by Julie Murphy
He grunts. “You’ve never complained in the past.”
“Well, that was before my whole life was one giant prison sentence.” I squeeze his hand. “What have you even been doing without me?”
He lets go of my hand as the hall is about to split in two different directions. He bites down on his lip, and for a moment, I see him the way I did on the first day of tenth grade. My knees feel like Jell-O and I have to stop myself from pulling him into the handicap bathroom across the hall.
“I’ve found ways to keep busy,” he says.
A brief panic weighs on me. I trust Bryce, but I know every day I’m grounded is another day our relationship is at risk. It’s time to get creative. I stand up on my tiptoes and give him a soft, closed-mouth kiss. My mama and her snooping abilities be damned!
“I’ll figure something out. I promise.” One more kiss. “I swear!”
Millie
Fifteen
I follow Willowdean up the steps leading to the second story of her house.
“Dumplin’, I just brewed up some fresh sweet tea!” her mother calls from the kitchen. “Come and get it!”
Willowdean throws her head back, her eyes rolling. She sighs. “It is good sweet tea.”
She doubles back and leads me to the kitchen.
Ms. Dickson sits at the kitchen table in black-and-white polka-dot scrubs, her legs crossed, while she clips coupons. The moment she sees me, her eyes light up. “Millicent! I didn’t realize you were coming over! I thought that was Ellen sneaking upstairs.”
“It’s good to see you again, ma’am.” From what I know about Willowdean and her mother, they’ve had a bumpy relationship. Ms. Dickson isn’t perfect by any means, but I think that when I won runner-up at the pageant, the only people cheering louder than she was were Dale and Lee from the Hideaway. (Dale and Lee . . . well, Dale and Lee are a long story.)
“How’s your mama doing?” she asks, gripping my dangling hand as Willowdean pours us each a tall glass of sweet tea.
“She’s good, Ms. Dickson,” I say. “A little overprotective, but good.”
“Baby, call me Ms. Rosie.” She looks at me with sympathetic eyes. “We just want the best for our babies.”
“Except your best isn’t always our best,” chimes in Willowdean.
Ms. Rosie rolls her eyes. “Pains me to say it, but you’re not wrong.”
Willowdean doesn’t bother hiding her satisfaction. “We’re going upstairs,” she tells her as she hands me a glass with a striped bendy straw and a slice of lemon floating on top.
“Millie, you don’t be a stranger,” says Ms. Rosie. “And I hope we see you in the pageant again this fall,” she adds.
I grin wildly. “You just might.” But first things first: journalism camp. Well, actually: Malik. Then camp.
Upstairs, as I’m following Willowdean down to her bedroom, I linger for a moment in front of a room that would best be described as crafting heaven. A beautifully refurbished sewing machine sits in one corner with a long cutting table on the other side. Clear plastic cabinets sit against the other wall. Each drawer is color coded and full of fabric, thread, and yarn. There’s even a drawer labeled GLITTER, which is undoubtedly calling my name.
“Aunt Lucy’s old room turned pageant-prep/sewing room,” says Willowdean, once she sees that I’m still at the other end of the hallway.
My eyes drift up, and that’s when I see that every inch of spare wall space is covered with Dolly Parton paraphernalia.
Willowdean treks back down the hallway toward me. Her gaze travels the room, and her expression is a cross between longing and satisfaction. “Our Dolly Parton shrine,” she says. “Well, really it was Lucy’s, but it’s ours now. We did all this during the Christmas break. Whatever’s not hanging in here has found a home in my room.”
“It’s magnificent,” I tell her.
In her room, Willowdean hovers above a record player as she cues up an upbeat Dolly Parton song. “It’s called ‘I’m Sixteen,’” she says as she turns it down just a bit. “A new favorite, but more importantly it’ll stop my mom from eavesdropping so easily.”
We sit on opposite ends of her bed, sipping on our sweet tea.
“Your mom is so cool,” I tell her.
She sputters out a laugh. “You’re kidding, right?”
“She’s, like, so nice and probably doesn’t even care that you date Bo.”
“Honestly, I think Bo might be her new favorite thing about me.”
“My parents could barely handle me entering the pageant against their wishes,” I tell her. “A boyfriend? That is definitely Not Until You’re Thirty-Five territory. I can’t even muster up the courage to tell them I want to go to a different camp this summer.”
“Hey,” says Willowdean, “I imagine it’s a whole lot easier to be the cool parent when the person who thinks you’re cool isn’t even your kid. So this boy trouble nine-one-one? What’s going on?”
“Oh, right!” I’d nearly forgotten why I was here in the first place and the text I had sent. I set my tea down on her nightstand and flop backward. “It’s Malik.”
“Y’all are so cute. And you asked him to the Sadie Hawkins with your ukulele! What could possibly be wrong with y’all?”
“Well, that’s sort of the problem,” I say. “There is no ‘y’all.’”
“Ohhhhhh.” She lies down from the other side of the bed, so that our heads are side by side, her golden curls spilling out and tickling my shoulders. Before this year, I spent a lot of time wishing I could be Willowdean. It’s like she never has to overthink or try too hard.
“Malik and I talk almost every night,” I tell her. “And during the day at school it’s like . . . he’s nice, but it’s like all those in-depth conversations we have at night never even happened.” I let myself pout. “I’m just ready for something to happen already. I mentioned it to Callie, and she thinks I should just make my move, but . . . but she . . .”
“She’s skinny?” Willowdean asks, attempting to fill in the blank. “Well, I have a feeling boys have never been an issue for Callie. And not to say that they have for you, but it’s different.”
“I get it. Boy, do I get it.”
She turns her head toward me. “But Callie’s awful. You know that, right? She is not to be trusted. You’re too good to people, Millie. You put too much faith in people who don’t deserve it.”
I roll my eyes. “She’s not that bad.”
She huffs. “But in this one case, she might not be so off the mark. You know Malik likes you, right? All the signs are there.”
I nod. Except . . . I’m scared to even think it, but what if Malik is so different in person because he doesn’t want to admit he likes a fat girl? Maybe he just needs a little push.”
“You know, me and Bo . . . things didn’t start out so good at first. But there came a time when he put it all out there. He wasn’t pushy or rude, but he knew what he wanted and he was pretty sure I wanted it, too. But if it had been up to me to make that first move . . . well, we might still be having angry make-out sessions behind the Dumpsters.”
I wrinkle my nose.
“I gotta tell you,” she says. “Once you’re in the heat of the moment, the smell sort of goes away.”
I chuckle. “So is it true what Ellen said the other night? About you and Bo?” I glance back to the door to make sure it’s shut all the way and double-check that the record is still playing. “Having sex?” I whisper.
Her cheeks turn an alarming shade of pink and her hands fly up to cover her face. “No. Yes. Yes, yes, yes!”
I squeal to let her know I’m just thrilled for her, but inside I’m doing everything I can not to put myself in her shoes, because that’s flat-out terrifying.
“I just . . . Millie, you can’t tell anyone this—oh my God. I can’t believe I’m talking about sex with Millicent Michalchuk.”
My eyes widen. “Honestly, I can’t believe it either.”
She laughs. “The thing is .
. . and I don’t even know how to talk about this with Ellen. It’s taken a lot for me to feel okay with Bo touching me. Especially in places that remind me that I am definitely fat. That probably sounds weird.”
“No.” My voice comes out like a sigh. “That’s not weird at all.” I roll onto my side and prop myself up on my elbow. She’s got my undivided attention.
“Now that I’m sort of over that . . . honestly, though, some days I am and some days I’m not. But I guess what I’m saying is, I want him to touch me and anytime I don’t it’s because of me and not him. Except now I have to think about him seeing me naked and—” She covers her face again.
I think for a long time. I think about the exact thing I would want someone else to say to me in this moment. “Willowdean, I know you’re fat. We all know it. Ellen does. So do Hannah and Amanda. And Bo does, too. You’re the same person you are with your clothes on as you are with them off. If you want to have sex—if you’re ready for that, and the only thing holding you back is the thought of yourself naked . . . well, if I had to guess, every person in the history of sex has had that same thought.”
She shakes her head. “And I’m the one who invited you over to give you boy advice. You obviously don’t need me.”
Except I do. I need Willowdean so much. Because if I ever feel like I need permission to do something that people in my body aren’t meant to do, I just look to Willowdean. She’s all the reminder I need that the only person who can give you permission to live life and to live it big is yourself.
“Oh, I need you,” I tell her. “I need you like Oprah needs Gayle.”
Callie
Sixteen
Maybe there is a God. I’m not really doing a very good job of praying to Him (or Her?), because on Thursday morning during Anatomy, I experience nothing short of a miracle when Ms. Santana hands me a note from the attendance office.
I unfold the note in my lap.
Had to leave early today and take Kyla to the doctor’s. Her fever is back and the school nurse won’t keep her in the infirmary again. You have my permission to get a ride home from Bryce, but that is it. A single car ride! School and home! That’s it! I swear, Callie, if I hear you left early or pulled some kind of hijinks, you will see my wrath. And if you think this is my wrath, this is only the warm-up, baby. Be safe. Wear your seat belt. I love you.
Mama
I fold up the paper just the way it was given to me, and I almost have to stuff the damn thing in my mouth to stop myself from screaming with joy. My arm shoots up in the air, but I don’t even wait to be called on. “Miss! I need to use the restroom.”
Ms. Santana motions to the hall passes hanging on the back of her door. “Make it quick.”
I speed out the door, and as soon as it shuts behind me, I make a dash for Bryce’s locker, where I scribble a note on his dry-erase board.
Meet me in the wrestling mat room at noon. Come alone. -C
I rush back to class, where I completely tune out the rest of the lecture and instead make romantic plans for my romantic afternoon, right down to what snacks I’m going to get from the vending machine for our reunion feast.
I use the dance-team sweatshirt from my locker as a tablecloth to lay out our vending-machine spread of Flamin’ Hot Cheetos, pork rinds, a sleeve of Oreos, Skittles, Funyuns, and two Dr Peppers. Hmmm. Maybe we should make out before partaking?
The wrestling-mat room isn’t ideal, seeing as the mats are years old and carry their own specific stench, but the one thing this place guarantees is privacy. Especially since wrestling season ended early when no one qualified to move on past District.
I watch the clock above the door as the last lunch bell rings. I wish I would’ve worn something cuter today, like a little dress and some strappy sandals. But instead I wore the cheer shorts I slept in last night, an old homecoming T-shirt, and knee-high gym socks with a pair of hot-pink sneakers. I glance down at what I have to offer. It’ll have to do.
Thirty minutes into lunch, and still no show. That’s when I break into the Oreos. The polite thing to do would be to brush my teeth before any making out—Oreos have this miraculous way of working themselves into every crevice of your mouth—but Bryce is already late as hell, and I’m starting to fume. He’d be lucky to kiss my chocolate-crusted mouth at this point.
By the time the final bell for what should be my economics class rings, I contemplate going on a search for him. Maybe he never made it to his locker? Or maybe he got held up by a coach or something. But I don’t have a phooooooone. And if he shows up and I’m not here, we’ll just be missing each other again.
I crumple down on a mat and spread out like a snow angel—not that I have much experience making those.
The next bell rings for last period, scaring my whole body to life. And then the door creaks open and I shoot up. Bryce stands in the doorway, with Patrick peering over his shoulder.
“You were supposed to come alone,” I say through clenched teeth.
Bryce looks to my rations on the floor. He laughs at my one empty can of Dr Pepper lying on its side next to a half-empty sleeve of Oreos.
“And at lunchtime,” I add.
His shoulders flop as he shrugs. “I wanted to go to Taco Bell with the guys. I figured you would wait.”
I stand up, shaking the crumbs off my shorts. “And what is Patrick even doing here?”
Bryce looks over his shoulder and shrugs again.
“Hey, are y’all lovebirds gonna eat those pork rinds?” asks Patrick.
I roll my eyes and toss them in his general direction. “Get lost.”
He tears the bag open and pops one in his mouth. “Good luck, dude,” he says between bites.
The door closes behind him and I immediately ask, “Good luck with what?”
Bryce takes a careful step toward me. “Baby, we need to talk.” He drops his partially zipped backpack on the mat and a few things spill out, including his cell phone.
“Well, yeah, that would be nice! I mean, I’ve barely seen you in the last two weeks.”
He nods. “See. You get it. I knew you’d get it.”
“Get what?” For the first time, doubt ripples in my stomach. Doubt in us. High school sweethearts for a year and a half now. When people talk about living the dream, we’re the dream they’re talking about!
“I just feel so disconnected from you lately.”
“Well, baby,” I say, trying my best to keep my voice measured and even. “I’ve been grounded for three weeks. The whole no-phone-and-house-arrest situation makes it hard to communicate, but that’s not a forever thing.” I take a step closer and drag my fingers down his elbow. “And maybe I can leave you with a few good memories to get you through until this whole ordeal is over.”
He crosses his arms over his chest. “It’s just like, with you not on the dance team and working at that piece-of-shit gym . . . it’s like we’re living in different worlds.”
My stomach drops and my vision blurs. I close my eyes, blink hard, and pull back from him. “Excuse me?”
“I just, like, think we should maybe quit or take a break.”
“What does that even mean?”
“It’s like you’re not one of us anymore.”
“One of who?”
He holds his mouth in a firm line, refusing to further incriminate himself.
I dart to the ground for his cell phone. He tries to stop me, but I’m too quick.
“Give that back,” he demands.
I slide the phone into my back pocket. “Oh, you’ll get it back,” I say. But before I do anything else, I reach down for the full can of Dr Pepper.
Bryce watches me curiously.
I pop the tab on the can, and the sound of it piercing the silence is pure satisfaction. Almost more satisfactory than me reaching up and pouring nearly half the can out on top of his head.
Bryce freezes in shock as soda dribbles down his chestnut golden-boy hair and onto his T-shirt, where his ultimate-bro Oakley sunglasses ha
ng from his collar.
And then it’s like what’s happening suddenly hits him. “What the hell is wrong with you?” he screams.
I reach for my backpack and dart out the door.
It’s a second or two before I can hear him on my heels. “Give me my phone back!”
“Who is she?” I shout, not paying any mind to the fact that classes are still in session. “I know every bitch in this school! Who is she?”
Sprinting and typing in his security code isn’t what I’d call easy, but I manage. “You didn’t even change your code?” I say over my shoulder. And somehow it infuriates me most that he felt like there was no way he’d get caught. All I can think is that there’s another girl. There has to be. Guys don’t just leave girls like me unless they’ve got something else lined up.
I stop dead in my tracks just down the hall from the front office and scroll through his messages. He practically runs into me—all limbs as he reaches over me for the phone, but I have a sibling, which gives me the upper hand. If there’s anything my little sis has taught me, it’s how to be a master at keep-away.
And then I see it. A name I don’t recognize. Hiding there in plain sight under a fake contact. “Who’s Neil?” I ask. “New kid in school?” There are no new kids in Clover City.
“That’s private property!” he says. “That phone costs more than a month of your mall-rat paychecks.”
“That’s okay,” I tell him. “Let it all hang out. Well, whoever Neil is, I’m sure he has great boobs and a super-perky ass.” I feel something boiling in my chest. Something that feels like tears. Instead of giving in, I bite them back. I scroll through the messages, but all I see are dumb memes traded back and forth and a few short texts about how the family reunion is sure to “blow.”
His chest heaves and his forehead is damp with sweat. “Neil is my cousin from South Carolina, you psycho bitch.”
Furiously I scroll through more text messages, and I find a little bit of flirting between him and some other girls from school—Sam included—but most of it . . . it’s harmless. Nothing.