The sewing machine thumps a methodic beat, never ceasing, but only getting stronger and stronger with each stitch. The ever-constant needle taps against my head, waiting for me to crack.
“Dumplin’,” she calls over the sewing machine, not even acknowledging what I just said. “Why don’t you take yourself downstairs for a tall glass of ice water?”
Desperation swells in my chest and I think I might do anything to get her out of this room.
I march over to the dresser and yank the top drawer free. Without hesitation, I fill the detached drawer with everything I can reach—mostly records.
“Willowdean Dickson, you better hope that you did not ruin the track on that drawer.”
“It’s like her being dead isn’t good enough!” I yell. “You won’t be happy until every bit of her is gone and you’ve filled this room with all the things she wasn’t.”
Finally, the sewing machine stops. Mom stands, but says nothing.
I take the drawer and slam my bedroom door behind me. Dust swirls through the air and tickles my nostril. I sneeze loudly into the albums.
“Bless you,” my mother says from the hallway. She’s so quiet, I almost don’t hear her.
TWENTY
Getting ready for my date with Mitch is like a freaking makeover montage in my bedroom. El makes me try on everything from my eighth-grade graduation dress to this formless, chiffon floral tunic my mom bought me last Christmas. “It makes you look so mature,” my mom had said.
I didn’t take it as a compliment.
We settle on jeans and a black-and-white-striped shirt with my dark blond hair spread out across my shoulders.
I told Mitch to pick me up at five because my mom had a pageant board meeting until six and I didn’t really feel like getting the how-to-be-a-lady/what-boys-want-in-a-girl talk from her. And, of course, there’s the fact that I’m pissed at her.
After locking the back door behind me, I sit on the curb next to our mailbox. I can both hear and smell it from around the corner. He drives an old maroon Suburban that probably hasn’t passed inspection for the last five years. He parks in front of me and hops out the minute the engine whines to a stop.
“Was I late?” He pulls me up by one hand and I mean really pulls me up.
“No. No, not at all.”
“I figured because you were sitting out here, and I guess guys normally go to the front door to pick up their dates.”
“Oh,” I say, hiking my thumb back to our front porch. “We don’t use the front door. It’s been broken for years.”
His heads cocks to the side. “Well, you look real nice.”
“You too.” He really does. He’s wearing a too-long-even-for-him button-down shirt and starched jeans, like with a crease and everything. And boots. Not those pointy-toed cowboy boots you see in movies, but round-toed work boots. Gram used to say that you should never trust a man in clean boots.
The front seat of Mitch’s car is clean-ish with dust and lint deeply embedded in every crevice. But the back half is drowning in a sea of clothes—lots of camo and boots—and fast-food cups.
He takes me to a Chinese restaurant called Mr. Chang’s Chinese Palace, a local favorite in an old shopping center with fast cash loan offices, insurance storefronts, and one of those tax places that make their employees dress like the Statue of Liberty.
The hostess seats us at an iridescent booth that looks like one of those giant clamshells from The Little Mermaid that Ariel and her sisters hang out in. To my surprise, Mitch slides in next to me rather than across from me and I can’t stop the “oh” that slips from my lips.
The waitress comes for our drink order and Mitch asks, “Hey, you know those little crispy things? Could we get some of those and that bright orange sauce?”
“Um, okay,” says the waitress, a girl who I recognize as a senior from when I was a freshman.
Once she leaves, Mitch turns to me. “I used to hate coming to Chinese restaurants when I was a kid because they never bring bread out or put crackers on the table, so my mom always asked for those crispy things—”