South of Sunshine (17 page)

None of this would have happened if Bren was here. It hurts my heart just to think her name. She’s so much smoother in these situations, diffusing things with her Bren-magic before anything even unfolds. I wish I could call her. See her. Let her long arms curl me in and just hold me.

I lean my head against the glass and close my eyes. From my memory, I recall her cool ocean scent. Let the waves of her calm me like the tide. A small tear trickles down my face and over my mouth. I lick my lips, tasting the salt and cracking open the cut. All I want to do is go home and crawl under my covers and
never
wake up again. This weight on my shoulders is too much to bear despite the good Lord’s promise to never give us more than we can carry. Maybe this is his way of punishing me for being what I am. These little events are signs from God, telling me I’ve gone down the wrong path. In my head I hear the preacher booming his damnation. I wonder if it
is
me who has the scripture all wrong, interpreting it for my needs.

Van’s hand on mine snaps me back to reality. “Maybe you should call her.”

“No.” I wipe the tears off my face. “Don’t say anything to her. Don’t tell her about tonight. No one has to know.”

Because once again, just like I did last night and like I’ve done for all these years of denial, I think if I ignore it, it doesn’t exist. That’s what I have to do to survive this town.

Chapter 18

The alarm buzzes its irritating burr, pulling me from the peace of my subconscious. As I slowly waken, the cold hard truth and feeling of dread eases back in like a nightmare. The loss of Bren, the knowledge Sarabeth has, and the shame of my bruised face punches me in the gut.

“Honey, if you’re still not feeling well, maybe you should stay home from school today.” Mother comes into my room to turn off my alarm. The infinite silence makes all the other crap in my life pound louder.

Or maybe that’s my face throbbing.

I keep the pillow over my head, for fear the makeup hiding my bruise has worn off. “I’m better. I’ve got a huge test today I don’t want to miss.” Which is a lie, but I hope the fear of failing squelches her nurturing instincts. Because, really, what kid wouldn’t take the opportunity to miss school? Oh yeah, that would be me—the total loser who needs to see Bren even though the thought of facing my peers is horrifying. I just need to get a glimpse of her, if only from afar.

That’s not pathetic in the slightest.

Faking sick did get me out of church yesterday, and it bought me an entire day curled up under the covers in the fetal position. Van tried to coax me out with his six hundred texts. Guess my I’m-fine-don’t-worry text wasn’t convincing enough. But I can’t live the rest of my life hiding under the pillows. My plan, if I can survive a week of cover-up and foundation, is to make it past the worst part of this hideous bruise and move on to the next chapter of my life, living as a hermit or a nun. I haven’t decided.

School will probably be safe to attend, as long as Sarabeth keeps quiet. The way I figure it, if Sarabeth hasn’t ratted me out to my mom so far, then maybe she won’t at all. And if she didn’t tell my mother, then maybe she won’t tell anyone. I have to believe that our years of friendship count for something.

Even though she’s angry and feels like I’ve betrayed her.

I hear Mother shuffling around my room, picking up clothes and straightening things. Something she never does, so my guilt for faking sick yesterday lingers a bit heavier.

“Well, if you really feel like you have to go …” I can feel her staring down on me. She wants me to come out of hiding so she can see for herself that I’m well, but I can’t let her see my face. I’m sure my botched makeup application has worn off on my pillowcase.

I clamp the pillows around my head and do a flip-roll to the other side of my bed, away from her. With my back to her, I pop out of bed and head straight to the bathroom. “See, I feel great,” I say, a little too chipper.

In the mirror I see most of the concealer
has
worn off. The bluing bruise that darkened my skin yesterday has turned into a nasty purple-black nightmare. Concealer is not going to cut it today. At least the bump has gone down, mostly. The thickness of my lip is only slight, and the tiny bruise just underneath is nothing compared to the monstrosity around the outer edge of my eye. I open up the drawer of Merle Norman makeup products Mother always hassles me to wear.

As I pull into the school parking lot, I scan it for Bren’s BMW. I don’t see it. She’d rather run the risk of tardiness than be forced to see me. Head down and tail tucked, I make my way into school. A group of kids watches me as I walk by. I can’t tell if they’re just observing me or gossiping about me.

Great. Paranoia strikes, and I’m not five seconds on campus.

I head straight for the bathroom to check my makeup one more time. A circus clown with a face full of foundation and blush stares back at me in the mirror. I scrunch and fluff my hair over the right side of my face. A single eyeball peers out through the veil of hair like some kind of mopey Goth girl.

A toilet flushes in the stall behind me, and I jump. The thrumming of my heart pulses at a ridiculous pace. I hold my breath, as if I expect the devil himself to appear. A slim girl I don’t know steps out. She gives me a polite smile as she washes her hands in the sink. I breathe a sigh of relief.
Relax, Kaycee.

Eventually, I will have to face Bren and Sarabeth—separately I hope.

After third period, I race over to the library to see if I can catch Bren coming out of study hall. I’m like a Peeping-freaking-Tom, skulking from behind one of the library shelves, hoping to catch a glimpse. After the last student leaves and no Bren, my heart aches. She’s definitely avoiding me. Probably got a hall pass from Mr. Wallace to miss class for the gym, knowing I might try to find her.
Dang it.

“Kaycee?”

I just about jump out of my skin at the sound of Mrs. Bellefleur’s voice.

“Are you okay?”

“Um, I was just …” I talk with my head half turned away from her so she can’t see my bad side, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world to hold my head at this awkward angle. “Looking for Bren.”

“Oh.” Her brow deepens. There’s a grave tone in her voice. “She wasn’t here.” She shakes her head. “I think she—”

“Later, Mrs. Bellefleur.”

Down the hall past the librarian, I spy Sarabeth coming out of class, and I know I’m not ready to deal with her yet. I pivot on my heels and take off.

In lab, I hunker down in my seat and concentrate on the Bunsen burner in front of me. It takes all my energy to focus on the experiment. Burning down the school because I can’t keep it together is not a good idea. But it’s eating me up that I haven’t even seen Bren yet. Usually I can spot her halfway down the hall from her height alone. The fact that she’s going to such lengths to avoid me is really beginning to sting.

Two girls at the front of the class giggle, looking at me. One of them reminds me of a weasel—pointy nose and small chin. A sweet, woody scent singes the air. Behind me Pyro Boy sets fire to his pencil. The two girls exchange glances and then whisper some more. Are they talking about me or Fire Boy?

“Stare much?” Pyro glares. I swivel back around. Weasel Girl laughs and blatantly cups her hand over her friend’s ear while scouring me with her eyes.

I am in a living hell.

Throughout the next class, I decide I will hunt Bren down and force her to listen to my apology with the promise to never bother her again. It’s for the best, for both of us. We only have until next May to suffer through school together, then both of us will be off to college; me at community college and Bren hundreds of miles away at some big-time college, playing basketball.

There was never a future for us anyway.

“Can I help you, Kaycee?” asks the drama teacher.

“Nope, just looking for a friend.” I scurry out of the theater, disheartened. Not that I actually expected to find Bren behind the stage, eating her lunch, but I hoped. I check the lunchroom, gymnasium, and the unofficial smoking section by the bus drop-off and pick-up side of the school.

What the heck?
I’m beginning to think she ditched school altogether. That’s when I realize, I need to check the parking lot and make sure her car is here. My feet pick up the pace as I walk to the other side of the school. Does Bren think Sarabeth will talk? She doesn’t know Sarabeth like I do. Sarabeth reacted, but she’s not the vindictive type, and she would never run her mouth. I know this.

I. Know. This.

Here I am running all over school, waiting for the chance to apologize in person, and if Bren’s not here—Bren wouldn’t do that to me, would she? Leave me to deal with the gossip, the whispers, and the judgments? Just abandon me?

Glass windows line the office wall just before the front door. I smile at Mrs. Young, the secretary, as I walk by. Off campus eating is not allowed. If she tries to stop me, I’ll tell her I’m getting my English book out of the car. My phone beeps. A quick glance and I see it’s Van again. I ignore him and keep heading to the parking lot. The front metal doors swing open. From the drop-off circle drive, I can see most of the parking lot, especially the last row where her car is usually parked. My heart drops. Just to be sure, I walk the rows of cars. My knees feel a little weak as I shuffle back inside. Maybe it’s because I haven’t eaten breakfast or lunch, but suddenly I feel like throwing up. Tears threaten. I clench my teeth.

Mrs. Young, no longer at her desk, tarries in the hallway, waiting for me.

“I was just—” I realize I don’t have a book in my hands to claim for an excuse. “I thought I left my English book in my car. Guess it’s at home.” I try to creep past her.

She lays a soft hand on my shoulder and stops me. “Are you okay, sweetie?”

My lip trembles, but I’m able to pull my mouth into a smile. “Yes, ma’am. I’m fine.”

“You know if you need to talk to the guidance counselor, she’s always available.”

Guidance counselor?
Panic ices my veins. Instinctively I pull my bangs over the right side of my face and hide behind them. “Um, okay … I’m good.” I duck my head and rush double-time to the bathroom to check my makeup. Normally I don’t wear this much. I didn’t even think to bring it with me to school to reapply.

The bathroom door slams against the concrete wall as I burst through. Some girl at the sink startles. I don’t even try to make apologies. From the glimpse I get of myself in the mirror, I think my makeup looks to be intact. I dart into the handicapped stall to hide until she finishes.

Lunch must be near-over because a few more girls come and go, then a few more. I’ll wait until after the bell if I have to. I shouldn’t be here. I could skip. Go home and tell Mother that after my “test” I couldn’t hold on any longer.

Yeah, because I really do feel like I’m about to fall apart.

Through the crack, I watch the last girl exit. The volume of voices from the nearby cafeteria increases as she opens the door. A burst of giggles explodes into the bathroom.

“She looks ridiculous,” says a girl shuffling in.

I’d know that condescending voice anywhere. It’s Chelsea Hannigan. I peek through the stall-crack and catch a glimpse of Chelsea, Misty, and two other girls. One of them is Weasel Girl from my lab class.

“All that makeup. What do you think happened to her?” asks Misty.

“I know what happened to her. One of the guys from the football team told me she got caught making out with that Bren Dawson chick,” says Chelsea.

Oh my god, people know. A clammy sweat breaks out all over my body. I huddle at the back of the stall against the cold slab wall. It doesn’t do much to sooth my churning stomach.

“Kaycee is a lesbian?” somebody asks.

“You have biology with her, Lindsey. How did you not know?” Chelsea accuses. “You can’t go around Sunshine, flaunting your gayness on a church hayride and shoving your immorality in people’s faces and expect them to take it. It looks like somebody tried to teach her a lesson.”

“That’s horrible. I can’t believe people would attack her,” says Misty. “I mean, no matter what she is, you can’t hurt people like that.”

“Are you a lesbo or something too?” Chelsea asks Misty. “Serves her right for going around and dyking out with that Bren girl. Next thing you know, they’ll be ruining our homecoming dance with a gay couple’s petition or some crap. They’re popular; it
could
happen.”

“Oh no. We can’t go to homecoming with a pack of lesbians forced in our faces. They just can’t come in here and treat us like this. It ain’t right,” says Weasel Girl.

“Didn’t you go out with
that
Bren girl once, Chelsea?” asks Misty.

“I didn’t go out with her like
that
,” Chelsea says. “I thought we were just going to play basketball after school as
friends
, and she practically attacked me.” More of the gasping.

That lying little skank.

“Let me borrow your lip gloss, Lindsey.” It’s silent for a moment, until Chelsea speaks again. “Maybe I should go to the guidance counselor and tell her what happened.” She presses and puckers her lips in the mirror. “You know, I’m a victim here.” She snivels.

Through the slight opening, I can see one of the girls rubbing Chelsea’s arm tenderly. They crowd around her all supportive. Bren would
never
do that to anyone. It takes everything I have in me not to rip open this stall door and beat Chelsea to a bloody pulp.

My phone beeps with a text message. All three girls snap their heads in my direction. Chelsea spies me through the crack. “How pathetic.”

My skin goes cold, and I can’t hold the bile in my stomach any longer. I crouch over the toilet and let everything go. Between my gagging, I hear them whispering to each other.

“Is that her?”

“I think she heard us.”

“Who gives a shit?”

“Should we get the nurse?”

Next period bell rings, pushing them out of the bathroom.

“She’s probably bulimic,” are the last words I hear before the door shuts behind them.

Lies. How could Chelsea—who I’m pretty sure is bisexual—say those horrible things? About me. About Bren. Bren has never, could never.

A string of spit hangs from my mouth. I dry heave and cough. I scrunch down next to the toilet and rest my head on my knees. As the queasy subsides, my anger catches hold and starts to boil over. Another beep from my phone. In the cramped space, I manage to dig it out of my pocket. There are three texts from Van.

Where r u?


Been looking 4u all day. Word is out.


The most recent one:
R u in the bathroom?


Beep.
I know you’re in there.


Beep.
If you don’t come out I’m coming in.


Beep.
I mean it.


The bathroom door creaks open. “Kaycee?” Van’s voice echoes from the doorway. From the lack of sound outside, I gather most students have hustled to their next class.

“Go away.” I tear an angry strip of toilet paper off to blow my nose. I use another to wipe my mouth. Makeup smears onto the tissue. What’s the point of hiding under all this muck if people know what lies underneath?

I flush the toilet and jump to my feet, bursting out of the stall. Van hovers in the doorway, half in and half out, with his foot propping it open.

“Well … I guess the cat’s out of the bag.” He gives me a lopsided smile, shrugging his shoulders.