South of Sunshine (16 page)

“I’m sorry, Bren. But I just, I didn’t want …” I can’t meet her eyes. Those eyes that had so much sparkle before now look upon me with so much hate. I shrink down to nothing. I feel lower than the scum on the bottom of my shoes.

“You know what, Kaycee? You were the last person I’d ever think to use me. I thought you were different. I thought you were better than that. Better than them. But really, you’re just a coward.” She spins around and stalks off.

I wrap my arms around myself and shiver. Silent tears stream down my face. I just want to curl into a ball and die. I hate that I let myself say those words. Even more, I hate myself. I can only imagine what Bren thinks of me. In one night, I have lost two of the most important people in my life. By morning, I will have probably lost my mother.

What have I done?

I should have never brought Bren.

I should have never come here tonight.

I should have never allowed myself to take it this far.

Chapter 17

“Are you going to puke in my car?” Van glances at me from the driver’s seat, skeptical.

I feel sick but not from a virus. I sit up a little straighter. “No. I’m not sick. I’m just … nothing. Okay.”

“Are you going to tell me what you and Bren fought about?” He keeps his eyes on the road.

“No.” At the mention of her name I glance at my phone. No messages. No “I miss you” heart pics on Instagram. Nothing. Just like the hundred other times I checked the dang thing today. Not a single word since last night. “And no, for the fiftieth time, I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Suit yourself.”

From my periphery I see him sneaking glances at me. Maybe I should tell him what happened, but the way I figure it, if I don’t talk about it, then maybe it’ll go away. Then I can wake up from this nightmare.

Sarabeth never outed me to my mother, or I wouldn’t be going to a movie with Van tonight. It was supposed to be a double date. I didn’t tell Van until he picked me up that Bren wasn’t coming. Based on my cheery persona, it took him all of two seconds to determine she and I had had a fight. I debated whether or not I should stay home, but being in the same vicinity as Mother and Billy was borderline revolting.

“You know if you just called her—”

“Vander,” I warn. I wanted to call her instead of texting her, but I couldn’t find my voice or the words. I dismissed her like she was last week’s trash. How do I even begin to apologize for something like that?

“I’m just saying. I don’t know what happened, but I’m sure this can be worked out.”

Doubtful. I think it’s too late for that. It’s too late for a lot of things.

I fiddle with the strands of my frayed jean shorts and stare out the window. Houses blur past. Van talks about the finished float, updates me on the latest Chelsea Hannigan gossip, and goes on about some Johnny Depp project. He doesn’t get more than an uh-huh or oh from me. I don’t have the will to muster up a full sentence.

When Van mentions we are going to the movie theater over in Lawrence, I’m grateful it’s not in Mason, where we have a big chance of running into somebody from school. Nobody would drive an extra fifteen minutes to Lawrence’s small rundown theater with Mason so close. I don’t know if Sarabeth will gossip about me, and I have no idea what Andrew will say either. It’s best to avoid everybody for as long as I can. Permanently, if possible.

At the Plaza, Vander hands me my ticket, and I have no clue what movie we’re going to see. The theater is a hole in the wall compared to the multiplex over in Mason. Threadbare carpet covers the floor, large stains cover the pattern. Only two movies show at a time and there’s no stadium seating. The third theater was gutted years ago with a huge opening cut into the cinderblock as a doorway. They turned it into an arcade room. There has to be some kind of fire code against lining up a couple hundred-pound machines on an inclined floor like that.

Arthur bounces over when he sees us enter, adorable as always. His squeal of delight snags the attention of a few teenage couples, locals I’m sure. They observe us a bit longer than I feel comfortable with.

We share a couple clipped hugs, then Arthur asks, “Where’s Bren?”

“Sick,” Van says. I’m grateful for the little white lie. It’s easier than having to explain something that I’m trying to will out of existence. Without skipping a beat, they break into a conversation, excluding me. I’m more than happy to be pushed to the side so I don’t have to make small talk.

On the screen, buildings explode, cars chase, and guns kill. I peek at my phone several times, afraid I didn’t feel it vibrate. No messages. Bren must have believed what I said to Sarabeth. She has to think I am a horrible monster to lead her on so. If she would just call me, then I could explain I said those things out of self-preservation and fear. I meant none of them.

But that isn’t the point, is it? Whether I meant them or not, by saying those things I denied what I am. What she is. I’ve only fooled myself into thinking I’ve changed.

“Hey, try not to look so morose, will ya?” Van whispers to me after the movie.

“Sorry.” I numbly follow them into the arcade.

Blinks and chinks echo in the room. The angle of the floor unbalances me with its funhouse feeling. We pass a couple kissing in the corner. My first thought is I will probably never kiss Bren again. Obviously I stare too long because the lip-locked couple’s friend, a guy with buzz cut hair and a cigarette tucked behind his ear, watches us walk to the back of the room. Even after we pass him, he makes a show of turning around and leaning up against a pinball machine to continue the stare-down.

Instead of tossing a few quarters down a machine, I sit cross-legged on a boxy wooden bench while Van and Arthur play a bowling video game.

“So, Bren’s sick?” Arthur asks between one of his turns.

“Huh?” The mention of her name pulls me out of the fog. I munch on some popcorn I don’t remember us buying.

“You look like you might be coming down with it too. What did you say she had?” Arthur takes an obvious step back, teasing.

“Just her sinuses.” Van throws over his shoulder. “Nothing contagious.” He waves off Arthur’s concerns with the flip of a hand. Van gives me a get-your-shit-together glare.

“No, I’m not sick. I’m fine.”
Fine as a Popsicle in the desert.
I hop off my perch as if that proves I’m not sick. “Long night, that’s all.”

“He-llooo.” A colorful voice calls from the other side of the room. The way Arthur jerks his head to attention, it’s obvious he recognizes it.

That’s not the only thing that’s obvious.

The guy’s pink polo with its turned-up collar, paired with his overly big wave from way across the room makes him look like a dancing flamingo. The sway in the guy’s walk screams gay. I tuck into my shell and try to disappear. How can he just walk in here so openly gay? Doesn’t he notice the questioning looks from the brooding Buzz Cut in the corner?

Another not-so-flamboyant friend trails behind.

Arthur snaps his head toward Van. “I didn’t invite him here. I swear,” he mumbles before the boys make it to us.

“Arthur,” the flamingo boy says. There’s a show of stiff hugs. “Who are your friends?” He eyes Van and me like pieces of candy— more Van than me.

Arthur introduces us all to Carlos—pink, loud, and proud—and John, soft and invisible. They’re both from Culver, a neighboring town to Lawrence. They’ve known Arthur for a while. The way Van stands is so stiff it makes me wonder if there is history between Arthur and Carlos.

“Omigosh, I kill at bowling.” Carlos scoots Van to the side and takes over the controls. He makes fun of Van’s score, then spin-slaps the rolling ball with arrogance and nails a spare.

My protective instincts kick in, and I want to dropkick this pissant. But I don’t have to take a step. It’s Arthur who’s all Johnny on the Spot. “I think it’s cute he’s letting me win.”
Aww.
Arthur winks at Van. Carlos shrugs off the dismissal. John, who has not said two words, seems a bit shutdown. Van takes his turn again, with Arthur giving him pointers.

“You dating one of these bozos?” A heavily twanged voice mumbles over my shoulder. Stale cigarette smoke follows his words. The hair on my neck stands on end.

The boys are engaged in a bowlerama. But I know if I needed to claim Van’s arm as my boyfriend, he’d follow suit and ad-lib if need be. Slowly, I incline my head to confirm it’s Buzz Cut haunting my shoulder. “Um. We’re all
just friends
.” I hope the “just friends” covers any suspicions.

He makes a sucking noise as if he’s clearing food from his teeth and gives me a satisfied cat grin. He pulls up a stool right next to me as if I’ve invited him closer.

“Um, who invited the trailer park?” Carlos murmurs, but I’m sure the guy hears.

“You got something to say, pansy?” Buzz Cut gets up off his stool. He bumps my shoulder in the process. Everybody but Carlos cowers back from this guy’s obvious distaste. The fear grows inside of me. All I want to do is get out of here.

“I just call ’em like I see ’em.” Carlos preens.

Van steps in, using his body to separate the two boys. “He’s just talking shit. Just ignore him. No harm.”

I widen my eyes at Van, hoping he gets that I’m asking him what the heck he thinks he’s doing.

“You know what I don’t like?” The guy cocks his head as if he’s analyzing the lot of us—“People like
you
who think they own this fucking town.”

At this point, the few people who are in the arcade crowd behind Buzz Cut. It’s an army compared to the five gays. Where are the theater employees? And not the sixteen-year-old concessions stand boy who wouldn’t be able to fight his way out of a wet paper bag.

“What I want to know,” Buzz Cut looks to his cronies for backup, “is why faggots like you think they can prey on innocent little sweethearts like her.” He tugs at the hem of my T-shirt, pulling me to his side, as if I’m some kind of victim in this massive homosexual scene. I shrink closer to the pinball machine.

“Don’t touch her.” Van steps forward—all big brother—and everything blurs.

Buzz Cut reaches to shove Van, and I strike forward to stave off the coming fight. When my hand lands on Buzz Cut’s shoulder, it sets off a spring-loaded reflex, and his elbow flies back, accidently bashing me in the lip.

The impact is so fierce, my head snaps back. I flail my arms to catch myself, but the angle of the concrete floor throws me off balance. My body twists, tangling my feet together, and I fall, smacking the edge of a pinball machine with my face. Pinpoints of light burst in the black.

Even though I feel the weight of my body thud against the floor, the only pain my brain zeros in on is the pulsing at my eye socket and jaw.

My lids open and close with slow, heavy blinks. Blood tinges my taste buds, metallic and flat. Through my blurred vision, I watch the scuffle. The scene seems to double and split. I think it’s Van who struggles to get past Buzz Cut, but I can’t focus enough to tell for sure.

Loud Spanish curses fill the air. “Faggot,” “your kind,” and “wetback” retaliate back. I tell my body to roll over and get up, but it won’t listen.

A deep, full-bodied voice thunders into the room and silences the bickering. I manage to lift my head, but it’s Arthur who lifts me to my feet. I wobble a bit, and he pulls me against him.

“You’re okay, Kaycee. Just lean on me.” Arthur’s smile is so soft, kind. Van is going head to head with Buzz Cut.

A potbellied man with a balding head jabs his finger in the air toward Van and Carlos. John is nowhere in sight. “You and your troublesome friends need to git your asses out of my theater. This ain’t no homosexual social club. You take your gay crap to California where all them other liberal hippies live. Law or no law, you’ll never be equal in my book. And you ought to be ashamed,” the owner says, stabbing his finger over to me. “You all disgust me. It ain’t normal, I tell ya. You gay people are destroying marriage and family values across the country. We don’t tolerate that around here. Now git out before I call the sheriff.”

Van says nothing and grabs the other side of me, and together we scurry out of there. I glance back over my shoulder. Carlos humphs. He kicks his chin up as high as he can and prances right though the hateful glares of the rednecks. He pauses just in the doorway as if he’s about to mouth off one last thing—

“Carlos. Let’s go,” Van hollers back just as we push though the front door. He doesn’t wait to see if Carlos obeys, but he does.

Outside in the parking lot, I pull away from my escorts. “I can walk.” I ease off Arthur’s shoulder and test my legs the last few feet to the car. “Am I bleeding?”

Both the boys look at me with grim faces. “No,” Van says. “Well, a little from your lip, but that’s all.”

“Then why does it feel like the right side of my face has been through a few rounds?” I sit against Van’s car. The cool metal kisses the back of my exposed legs. I’m half tempted to put my face on the car to sooth the swelling.

“You’re going to have a shiner,” Arthur says, grimacing. He presses his cold soda against my face. The pressure stings, but the coolness feels great. “There’s a good sized bump too.”

“Lovely.” I glance back over my shoulder. “We need to leave before they do call the cops.”

Across the lot, Carlos watches us a moment before he and John get in his Chrysler LeBaron.

“I’m sorry about Carlos. His mouth gets the best of him sometimes.” Arthur shrugs.

“You don’t say,” Van says, unenthusiastic.

“Look, I hope this doesn’t make problems for us. He’s just—”

“A pompous jerk who doesn’t know when to keep his mouth shut,” Van finishes for him. He tightens his fists. I can tell he’s itching in his skin. Van hurriedly opens my door and helps me get in. “My best friend has a fat lip and a black eye, and it’s that little shit’s fault.” Van points in the direction of Carlos’s car—which is screeching its tires, racing out of the parking lot.

I sigh, exasperated. “Look, guys, Carlos mouthed off. I got a stray elbow to the face. The black eye was an unpleasant result, an accident. Van, don’t let that Miami POS come between you and Arthur. Let’s just get gone before those guys decide to come out here and make their point a little clearer. Say your good-byes and let’s go.”

Arthur looks like a wounded bird. It’s obvious he’s flogging himself good for something out of his control. “Okay.” He tosses a low wave. “Later, guys.” Moping, he gets in his car and leaves.

I can see the strain in Van’s face. We take off right behind him.

Silence carries us for most of the drive home. I flip down the visor to check my mug in the mirror. There’s a nice bump on my cheekbone. Light purplish-pink shades under my eye and around the outer edge. I hope it’s just redness from being a fresh hit and will not turn into a bruise, but the throbbing says otherwise. My bottom lip bulges out into a ridiculous pout. A bloody crack splits the middle.

“Do you think we need to take you to the hospital? Get it checked out?” Van asks as I push the visor closed.

“No. I’ll be fine. I didn’t lose consciousness or throw up.” Saw stars, but who wouldn’t? Mixed emotions transform Van’s face. I hate that he’s blaming Arthur, or worse, himself, for some douche bag’s actions. Heck, even the guy who did it didn’t mean to put an elbow to my face—not that he apologized about it either. He probably figures it serves me right for running with the like. Wonder what he’d do to me if he knew I
was
the like. Maybe teach me a lesson like Cowboy Hat promised.