South of Sunshine (3 page)

Chapter 4

Orange and purple hues cover the sky as the sun sets. The Goodmans’ lakeside property rests on their two hundred acres out in the middle of nowhere. It’s home to some of the best horse trails around. Andrew and Sarabeth picked me up in his four-by-four truck. The last time I drove out here in my silver Honda Civic, it got stuck in the mud. My mother was pissed.

Freshly cut field grass pokes my ankles when I step out of the truck. The dry smell of hay fills the sticky country air. Next to the lake is a huge pile of wood and cardboard boxes stacked on top of a hundred-pound bale of recycled paper. It’s going to be a big blaze tonight. Five-gallon water buckets sit near the lake’s edge in case things get out of hand.

There’s a table covered in snacks with coolers tucked underneath, full of beer I’d guess. Andrew’s mother, with sun-leathered skin from farming, walks over. Her faded jeans bunch on top of her work boots. She wears her usual plaid shirt—plaid runs in the family.

“Andrew,” she calls.

“Yes, ma’am.” Andrew straightens to attention, pausing from pulling out a sleeping bag from the back of his truck.

“Garbage bins are at the end of the table. Do not throw your cans in my lake,” she says. He gives a firm nod. She turns to Sarabeth. “If they can’t drive, they sleep in the back of their truck. Ya hear?”

Sarabeth “yes ma’ams” too. It’s the one rule everybody respects because nobody wants to get busted by the sheriff for drunk driving.

Trucks roll into the field, and more people arrive as Andrew’s mother leaves.

“Girl,” Sarabeth hollers, “you ready to get your drink on?” Her arms stretch out wide. She has a wine cooler in each hand. I take one.

The ice-cold bottle feels good against my bottom lip. It’s not as swollen as it was earlier, but it still hurts when my teeth graze it.

“Yeeee-haw!” Chuck the Buck hollers as he turns his truck radio to max volume. Two huge stereo speakers vibrate and boom in the truck bed, playing “Sweet Home Alabama.” A few yards away flames burst into life as they consume the gallons of gasoline on the wood stack. Sarabeth plays hostess and passes out wine coolers to all her girls. That’s when I stop and take a casual glance around the lake.

She’s not here yet.

“Boo!”

I jump. Red wine cooler runs down my hand. “Vander!” I turn to him and lick the drink off my knuckles. He’s cute as can be in his fedora hat, fitted white tee, and slouchy faded jeans. A leather band cuffs one wrist and a white bandana wraps the other. “Aw, you’d make Mr. Depp proud.”

“Check it.” Van grabs my hand and makes me do a dog-and-pony-show spin.

“Likey?” My strapless top bands my chest, blouses out, and gathers around my waist. On the front, the Rolling Stones’ big mouth glitters and sparkles in the firelight.

“Nice Daisy Dukes.” He tries to pinch my butt cheek, but I squirm and spin free, spilling more of my drink.

I’m laughing and licking wine cooler off my wrist again when I see a black two-door BMW pull up. Limo-tinted windows and chrome fat rims. A sound system so tight, the blare of music can be heard from the outside. It is not the type of car people from around here drive.

Vander butts shoulder to shoulder with me. “Did you see that sick shit parked in the school lot this week?” he asks, barely moving his lips.

“Um, hell to the no,” I mumble back.

A sleek door cracks open and a white pristine sneaker drops to the ground. Bren stands. That hair. God, how does she make it swoop over the top of her head like that? The way she runs a hand over the slicked sides, I wonder if she has a comb in her back pocket. A white tank shows off her sculpted shoulders; the lace of her lavender bra strap peeks out the side. Some lightweight pants, all slack, hang low on her hips. I check to see if there’s any more matching lavender. She has the whole “I’m cool” package wrapped up tight.

“Drool much?” asks Van as he nudges me.

“It’s a sick ride.” I shrug, not looking him in the eye.

“Yeah, right. You’re admiring the car.” He rolls his eyes.

“Ew.” The indignation jumps out of me reflexively. My stomach knots.

Van gives me a soured look.

“Whatever,” I say, brushing him off.

Sarabeth comes up and slings an arm over my shoulder. “Kaycee says y’all are looking for another homecoming co-chair. Guess it would be kind of fun to combine our super powers.” She smiles and scans Van’s attire. “Nice hat, Vander.”

Finally, this might be the one thing that unites them.

“Ugh, Bren’s here.” Sarabeth scowls in Bren’s direction, where she’s making small talk with Andrew and a few other guys. “Now all Andrew will do is talk sports all night. Is she seriously wearing ribbed tank from the men’s department?”

A flame of anger licks across my skin, but I force myself to turn away. “Hey, the M&M twins are here.” And I move toward Misty and Melissa by the bonfire. Van loops his arm through mine and swings me in a U-turn back toward Bren.
Breathe. Breathe.

“Maybe we should say hi to Bren. We wouldn’t want to be rude.” There’s
way
too much shadiness in his voice. And I’m feeling
way
too vulnerable to tempt this. I can’t let myself cave.

I spin us around full circle and weasel my way out of Van’s grasp. “I will later. I want to catch up with the twins.”

“What are you running from?” Van calls out behind me.

I’m not running
, I mouth back at him. Damn, it’s getting harder to fight these survival instincts. And what’s worse, I think Van sees I’m weakening.

The twins catch me up on who’s already wasted, who’s making out, and which boys they’ve already called dibs on. Jesus, people, the party just started. Somehow I seem to have Bren in my sights no matter who I talk to. My Bren-tracking abilities are annoying the crap out of me.

Sarabeth and I mingle through the crowd. Van keeps giving me
that look.
I keep pretending not to notice.

Bren doesn’t get more than a few feet anywhere in this party before someone stops her to chat. I maneuver myself to better hear what she and Andrew and Chuck are talking about. It’s about the finals from last year’s basketball game. There’s no more than a lazy “cool” or sultry “yeah” when she replies. But there’s something about her self-assured ease that’s drawing.

“
What
are you doing?” Sarabeth’s voice startles me.

“Nothing.” I straighten up from my hunched position. Discretion and eavesdropping are not my forte.

“Give me that wine cooler. You’re acting weird.” She snatches the bottle from my hand.

As she walks away, it takes me a moment to find Bren again. Finally, I spot her. A girl from my political science class and her boyfriend are asking Bren about Zimbabwe. Bren says her dad was some kind of peacekeeper there. He brought in foreign mining technology that bettered the tribe’s working conditions but was cheap enough for the companies to pay for. It’s the most I’ve heard her talk. I’m surprised at how liquid-smooth her voice is, like everything is no big deal.

Hello? Zim-bab-we
.

Sarabeth snags my elbow and drags me off toward a row of truck beds. The gap between Bren and me grows.

Some of Sarabeth’s fellow varsity cheerleaders stand around talking. “Hey, did y’all hear that Bren spent the summer down in Cuba? How cool is that?”

“Yeah, that’s where her grandmother lives,” says another girl.

“What about that sweet ride? Is she scared to park it at school?” Melissa asks.

Sarabeth speaks up. “No, they had it shipped down from their place in Boston. It just got here today.” Astounded, I look at her. When did she talk to Bren?

Conversation bounces between the girls, and they talk about everything—from Bren’s full-ride basketball scholarships to college, to her world travels, to her amazing collection of 1950s movie posters. Everyone is obsessing over her, not just me.

“Did you know they don’t own a television?” asks Misty.

“How does anyone
not
own a TV?” asks Sarabeth.

“After they came back to the states from Africa, her parents just never bought one. They’re, like, into books and stuff. Weird.” Misty makes a face.

Someone needs a beer refill. Sarabeth decides to check on Andrew to make sure he’s not puking. Everyone scatters. I’m tight on Sarabeth’s heels as she walks. All of this Bren-information swims in my head. Why haven’t I heard any of this before now? A full-ride scholarship? Wow, that’s like, amazing. I wish I had a scholarship of any kind. Unless we win the Tennessee lottery, I’ll be headed to community college. And after college, somewhere far away from here the second I can afford it.

And someone saw her poster collection.
Someone saw her poster collection!
Which means they were in her house. In her bedroom. Who else has been to her house? It occurs to me I don’t even know where she lives.

There’s this thing brewing inside, and it feels suspiciously like envy. There’s no one to blame but me. In my efforts to not seem overeager, I’ve not only avoided Bren, I’ve avoided anything Bren-related.

People thicken around us, and it’s hard to keep track of Bren with Sarabeth’s fluttering. Someone laughs behind me, and it sounds vaguely Bren-ish, but it’s just some junior I don’t know. I turn back around—

“Oomph.” Sarabeth shoves me back. “Geesh, Kaycee.”

“Sorry.”

“You’ve been breathing down my neck all night.” She wipes a hand across her neck as if to clear the moisture. “Shoo. Go play.” She flaps her hand in a sloppy, overdramatic wave. She turns back to her conversation with the girls.

Van steps up next to me. “Yeah, Kaycee. Go play.” His eyes dart to Bren. Then he stares me down … with
that look
again.

“I’m going.”

“Then go,” Van says when I don’t move.

“I’m going.” And I stand there.

After a few seconds, Van makes a frustrated noise and stalks over to me. This time he manhandles my elbow and forces me to walk with him. “You’re being a big chicken,” he says. “If it will make you feel better, I’ll stay by your side the whole time. There is absolutely no reason you can’t talk to her like everybody else.”

He’s right. In fact, my blatant avoidance might scream something else entirely. So I willingly let him drag me.

Across the crowd, Bren stands in a group, sipping a can of diet soda. It’s always easy to spot her because she towers above everyone else. Her head falls back as she laughs at some goofball. I want to be that goofball. I look over at Van again, to be sure.

“Everything will be fine,” he says and gently squeezes my elbow.

We bob and weave through swaying bodies. I avoid a red plastic cup before it sloshes all over me. The closer we get, the louder the thundering is inside my chest. Bren tips up on her toes. Her eyes pick through the crowd, searching. When they find me, a huge smile breaks across her face. I exhale.

“Hey, guys,” Bren says, smoothly. “How’s that lip? I’m really sorry.”

“It’s fine.” I wave my hand. “Stop apologizing. It was my fault. I’m as skittish as they come.” I fidget with my back pockets and wait for Van to fill the conversation.

“Oh. Look at that.” Van checks his phone. “Sarabeth texted me. Chip emergency. Gotta go.” The lying traitor abandons me on the spot. I didn’t hear his phone so much as vibrate. He is
so
going to pay for this. I turn back to Bren.

Those little flirty moments seem to fuzz and blur, and I’m not sure if they ever really happened or if they were just my imagination. God, I hope I didn’t misread her signals. I’ve never allowed myself to act on these feelings before. For all I know, I could be standing here, about to make a complete ass of myself.

Her purple bra is totally visible under her white tank, and I force my eyes up to her face. “Sooo, how’s your first Sunshine High party go—”

A commotion erupts behind me and before I can continue, I am shoved from behind. My body falls against Bren’s, and she spins us out of the way. Her ocean and spice scent weakens my senses. I have no clue what’s happening. All I know is I want to take a swim in these waves.

“Piggyback race,” she says.

“Huh?” I look up at Bren—and get a
good
look at those lips. The top of my head doesn’t even touch her chin. She nods to the side, not taking her eyes off me.

Two jackasses—big enough to flatten a small child—race through the party with guys who are even bigger riding on their backs. Beer splashes from the riders’ cups. People swat the racers’ butts as they pass and cheer them on, while the racers squeal like pigs. I laugh. That’s when I feel Bren’s fingers lightly caress my arm where her hand still lingers. A thrill shoots through me.

Okay, this is not my imagination. And the scary thing is, it’s the best feeling
ever
.

All the pretending, avoidance, and lying to myself about what I am starts to melt away. For once in my life, I’m going to do something I’ve never allowed myself to do. To want something I’ve never allowed myself to want before. And I want it with Bren.

Abrupt laughter from nearby snaps my thoughts into awareness about the whole public witness thing, and I ease away from her fingers. “Bet you don’t see that in Boston,” I say. She laughs and shakes her head. I scan for witnesses.

“No. But in Zimbabwe, a tribe we lived with liked to play a game called Fat Cricket,” she says. When I don’t catch on she explains. “Cricket, the English baseball? Except with Fat Cricket, all the adults have a kid riding piggy-back while they play, making everyone heavy and slower. The little ones love it.” She revels at the memory.

“Wow. Zimbabwe, huh.” I snuff my nose and puff out my chest. “I went to Canada once.” She rewards me with a big smile. “Yep. Found me a whole Canadian dollar at the zoo too. I went screaming to my mother, ‘It’s a check! It’s a check!’” I wave my fistful of invisible money in the air. We’re both laughing now. “I thought I was rich.”

There’s this gleam to her smile that’s infectious. I want to keep telling her my stupid childhood stories so that smile never goes away.

Then it dawns on me. “Hey, wait a minute. You’re from Boston, right? But I don’t hear you saying ‘cah’ or ‘wicked good’ or ‘frickin’ killah.’” Someone bumps me and I step out of the way, closer to the bonfire.