as I could. Miraculously, I did not take down any pedestrians on the way.

So that’s what brought me here to the Chili Bowl.

“You here for the job?” A guy no older than twenty-five with floppy black hair plops down in front of me. “I’m Alejandro.”

I nod. “Yeah.”

“Pay is shit.”

“I need a job.”

“Okay.” He leans in closer, like someone might hear even though the place is empty. I think he’s the anxious type of guy that might work in such a quiet place on purpose. “So here’s the deal: Have you been arrested?”

“No.”

“You’ve worked with food before?”

“Kind of. I ran the register at Harpy’s.”

“Close enough. And, lastly, were you fired from your last job?”

“Nope.”

He twiddles his thumbs and takes a few measured breaths. “When can you start?”

And that’s my interview.

I lean back in the booth. Outside of Harpy’s, Ron sits on the curb, taking a smoke break. I feel like a jerk leaving them like this without any notice, but I can’t face Bo four nights a week. “Now,” I say.

Ron’s door is open. He’s sitting there behind his desk in khaki shorts and a CCHS athletics booster club polo.

“Will.”

“I— Can we talk?” I push the door open a little further; the hinges creak.

“What’s going on, kid?”

I suck in a breath and exhale. “I need to quit.”

He presses his lips together as his thick brows furrow. I see the questions on his face, but all he says is, “Did something happen?”

I shake my head. “I’ll return my uniform after I wash it.”

He nods. “It’s no rush.”

And just like with Bo, I find myself wishing that he’d put up more of a fight.

Neither of us says anything.

“But thank you,” I add, breaking the silence. “For the opportunity.”

“Well, I’ll miss seeing your face around here,” he says.

I drive the whole way home in silence with the windows rolled down, my thoughts swallowed up by the wind.

NINETEEN

After school on Friday, I head over to El’s. We sit at the dining room table, sharing a bag of chips while her mom unpacks scrapbooking supplies. Sprawled out on the table in front of us are snapshots of Mrs. Dryver dressed as all different incarnations of Dolly Parton. After wiping my fingers on my jeans, I study one picture of her in a suede coat with fringe hanging from the sleeves and a long, fitted denim skirt. Her hair is smooth and round like Dolly in the early years.

“I like this one,” I tell her.

She rests her hand on