by Julie Murphy
“Bo!” It takes me a moment to recognize him, but it’s Collin. That same guy who came and visited Bo at Harpy’s. He jogs toward us.
“Hey,” he says, pointing at me. “I recognize you.”
I feel myself recoiling.
Bo holds his hand out and the two exchange a firm handshake that looks more like a show of strength. But there’s none of that suffocating tension radiating off Bo like there was the last time these two saw each other.
“What’s up, man?” asks Collin.
Bo shrugs. “Work. School.”
A few other guys from the team are heading over now. I feel like the elephant in the room—or the parking lot. Literally and figuratively.
He shakes each of their hands.
They ask him about school and his knee and if he’s going to try to do some rehab to get back on the court. My shoulders ease a little as I almost start to feel invisible.
Then Collin points to me and says, “And what about this one? She your girlfriend now?”
Bo glances over at me and says, “This is Willowdean.” He turns back to his friends. “And I’m working on it.” Then he takes my hand. He holds my hand. Right there in front of everyone. I am equal parts thrilled and mortified.
A few of his friends whistle as he says bye and we walk to his truck. Hand in hand.
We sit in his car, waiting in line to turn out of the parking lot. “What was that about?”
He brushes his knuckles over his chin. “I told you I wanna do this the right way. And I’m done keeping you a secret. I didn’t even mean for you to feel like a secret in the first place. I was—I don’t know. Sometimes good things happen to you at the absolute worst time. You were a good thing, Willowdean.”
“What about Bekah?”
“What about her?”
“Aren’t you guys dating?”
He scoffs. “Hardly. We went out a few times.” He pauses. “Okay. I guess we kind of dated. But I was trying to get over you. Or maybe make you jealous. I don’t know. And I didn’t expect for you to be all over that jock, so I guess I was the jealous one.”
“Mitch. His name’s Mitch. He’s not that guy. He’s my friend.”
He doesn’t respond for a minute. “Is he anything more than that?”
“No,” I say, like I’m shocked by the idea.
I feel his gaze on me.
“I don’t know.” Oh God. Of course we’re more than friends. At least to him we are. And maybe sometimes for me, too. “Technically, we’re not anything. But he wants more.”
“Do you want more?” he asks. “With him?”
“I—I don’t know. Usually, no. But I haven’t really said so.” I twist a piece of hair around my finger. “But what about you and Bekah?” I shake my head. “It’s never going to be the right time for us, Bo.”
“I haven’t told Bekah we’re not dating if that’s what you’re asking.”
“So, what? You were going to leave her hanging?”
“It’s not like we’re boyfriend and girlfriend.”
“Well, neither were we,” I tell him.
Jerking the wheel, he turns off into a random alleyway and puts the truck in park.
He unbuckles his seat belt and moves toward me. “I want more,” he says. “I want more with you. I want to hold hands in public. I want to drive you home from work and give you a kiss good night. And talk on the phone so late we fall asleep.”
I bite down on my bottom lip to stop it from quivering. There are so many reasons why we are a bad idea. We have a track record—real bona-fide proof. If I were to shake my Magic 8 Ball, I can almost guarantee that it would tell me, Outlook not so good.
But Bo is undeterred. “You didn’t know me last year, Willowdean. I’m so glad you didn’t. I was a dick. All I cared about was getting out of this place. I fucked up with you this summer. I know that. And I’m not letting you go again. I’ll talk to Bekah and be one hundred percent clear with her. There won’t be any misunderstanding.”
“It’s not that simple, Bo. Maybe it is for you, but not for me.”
He narrows his gaze. “This is what I want: I want you to be my girlfriend. I want to put a label on this. I want everyone to know exactly how I feel about you, Willowdean. I think that sounds pretty simple.”
I shouldn’t, but I move to kiss him. My nerves hum, and this moment when my body feels both chaotic and determined is what was missing with Mitch.
He pulls back. “I want your answer first.”
I break our eye contact, letting my gaze wander everywhere but him. I don’t know if I can handle the stares and the whispers. Even if I can get over the total self-revulsion I feel when he touches me—really touches me—I don’t think I can deal with people always asking in astonishment, like it’s some water-to-wine miracle, how we ended up together.
And now I know exactly how Lucy felt when she decided she couldn’t get on that plane to Dollywood. All those years, I thought she was only standing in her own way, and now I know she had no choice. When your options are limited to being miserable in private or being mortified in public, there is no choice. I can’t get on the plane.
My mom’s right. I will never be happy in this body. Not really. I’ll never say it out loud, but she’s right. I want so badly to prove her wrong that I almost say yes, but instead I chew the skin around my thumb and say, “I need to think about it.”
Because I can’t bear to tell him no. Not yet. I want to live with the possibility of what could be. If only for a couple days.
FORTY-NINE
I’ve only had a serious hangover once. Ellen and I went to a lock-in at Tim’s mom’s church, and Tim, being the good boyfriend he is, brought us wine coolers stolen from his dad. Ellen and I poured them into Sonic cups and kept refilling them until her mom picked us up the next morning. We slid into the backseat of the car and fell asleep slumped up against each other. Ellen and I slept all day, and when we woke up, I felt like I’d been asleep for years. Everything was too bright, and the only thing I wanted was to chomp on greasy food before going back to bed.
On Monday morning, I am hungover from a weekend spent with Bo. My entire body is drowsy, and I have to extract myself from bed in stages. One limb at a time.
We probably spent eight hours studying for our World History test, but I can barely even remember the review questions, let alone the answers. And my Friday afternoon at the Hideaway feels like a memory tucked deep into the past.
When Mitch walks into second period, I am studying my notes, trying to recall some of what I studied. It’s like my brain has decided to purge information to make space for the events of the last two days.
When his huge frame invades the narrow doorway, the memory of him hits me like whiplash. Mitch and I exist in this weird gray area, but I’m thinking it’s grayer for me than it is for him.
“Hey,” he says. “I texted you a few times this weekend.”
“Ah, yeah. I’m sorry. I was drowning in World History notes. It was one of those things like I’d see your text and then say I’d message you when I was done reading, and then I’d forget.” I’m doing that crazy babbling thing.
His features are loose, but his eyes are tense and focused. “The pageant’s in, like, two weeks. I was thinking—” He wipes a few beads of sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. “Maybe I could be your escort. I went to the pageant a few years ago, and I know girls have to get guys to escort them. I could, like, rent a tux. Is that dumb? You were probably supposed to ask me, but you wrote on your face for Sadie Hawkins, and I don’t know. What do you think?”
“I . . . I—yes. That would be good. Great.” I want to take the words right back. This is more than a friendly gesture. Yet, selfishly, I do need an escort. And Bo didn’t technically offer. Besides, if I can’t handle the idea of walking down a hallway with him, how will I cope with him escorting me in front of the entire town?
“Okay, cool. Should I get something to match your dress? Like prom or whatever?”
“I think black is good. And you can wear a suit. You don’t have to rent a tux.”
He shakes his head. “My mom’s idea. She’s all on board for this.”
Oh God. His mom. “Great.”
“She really loves that you’re doing this. She says it’s brave.”
I smile. But I don’t want it to be brave. I want it to be normal.
After school, Millie tracks me down in the parking lot, which isn’t hard since I’m just standing around, hoping to catch Ellen on her own.
Today Millie is a ball of mint green, including her backpack. Her hair is pulled into a ponytail with a matching scrunchie, because Millie might be the only person I know who still wears scrunchies.
“Hey,” she says. “So, Friday was pretty great.”
“Yeah, it was.”
She rocks back and forth on her feet, her hands twisting together. “I’m—my family is kind of religious. Actually, really religious. And my parents. Well, they wouldn’t be super happy if they knew where I was. And who we were with.”
I feel my shoulders slump. “Okay?”
“I say that because . . . I always thought people like Lee and Dale were wrong. Like, they were living in sin.”
I hate phrases like that. “Jesus vocab,” El would call them. Things you learn in church that are hammered into you until they’re so normal that you expect everyone else who doesn’t go to church to know what you mean.
Millie shakes her head. “My words are coming out all wrong. What I’m trying to say is that I liked Lee and Dale and I had fun that night at the Hideaway. I keep thinking about it and they’re good people. I wish everyone could see that.” She smiles. “I just wanted to let you know.”
Something I can only describe as pride swells against my chest. I grip Millie’s shoulder. “I’m glad.”
“Pageant piggies!” someone yells from the other side of the parking lot, breaking the moment between us. “Oink! Oink!”
“Eat shit!” I bark back. I turn to Millie. “I’m sorry.”
She tucks a stray hair behind her ear and takes a step back. “It’s whatever. It’s fine.”
I knew this was bound to happen eventually. With the pageant two weeks away, the town’s attention is all on us. And in our case, that might not be a good thing.
Millie pulls on the straps of her backpack. “I was thinking of having you, Amanda, and Hannah over for a slumber party. Amanda will go, but I don’t think Hannah will if you don’t. So . . . will you?”
As a rule, I don’t do slumber parties, unless you count spending the night at El’s. Nothing about sleeping in little more than a T-shirt and underwear on Millie’s floor while her parents check in on us every few hours appeals to me. But I don’t have it in me to say no to her right now. “Sure,” I say. “Yeah, I’ll be there.”
The next night, after I pick my mom up from work, she says she’s made some adjustments to my dress and would I mind trying it on.
She leaves me, again, in her room to change by myself. The top half of the dress is a perfect fit. I can’t even imagine how long it must have taken her to get the darts right. But the bottom half is something else altogether. She said she would take it out as far as she could, but it’s still snug. I feel fine in it. I’m not embarrassed or anything.
But I see it in her frown.
“The top is good,” I say. “Like, perfect.”
She presses her palm against my back. “Try standing up a little straighter.”
I do.
She makes a tsk noise.
The sound of her disappointment is like needles under my fingernails. “Mom, it’s fine, okay? I love it.”
“Dumplin’,” she says. “It’s huggin’ on your hips like a straitjacket.” She runs her fingers along the seams. “I can’t take it any further without risking it splitting.”
“Mom, it’s good. I only have to wear it for, like, ten minutes.”
Her lips twitch.
“What?” I turn around to face her without our reflections standing between us. “Just say it, Mom. Whatever you’re thinking, say it.”
She waves me off and starts to pack up her sewing box on her dresser. “I thought . . . I just thought you might make an effort to slim down a little for the pageant.” She turns back to me. “I mean, are you even taking this seriously? Because you know this isn’t a joke. I let you register because I expected you to take this seriously.”
Her words send me stumbling. “So the dress doesn’t fit because you expected me to lose weight?” I wave my hands up and down the length of my form. “Mom, this is me. This is my body.”
She shakes her head. “I knew you’d take that the wrong way. You always see the worst in everything I say. I can’t do this anymore. I’m not the bad guy here.”
“Then who is?”
She’s silent and the words she doesn’t say hang there between us like hulking icicles on the verge of breaking. “It’s too snug,” she finally says. “I’m not going to approve it for the pageant. It’s not about you being my daughter. I would do the same with anyone else. It’s inappropriate.”
“Mom, I feel good.” My voice starts out even and calm. “This dress makes me feel like someone I didn’t know I could be. I’ve never owned anything like it. But if when you see this—when you see me—you think it’s a pity, that it’s a shame I didn’t lose a few, then screw you, Mom. Try harder.”
There’s this still moment as I’m waiting for her to leave. Then I realize it’s me standing here in her room. I pick up my dress so as not to trip on the hem, and then I leave her there in that lonely little room that she’ll live in for the rest of her life with her sash and her crown and her sea-foam dress.
FIFTY
After work on Friday night, Bo gives me a ride like he has for the last two weeks, but this time he’s not taking me home.
We roll to a stop outside Millie’s house. Ron let us both off a little early so I could get here before midnight.
I pull my overnight bag into my lap and mentally prepare myself for bonding time.
The pageant has become such an afterthought for me. I think I originally signed up because I was so sure I had something to prove. I don’t know if it was to myself or my mom or everyone, but with each passing day, I feel more and more like I have nothing left to say.
“So y’all are getting together to practice stuff for the pageant?”
I shake my head. “Not really. More game planning, I think. We gotta stick together.”
His brow is heavy with confusion. “So you four all entered the pageant together?”
I nod.
“I’m totally on board with the idea that anyone who wants to should enter this thing, but why does it have to be such a big deal?”
Grinning, I turn to him. “It’s kind of like how you keep going to mass even though you don’t go to Holy Cross. It’s something the team does together, right? But just ’cause you’re not on the team doesn’t mean you shouldn’t go. And just ’cause we don’t look like beauty queens doesn’t mean we shouldn’t enter.”
“I guess it would be really cheesy of me to say I think you’re ten times hotter and smarter than any beauty queen.”
My cheeks burn. “Yeah. Super cheesy.”
“I didn’t know people still did slumber parties,” he says.
“Well, I guess they do. El and I always spent the night at each other’s houses, but we never called it a party.” In the last few days, I’d told Bo all about El and me and how we weren’t really talking. He seemed to think we’d get past it, but I just can’t seem to find that same foresight.
I open the door.
He reaches for my hand. “Willowdean? Have you thought any more about what we talked about? You know I wasn’t kidding, right?”
It’s so impossible for me not to say yes. To tell him that I want to be his girlfriend. “I need a little more time.”
He nods. “Okay. Time.”
Amanda stands at the door with her jaw dropped so
low it melts into her chest. Millie cranes her neck from behind Amanda.
“Oh. My. God,” says Amanda. “That was Peachbutt.”
I shush her and wave them both inside. The first thing that strikes me about Millie’s house is how everything—from the fake flowers to the paint to the throw pillows—matches. Millie is a lavender cotton ball in her matching sweat suit, socks, and headband. It’s like she went online and searched “slumber party outfits” and came up with this gem from a Baby-Sitters Club book cover or something.
Amanda is in her soccer shorts and a T-shirt, but she’s barefoot. It’s the first time I’ve ever seen her without her platform shoes on, and I don’t want to be that jerk who stares, so I keep my eyes on her face instead, which still feels totally obvious.
“Okay, but real talk,” she says. “He dropped you off. Here. You were in his car. Tell us everything.”
Millie pulls us down the hallway and past the TV room where her parents are watching some PBS series with British people talking in hushed voices about scandalous things like who’s going to serve lord and lady their chilled pea soup.
“Wait till you hear about my pageant-dress fiasco. I hope y’all are having better luck,” I say.
Millie shakes her head and yanks on my hand, pulling me to her bedroom door, which I know is hers because a wooden heart with her name painted in cursive tells me so.
Amanda covers her mouth, stifling her own laughter.
“What?” I ask.
Millie’s eyes meet mine, and there’s a desperation in her I’ve never seen before. She opens the bedroom door, and on a lavender beanbag in all black is Hannah. She doesn’t even look up.
Millie takes my bag and sets it on the foot of her bed. “Okay, sit down.”
I do. Right there on the floor.
Millie sits in this crazy wicker throne chair in the corner of her room. It looks like something out of a retirement home, but oddly enough, it suits her. I wish I could take a picture of her in this huge chair with her matching outfit, ringlet curls, and sloped nose. “You can’t talk about the pageant in front of my parents.”
“Why?” I ask.
“Because they don’t know she’s in it,” says Hannah.