“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, I sift through the stacks of Lucy’s records before placing one on the player. I watch as the needle follows the grooves of Dolly’s voice.
TWENTY-ONE
Last night was my first night at the Chili Bowl. No one, I mean no one, comes into the Chili Bowl. If my first shift was any indication, it is mathematically impossible for the electricity to still be on.
At the end of the night, when Alejandro locked the door behind us, he sighed through his nose and said, “Just not chili season yet.”
I can’t imagine the time of year makes all that much difference when South Texas is only known to have two seasons: Hot as Balls and Not Quite as Hot as Balls.
Because I had nothing to do last night except relive the most awkward date ever, I compiled a list of pros and cons regarding my most recent life choice.
Pros and Cons of Working at the Chili Bowl
PROS
I can wear jeans. No more polyester dresses that zip up the front.
I don’t like chili, so I won’t be stuffing my face any time soon.
No Bo.
No drunk teenagers who want chili five minutes before we close.
Minimal cleaning because of the whole no one comes here thing.
It’s quiet.
CONS
I smell like chili.
fewer hours = less money
No Bo.
It’s too quiet.