South of Sunshine (2 page)

But I’m a little disappointed too.

The last thing I need is for the new girl to think I’m star-struck. I vow right here on the spot to avoid her at all costs. Even if it kills me.

Chapter 2

After history on Friday, I hustle my butt to the library. The librarian, Mrs. Bellefleur, asks one student to be her aide each year. The last two years she’s picked me. She
loves
me. The job is only on Fridays, but it gets me out of sixth period—Social Media in the Digital Age—which is a fancy name for computer class. Not only do I get to skip my brain numbing computer class, I get to help pick what books we add to the library, and it has never been so popular. I’ve even seen Chuck the Buck reading.

The buzz in the hallways about tonight’s party amps up my giddiness. I surely hope the new girl isn’t going to be there. With any luck, lake parties will be too backwoods for her.

“Eek!” I squeak when Van gooses me. The stack of textbooks I’m carrying slides dangerously to one side. “Vander Elgin Lovelace!”

He falls in step alongside me. “Oooo. What’s up with you? And why are we running?”

I puff a breath to move the bangs that have fallen into my eyes. “I’m on my way to the library. Mrs. Bellefleur says if I can get all the books done early, I can—”

“Skip school?”

“No. I can return the Community Swap books back to the public library.”

“And skip school,” Van says a little too loudly as we pass the principal’s office.

“Shh. I’m not ditching school,” I say softer. Technically, I’m not. The public library and Sunshine High have a check-out-a-book-return-it-anywhere policy. The idea is if you make it convenient to return the books, students will read more. It works, sort of.

“You have that woman wrapped around your little finger.”

I grin. “It’s not my fault Mrs. Bellefleur has a turd for a husband, and my reading suggestions rekindle the forgotten sixteen-year-old in her.”

To avoid the main flow of traffic, Van and I cut through what everyone calls Taco Hall because it’s where the Mexicans hang out. Ugh. Some people’s sense of humor is downright awful at this school.

“Hey, so … do you think you could ask Sarabeth to co-chair on the Homecoming Parade Committee with us?” Van doesn’t look at me when he asks this. “You know, because she’s got a great eye for design.”

“Ha! I knew you liked her style. I don’t know why y’all are so fashion competitive. You’re both destined to be voted best dressed.” Van perks at this thought. We round the corner just before the library. “And yes. We’re cutting early to get pedicures; I’ll ask her then.”

“You hate when people pick at your feet.” He grimaces.

“I know, but girl maintenance is necessary for the single greatest party of the school year.” I stop just outside of the library. “I’ve gotta go. Sarabeth told me to be at her car in fifteen minutes.” I turn to walk away.

“Guess you don’t want to hear how lunch went.”

I freeze. I can’t believe I forgot. It’s not unlike Van to migrate in the cafeteria from table to table; he likes to work his popularity. And there’s only so much plaid the boy can take. Today, he ate lunch with the new girl.

The girl who has made friends with everybody in school.

The girl who lived for two years in Zimbabwe.

And the girl I have successfully avoided all week.

My heart pounds in my throat. Self-preservation tells me to keep walking forward and to blow him off with a simple, “Tell me later. I’m in a rush.” Survival instincts have served me this far in life. Surely I can live through the new girl epidemic.

But the dark little secret I’ve hidden away and locked up tight peeks its ugly head out. Despite my better judgment, it wants to be fed.

I turn around, cool and easy. “Lunch? What … were the Tater Tots extra crispy today?” I’m too casual, too nonchalant. And Van knows he’s got me.

He just stands there, quiet, with a schmuck-face grin. I want to strangle him and kick my own ass for letting him bait me.

The halls start to clear, and any second the sixth period late bell is going to ring. I’m dying to know what they talked about. I’d tongue Slug Boy again if it meant Van telling me, but I will not break down and ask. I will not break down and ask.

I will
not
break down and ask.

The bell rings as my lips part open to betray me.

“Andrew invited her to the party.” Van waggles his brows and starts to strut away.

Before I can stop myself, I step in front of him, cutting him off. “He did? What did she say?” Andrew invited the new girl? I’m glad to hear her new-girl popularity trumps her winter tan, but dang it, this is just going to make it harder to avoid her. And even harder to continue to deny who I really am.

“She said ‘Sounds cool.’” He cops a swagger tone for the last words.

“What does that mean? Is she going or not?” A thousand excuses for bailing out of this party pop into my mind. Not a single one of them would fly with Van or Sarabeth.

“I’m late.” Van shimmies past me. Halfway down the hall he calls back to me, “She asked if
you
were going to be there.” He disappears into the art room.

My tongue catches in my throat when I try to swallow.
She asked about me?
Why? Surely she doesn’t know I’m … not like the other girls at school. How does she even know who I am? I’ve done a superior job of avoiding her this last week. And as luck would have it, I don’t have a single class with her.

Up until now, I thought that was a good thing.

I shake out the frenzy of nonsense growing in my head and rush into Mrs. Bellefleur’s office. She’s sipping a cup of joe from her favorite mug. Red letters across the black cup read “Vampires suck in Forks, Washington.”

Upon seeing me, she clunks down her mug. “Oh, your pedicure.” I try to shush her, but she fans away my concern with her hand.

On the book cart she shows me which books need to be put away, which need repair, and how to handle those, but I don’t hear a thing because sitting at one of the library tables is the new girl. And she’s not alone.

Chesty Hannigan
giggles her bubbly ditzy laugh. That girl will flirt, kiss, or screw anyone. The only reason she gets away with this behavior is because her family owns a local chain of funeral homes, making her family the second richest in Sunshine. Obviously she’s taking a break from making out with my ex to hit on the new girl. They look like they are having fun, and for some reason, I want to smack Chelsea. And not because she’s dating Dave now.

The new girl—whose name I found out is Bren Dawson—laughs too. She holds her finger horizontal under her nose, a big bushy mustache inked onto it. It sounds like she is doing a Principal Cain impersonation, and it’s actually pretty accurate. I can’t help but laugh too.

Mrs. Bellefleur looks at me. My cheeks flush, and I wipe the grin from my face and grip the books I don’t remember picking up. “So, I should repair these books next week?” I ask, hoping I’ve recalled the conversation correctly.

“Yes, honey. Just stack them in that pile for now, so we can clear this cart for returns.” She pulls the rest of the books from the return box under the desk.

Like a drone, I walk the books to the shelf where she directed me, all the while my eyes trained on the giggle-fest that is Chesty Hannigan. I strain to hear what she’s saying. The books don’t quite fit on the crammed shelf, so I have to shove them in. Then I hear a mousy squeal.

I jerk my head up. Bren is holding Chelsea’s hand, studiously drawing a mustache on her finger. Chelsea holds it up to her face and giggles again.
Vomit.

“Miss Hannigan?” Mrs. Bellefleur barks to Chelsea.

Everyone’s attention snaps to Mrs. Bellefleur. Bren’s eyes flick over to me.

“Is there a reason you’re lingering past the bell? Or do you think you can find your way to class without a detention slip? Miss Dawson, I believe you have work to do.”

Slowly, Chelsea gathers her books—taking her sweet ass time. Bren opens up one of her textbooks and makes a show of studying. Chelsea looks sheepishly at the new girl and whispers something that makes her smile. Bren slips another glance at me. I drop my gaze to the books.

The freaking skank
finally
leaves.

“Well, Kaycee, you’d better get to shelving if you want to get out in time to return these books to the public library.” Mrs. Bellefleur winks.

“Yes, ma’am.” I hurry the squeaky-wheeled cart behind the wall of shelves and shove the books into their proper places.

In no time, I finish the history and science sections and make my way over to the reference books. What I should be doing is bashing my skull in with this six-inch-thick dictionary for being like the very zealots who stalk the new girl. And yet here I am, obsessing over her like the freaking paparazzi.

I stretch up on my toes to slide a flimsy atlas onto the top shelf. I’m just a hair too short. I step on the bottom shelf to boost myself up just a teensy bit more—

“Can I help you?” Bren’s voice catches me off guard, and I slip. My chin bounces off the wooden shelf, and my teeth jab my bottom lip. Books thunder downward as I fumble and catch myself. The tangy taste of copper bitters my mouth.

“Oh man.” She lurches toward me. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you.”

I reverse back like a cat avoiding water. “It’s okay. No worries.” My teeth tingle.

At the end of the row, I catch Mrs. Bellefleur watching us. As soon as she sees me staring back, she busies herself with some paperwork and smiles at her desk.

“Hey, I’m Bren.” Her voice is velvet smooth. I become caramel, warm and gooey. I hesitate before shaking her lingering palm. Static pulses zigzag throughout my body; quickly I yank my hand back. An unreadable grin edges Bren’s lips.

“Hi. I’m Kaycee. Kay-c-double e.” I reply with my standard introduction. Her brow frowns. “The spelling … sorry. K-a-y-c-e-e. As in Kay-c-double e.” Shut up, Kay-duh-cee. Repeat yourself much?

Her lips widen into a smile, baring a perfect row of shiny white teeth. “Cute,” she says.

“I try,” I say with a bit of oomph in my voice, and then semi-curtsy. What the heck is wrong with me? I’ve always been able to block this part of me, and one gorgeous girl with amazing eyebrows and a blinding smile will not change that now.

Will. Not.

Bren thumbs over her shoulder. “Mrs. B said you were in a rush. So I offered to help you put the books away.”

Oh, Mrs. Meddling Freaking B.
What on earth made her do that?

Together we pick the books up off the floor. I try real hard like to ignore her fresh scent of ocean and spice. This is my opportunity to tell her how lame the party is going to be tonight and convince her not to go. “By blue blay—” I blubber like a baby. My now fattening lip bulges against my tongue.

Bren starts to laugh and looks up at me. “Oh.” Her face falls. “Your lip.” She gestures to the corner of her own mouth.

I dab my lip, and a smear of blood smudges my thumb. “Oh man, I’m bleeding like a stuck pig,” I say, which comes out sounding like I have a lisp. Nice.

“What?”

“Nothing.” I wipe my mouth and hide my crimson face. “Um, let me just show you how the books should be put away and then—”

“Pssst, Kaycee.” Sarabeth calls from the end of the bookshelf. “What is taking you so long? I’m tired of waiting. You ready or what?”

“Yeah. Just a sec.” I sigh in relief for the chance to escape all this closeness. I give a hearty pat to the books left on the cart. “Okay, all I have left are these paperbacks. They’re on the honor system. We organize them in alphabetical order by author’s last name on that shelf over there.” I point and speak extra loud because this is all about the library biz, nothing else.

Sarabeth motions me with her hand to come on.

I scoot around the cart extra quick as I pass Bren. I thumb my back pockets and bounce. “Think you can handle it?”

“Not a problem. I can handle quite a bit.” Bren pops up a brow.

Swallow. “Cool.” I swivel around and scurry toward Sarabeth. Omigod, is she flirting with me? Or maybe, Kaycee, she’s just the super friendly type. Freaking relax.

“See you tonight,” Bren calls from behind. Sarabeth cuts a weird look to Bren then me. I clear my throat and smile.

“Finally. I thought you were going to keep yakking all day,” Sarabeth says as we sneak out the side entrance toward the parking lot. “Look at your lip. What the heck happened?”

I’m wondering the same thing myself.

Chapter 3

Main Street cuts through the center of town with the courthouse dead in the middle. Shops border a square around the historical judicial building. On the east side is Kappy’s Diner—a home-style food place—and Hot Flix, the video store Van’s parents own. On the corner is Mother’s Merle Norman shop, where she sells their makeup brand alongside her clothing boutique.

When I pass the diner, Mr. Bobby greets me from his usual hitching post at the bistro tables. He’s been a permanent fixture in Sunshine since forever. Back in the mid ’60s when he ran the
Sunshine Review
, he made local history when he hired black journalists to report on the Civil Rights Movement, a risk not many white business owners took back then. People like him are the reason I want to teach American History someday.

He’s also the sweetest old man I know despite my mother’s opinion about the color of his girlfriends.

“Nice tootsies, toots,” he says. The breeze lifts his soft white hair. He smoothes it back down over his bald spot.

I stop in front of Mr. Bobby’s table to wiggle my shiny new colorful pedicure.

“What’s them there sparkly things?” His shaky finger points toward my toes. Tiny crystals center the flowers on each big toe.

“Rhinestones. Fancy, huh?” I eye the limp purple flowers lying on the table. “Any luck getting Ms. Doris Carver to fall in love with you yet?”

“Nope. Asked her to Sunday lunch. She said she was thinking on it. Don’t worry,” his old voice revs. “I wooed her back in the day, I can do it again.” He winks.

“I’m sure you will, Mr. Bobby.” I wave at Van’s mother in Hot Flix as I pass. The sound of the door chime in my mother’s boutique announces my entrance.

Baby powder and a heavy musk choke the air. Why do old ladies find it necessary to bathe in perfume that puts hair on your eyeballs? A gaggle of ladies ooo and aah over the new clothing that’s just come in.

Mother spies me. Refined ash-brown hair curls just below her ear. Starch keeps her blouse and skirt crisp. Her eyes scan my T-shirt and shorts. I immediately know what the scowl on her face means. Remembering her audience, Mother lightens her expression.

“Kaycee,” she says, almost too cheerfully. As she approaches me, the scowl returns. “I thought I asked you to wear the khakis and blouse I just bought you.” It’s a harsh whisper in my ear. “And what’s wrong with your lip?”

“Bit it.” I turn away so she can’t see my flushed face. The only reason I own khaki slacks is because she bought them. The floral blouse, with its scarf-tied-into-a-bow collar is something my grandmother would wear. No, thank you.

“Paula, can you help me decide between the black sandals or the coral?”

“Be right there, dear,” Mother says to Mrs. Jones, then turns back to me. “And what is that crap on your toes?” she asks from the corner of her mouth. “Is that something that Van fellow put you up too?”

“No, Mother. Van doesn’t get his nails painted, contrary to what you believe.” I love how she refers to him as “that Van fellow,” as if he hasn’t been my best friend since the beginning of time.

“Well, it looks
ghetto
.” She whispers the last word as if it’s a sin to say it.

Ignoring her, I drop my book bag behind the makeup counter and get to work helping old Mrs. Perkipsky pick out clip-on earrings for her drooping lobes.

These old ladies with their thickly rouged cheeks and lipstick-stained teeth have worked me to death. With a pile of clothes on one arm and two boxes of shoes under the other, I glance at the clock. Twenty minutes until close, and then time to go to the party. I’m still trying to decide if this knot in my stomach is dread or excitement.

I hand the clothes from the dressing room to my mother and kneel down to help one of the ladies slip a loafer on to her knotty, corned feet. I spend a moment or so wrestling with her foot before I notice the collective hush. I turn toward the door just as it closes, and the most gorgeous creature I have ever seen saunters in. Immediately, I recognize the firm sculpted brows and sultry eyes. This has to be Bren’s mother.

“Good afternoon,” Mother greets her. Her eyes greedily devour the woman’s regal appearance. Mrs. Dawson is tall and swooping with the grace of a macaw. The other women lean to get a better look-see as if polarized by her presence.

“Hello. I wonder if you carry remover for makeup.” Every syllable is short and crisp. Her accent, whatever it is, is light. Her skin is bronzier than Bren’s. Rose liner defines the sharp arc of her lips, which are not plump like Bren’s.

The low buzz of chatter returns as Mother leads Mrs. Dawson over to the makeup counter and shows her one of Merle Norman’s products.

One of the ladies from my church says it first. “She looks like she’s got a little
something
in her.” There they go whispering about sins again. The mentality of some people around here grates on my nerves.

“She looks like a Mexican.”

So every Latina is automatically a Mexican?
These women are so clueless.

From the five women in the semi-circle that’s formed around me, comments and opinions jump around.

“What’s Larry Beaudroux hiring Mexicans for?”

“Her husband is not a Mexican. She is.”

“What is he then … Puerto Rican?” Mrs. Jones’s southern accent makes it sound more like Pordo-ree-can.

Where in the heck is she getting that?

“Her husband ain’t no kind of ‘can,’ because I’ve seen him. He’s a handsome fellow. I wish I could catch a husband that looked like him.”

Mrs. Jones scrunches her nose at Ms. Rita’s plump figure. “Huh. You’d have better luck catching a meal at a buffet than a husband like that.” All the women cackle, except for Mrs. Rita.

“Are you starting to get a little hot tamale fever there, Rita?” One of the ladies mocks her and fans herself.

“I don’t like wetbacks.”

“Shhh!” A sharp shush cuts the women off mid-sentence. All eyes land on me. Did that come from my mouth? Frozen in the wake of the silence, I await their reprimands. I don’t know what I was thinking shushing my elders like that.

To my astonishment, the ladies turn their conversation back to the shoes and clothing.

Mortification is what I was thinking. If Bren’s mother heard them I would be so embarrassed. I’ve known these church-going women all my Sunday school days. They have always been this way, but I’ve never had the nerve to say anything before.

Mother bags up Mrs. Dawson’s products, and it’s not until the door closes behind her that I get the scoop. According to Ms. Rita, Larry Beaudroux—Sarabeth’s dad and the biggest factory owner this side of Tennessee—hired Bren’s father to save the machinist plant. The power tool company sold its manufacturing rights to a plant in Mexico. If Mr. Larry doesn’t get a contract with a new factory to establish itself in Sunshine, a lot of people will be out of jobs. Mr. Dawson has ties to several countries, and it’s rumored that a Japanese auto company is considering our small town for its main production plant.

“Great, they’re importing Japs into Sunshine now.” Mrs. Jones screws her face into a more soured expression.

“I hear they’re paying him a pretty penny to set this all up,” my mother says.

“What’s a pretty penny?” Mrs. Perkipsky asks. That’s exactly what I was thinking.

There’s a staged pause before my mother answers. “Five. Hundred. Thousand. Plus a ten percent finder’s fee.”

“Where’d you hear that?” I blurt out.

“From Nancy at the beauty shop. You know her sister’s neighbor works in the human resource office at Rally Tools.”

I consider the source. Ms. Nancy does have her nose in every nook and cranny of Sunshine. She’s probably right. The women continue gabbing, asking one another if they saw “the size of her rock” or “the fine leather on her purse.” I guess Mrs. Dawson’s financial status trumps her ethnic background. Pathetic.

Oh shoot.
I’m late meeting Sarabeth. I pull Mother aside. “Um, I’m supposed to meet Sarabeth for the Goodman party, but if you need me to stay late and close, I can.” Right now, my mother is my only saving grace to bail me out of this party and avoid those things I desperately need to avoid. Though it would be the first time in four years I’ve missed the party, and I would look like a complete loser if I didn’t go. Of course there’s also that part of me that doesn’t want to keep avoiding “those things” anymore.

“Oh, you’re going to the
Goodman
party with
Sarabeth Beaudroux
?” Mother intentionally over-pronounces their names loud enough for the ladies to know I’m friends with some of the wealthiest families in town, as if it elevates our meager social status by proxy. “Well you don’t want to be late for that. Go. Take off. Skedaddle. Momma’s got plans anyway.”

Fantastic. The one time I need my mother to be the slave driver she usually is, she decides to be nicey-nicey and let me off. And I bet she has plans with Mr. Billy Arden. Ever since his divorce, he’s been sitting in the same pew as us at church. Something is definitely up with those two.

“And if any of them unsavory kids show up, I expect you to come on home,” she hollers at my back as I jet out the door. “Unsavory” is code for nonwhite and poor. I’d like to point out to her that we’re half unsavory based on the tiny size of our bank account.

On the way to my car, my cell beeps with a text from Sarabeth.

Where r u?


Running late. R u ready?


Another beep.
Gurl, they better have fire extinguishers out there bcz I’m smokin hot n this dress. Andrew better be ready for a good time, esp if I’m going to be getting my drink on.


I laugh out loud. Maybe I’ll be having too much fun to even notice Bren. My only hope is that by some miracle, she will not be at this party, and I won’t have to deal. What was up with her asking Van about me? I don’t even know what to make of that. Then again, she seemed pretty flirty with that I-Can-Handle-a-Lot comment and her glorious smile and stuff.

Oh God, if she’s at the party, she’s probably going to want to talk—which means a whole lot of her up in my space.

A clammy sweat breaks over my body. An unsettling feeling in my gut whispers things I’d rather not think about. Things I’m certain I filed away in that never-going-to-go-there box. Next to my car, I bend over and do the whole head-between-the-legs routine to keep from throwing up. I inhale and exhale long, deep breaths. I’ve kept this part of me a secret this long; I am not going to ruin it now. That voice of reason speaks up, the one that tells me I’m over-thinking shit again. I remind myself that there is absolutely no reason I can’t be polite to the new girl without going all fangirl on her.

Or I could just never talk to her, ever.

Because that’s worked out for me so far.