I watch as my mom walks down the driveway and past her car with her lunch box and purse in hand. She taps on my window with the hard acrylic nail of her index finger. Once. Twice.
When I don’t budge, she opens my door wide. “Let’s go. I’ll give you a ride to school.”
I slam my head against the headrest and let out a totally warranted sigh.
“Well, aren’t you just having a come-apart?” Mom calls over her shoulder as she walks back up the driveway to her car. “I’ll call Bruce to see about getting her looked at, but in the meantime your pained sighs aren’t doing you a lick of good.”
The whole way to school my mom flips between the oldies and the Christian radio station. We’re not very religious, but going to church is part of Mom’s personality. It’s not even an act or anything, just her social outlet, I guess.
At school, she lets me out at the carport where all the freshmen and every other car-less soul hangs out. “Can you get a ride home with Ellen? I’ve got a pageant meeting.”
“Yeah, I’ll figure something out.”
I’m halfway up the walkway when I hear: “Dumplin’! Dumplin’! You forgot your phone!”
My whole body goes straight like a steel rod. A few pimply-faced boys laugh. My mother’s nickname for me is . . . whatever. I can’t remember a time when she didn’t call me Dumplin’. It doesn’t bother me, I don’t think. But it’s not something she really calls me outside of the house—for obvious reasons. I mean, who really wants to be called a ball of dough in public?
I walk quickly back to the car, and Mom hands me my phone. “Please don’t call me that outside the house, okay?”
She smiles. “Just my little pet name is all. Hey, dinner on your own tonight?”
I nod.
“Pageant season,” she adds again by way of explanation.
I take the phone and speed walk back up the sidewalk. Near the entrance, leaning up against a pole, is Patrick Thomas. He smiles, but it’s more of a sneer. He’s the type of person you want to be invisible to. But he sees me. And whatever decision he’s just made about me can’t be undone.
After second period, Mitch follows me out into the hallway. “Hey, I texted you a few times yesterday. I thought maybe we could hang out on Sunday. We could see a movie or something. I’d say Saturday, but coach wants us to come in and watch film for next week’s game.”
I keep walking. He grabs my hand, stopping me.
“Who’s your girlfriend, Mitch?” calls a freshman with his hands cupped around his mouth.
“We’re not dating!” I yell back.
Mitch’s cheeks flush red.
I yank my hand back and head in the opposite direction. I feel like a terrible person. But today is not my day, and I don’t have it in me to play along with him like we might be anything more than friends.
Still, I owe him an apology.
“Will!” he calls after me.
I don’t turn around. As I take the corner, I hear: “Oh, hey! Dumplin’!” Patrick Thomas drags each letter out. He grins as he points over my head. “And Mitch! My man. Finally met a lady your own size.”
I’ve been teased enough in my life to know that there are several ways to react to a bully. It only took me crying once in the second grade to realize that tears only lead to more bullying.
Lucy always said to ignore bullies. That they thrived on attention, and if you paid them no mind, you took away their fuel. I think that, for the most part, this is true. But Patrick Thomas is one of those jerks who needs no reason to keep talking. He likes the sound of his own voice that much.