Dumplin - Julie Murphy Page 0,35
my bones. “Was. She died in December of last year.”
He sits back. “Oh, wow. Hey, I’m really sorry.”
“Thanks. It’s fine.” I reach for a wonton. “What about you? Who’s your best friend?”
Please don’t say Patrick Thomas. Please don’t say Patrick Thomas.
He pops all the fingers on his right hand and then his left. “I’m close with all the guys on the team. It’s hard not to be. But I guess I’d have to say Patrick Thomas.”
I bite down on my lip and give myself five seconds to come up with something to say. One . . . two . . . three . . .
“You cringed,” he says.
“What? No, I didn’t.”
He laughs. “Yeah. You did. It’s fine, really.”
My shoulders slump. “Okay.” I shift around in the seat to get a better look at him. “It’s just that he’s such a—”
“Dick.”
“Yes. Exactly. And you’re not.”
“I’ve known him forever. Sometimes I still think of him as that same kid from when we were really little, and then I remember that he always was a dick.”
I get what he’s saying. When you’ve known someone for so long, you don’t see the same things in them that everyone else does. But then when you’re friends because of who you were and not who you are, it’s hard not to find the common thread that stitches you together. Still, I guess it’s not my job to police his social life. “Okay, I can buy that.”
He shrugs and then drums his fingers on the table. “Uh . . . so, what’s your favorite holiday?”
“Fourth of July, I guess?”
He wipes the sweat from his forehead using a napkin. “I’m a Halloween kind of guy.”
The waitress swoops in and places a bowl of egg drop soup down in front of each of us.
“I hate Halloween.” I always have.
El loves Halloween and drags me to a different party every year. But, as a kid, I never fit into the costumes and was always left with whatever we could scour from my mom’s and Lucy’s closets. I guess the magic of being someone else is lost when you can never quite shed your own skin. I drew the line in fifth grade when my mom sent me to school as the modern-day queen of England in her old yellow suit with my hair curled up high and sprayed white. All the other girls in my class went as princesses or pop stars or witches. I mean, fat kids have enough problems finding clothes. The added pressure of Halloween is unnecessary.
“You’re missing out on Halloween. Big-time.”
I want to tell Mitch why I hate Halloween because I feel like maybe, being pretty big himself, he’ll understand, but I’m not sure how to form the words or even if I’m ready to peel back that layer of myself to let him see. Just ’cause he’s a big guy doesn’t mean I can tell him all of my Fat Girl Secrets.
We slurp our soup in silence until the busboy brings our dinners. After we’ve finished eating, Mitch pays for our meal using all five-dollar bills.
At my house, Mitch gets out of the car to open the passenger door for me.
“Thanks for dinner,” I say.
“My pleasure to feed you.” He holds out his hand for me and I stare at it for a moment before he solidly shakes my hand.
“Um, good night.”
And that is my very first date. Dolly Parton, my dead aunt, our favorite holidays, best friends, and a handshake. Now I have to sit next to him in class for the rest of the year.
I can’t even bring myself to call Ellen for the blow-by-blow. Making out with Bo next to a Dumpster felt more romantic than that date. I like to think I’m not high maintenance or anything, but is it so bad to want some chemistry? A little bit of spark that makes me feel like we’re the only people in the world for ten minutes.
Inside, Mom is sitting at the kitchen table on the phone, taking notes in a bedazzled notebook. “It’s that we can’t really choreograph the dance routine before registration.” She pauses. “Yes, I trust your abilities, but this year is all new blood, Judith. And I— Hold on a moment.” She cups her hand over the receiver and turns to me. “Who was that who dropped you off?”
“A friend.” On the other line, Judith is still yammering on about the pageant choreography, which has really never looked like anything more than measured walking. “I’m going to bed.”
Upstairs,