South of Sunshine (8 page)

“We have to be trapped in his headlights for a full three seconds before we’re officially caught.”

“Watch out, Mad Hatter,” Chuck roars over the radio. “Your ass is grass, and I’m the lawn mower.” We all bust up laughing. My stomach bobs as we take a hill too fast. Bren grabs the oh-shit handle. We zigzag through neighborhood streets, barely keeping out of Chuck’s lights.

“Why are you getting on the highway, Van? He’s going to catch us,” I say.

Van’s Chevy three-fifty engine block roars to life, getting a taste of asphalt. “Trust me.” He white-knuckles the steering wheel.

Chuck hangs tight on our tail. “You’re mine, Pixy Stix,” he says in a maniacal voice.

The Nova’s pedal is pegged to the floor. Rain pelts the windshield. Wipers flap. Up ahead, I see redemption: Dead Man’s Curve. “You will be slowing down,” I say to Van. It’s not a question. I squeeze Bren tighter.

“Yes, of course.” Van grins. “But he’ll have to slow down
way
more than me unless he wants to tip that high boy over.”

We barrel down, getting closer to the curve, and bam! Roll-bar lights blind us in the rearview mirror. Chuck counts out over the CB. “Three, two—”

We take the curve before he gets to one, and sure enough, he takes it a bit too fast. I hold my breath as his truck leans too long to one side. Then his tires catch hold and he fishtails on the wet blacktop. His tires slip off the road. Mud spits out from behind his wheels. He’s stuck.

“Wahoo!” we scream a victory cry. I madly stomp my feet on the floor. High fives are given all around. I pick up the mic. “Pixy Stix here. Looks like we have a jack-knifed Kitty on Dead Man’s Curve, and these three blind mice are safe and sound. Copy that?”

“You should have known better than to take on a Nova, Chuck.” Andrew laughs over the airways. “I mean Big Kitty.”

“Holy crap.” Bren jolts forward in the seat. “That was freaking awesome.” She shakes my leg violently, her eyes bright.

“I told you,” I say. “Leave it to us country bumpkins to find entertainment in anything.”

Chuck is nowhere to be seen. Curses bark over the CB about the mud sucking him down into the shallow ditch. Van circles back toward town. My heart is still reeling in the moment. I open my mouth to suggest our next hiding place—

Blue lights flash in the rearview mirror.

I key the CB. “Damn it. We’ve been red lighted by a brown paper bag.”

“Copy that,” Camp Counselor Drew says. I turn the CB off.

“What’s that mean?” Bren asks.

“A cop in an unmarked car,” I say. Van pulls the car to the shoulder and kills the engine. Raindrops peck the roof, making a hollow sound in the silence of the car.

Back behind us, the cop exits his vehicle, and I recognize his bulky frame immediately. “Jesus, this is just great,” I say. Van gives me a puzzled look. “It’s Billy Arden. The big gorilla himself.” Van mouths a silent
oh
.

Billy Arden—as in the cop who prides himself on being a hard case. The same Billy whose sole goal in life is to bust high school students for weed and underage drinking. Billy, Larry Beaudroux’s cousin and my mother’s secret boyfriend who she thinks I don’t know about.

Billy sidles up to Bren’s window. Her long arm turns the crank to roll it down. Gray skies loom overhead, but Billy keeps his mirrored aviators on, spritzed by the rain. His nostrils flare. “License and registration,” he says and leans down to peer in the window. Both his huge, hairy-knuckled hands grip the doorframe. I pass over Van’s papers, and that’s when Billy says, “Kaycee Jean McCoy, is that you?”
Now
those sunglasses come off.

“Yes, sir.” I straighten to attention at my full name. His eyes move from me to Bren then to our hands—hers still resting on my leg, mine clinging to her arm. Simultaneously Bren uses that hand to cough, and I rub my sweaty palms on my shorts. “Were we speeding, Officer Arden?” Speeding, reckless driving, running stop signs, and ten other infractions at least.

“You were doing sixty-eight in a fifty-five zone.” He glares at Van. “Y’all in a rush to get somewhere?” He locks Bren in his sights like he’s trying to figure her out. The whole right half of her body is getting soaked from the rain sprinkling down. A clap of thunder rumbles the sky.

“No, sir,” Van says. “Just wanted to hurry and get home before the storm gets worse.”

Rain drenches Billy’s tan shirt, but he drums his fingers on the vinyl of the door, letting his silence torture us.

It works.

He stands back up with a sigh and scribbles in his booklet. Even my mother’s secret relationship can’t get us out of a speeding ticket. I’m almost tempted to mention my mother but stop for fear of making things worse.

“I better not catch you speeding on my highway again,” he says, and hands the ticket over to Van.

“Yes, sir, Officer Arden,” Van says.

But he’s not listening to Van. He’s eyeballing the road behind us. Headlights brighten in the rear view as Chuck the Buck’s truck slowly rolls by. Just as he passes on our left, he shoots his gun fingers at us.
Dang it. We’re it.

“Yes, sir,” I say, holding out my hand for the license and registration. “Won’t happen again, I promise.”

He hands it back with another warning, and we all nod obediently.

“We’re lucky he only wrote us a ticket,” Van says as he puts the car in park in front of the Quick Stop.

“I know.”

“At least you won’t get in trouble with your momma, because then she’d have to fess up to doing the nasty with him.”

“True.” Even though I’m grateful for that part, I wonder if Billy will say anything to her about how cozy Bren and I were. I try to imagine a scenario where he might write it off as something other than two people groping each other, but my mind draws a blank.

Van pauses in the car doorway. “Kaycee, peanut brittle?” I nod. Van points a finger to Bren. “Anything?”

“Gatorade.” She bucks her pelvis up to pull some cash from her pocket. The door shuts after Van takes her money.

Do I think Mother would actually say anything to me? She has gotten pretty good at dodging the subject so far. Maybe she really does just think I’m a tomboy. She won’t think that after Billy talks with her, though. A part of me wants to explain myself to him, but what would I say?

“Hey.” Bren squeezes my hand. “What’s worrying you?” Her beautiful eyebrows frown at me. Her brown eyes melt my soul. “That cop, you’re worried he’s going to say something to your mom.” I nod. “So your mom doesn’t know.”

“No.” Which comes out harsher than I intended. “Sorry.”

She weaves her fingers with mine. With her free hand she traces the number eight continuously on the back of my hand. “Not all parents can be as open-minded as mine.“ Her admission surprises me. “Yep, my parents are pretty awesome. Of course, there was a brutal fight at my Tia Lola’s wedding. Involving a ten-year-old me in this horrid junior bridesmaid’s dress—lace upon lace upon lace.” She sticks her tongue out, gagging.

I’m smiling now. I cannot picture Bren in any kind of dress.

“Mom bribed me with a new basketball hoop if I promised to wear it. But when my cousin Louis made fun of me as we were walking down the aisle, I dove—flowers and all—and whaled on that poor kid.”

“Ohmygosh, Bren.” Laughter shakes my body. “I cannot believe you kicked your cousin’s butt in the middle of your aunt’s wedding.”

“He called me ‘la cabra en un vestido.’ Which means ‘goat in a dress.’” I’m rolling with laughter now. “Nobody calls Bren Dawson a ‘la cabra en un vestido’ and gets away with it.” She stops laughing and gives me a mock-serious look. “I knocked his molar out.”

“That’s awful. And you gave me crap for killing satanic rodents. I think we’re going to change your CB handle to Cabra en un Vestido.”

“Absolutely not. Long and Tall works just fine.” She shakes her head, smiling, and sighs. “After that, I guess my parents just knew. By the time I was almost thirteen, we had ‘the talk,’
and when I asked detailed questions about girls and what it felt like to kiss them, we had another kind of talk. I don’t think it surprised them. I’d never really been the classic girly type growing up. After that, they were open doors to anything I had questions about.”

“Wow. I don’t see my mother doing any of that.” I stare at my lap. “My mother’s like this neat and tidy, everything-fits-just-so, kind of woman. Sometimes I wonder if going against the grain is really worth it, when everyone else expects me to be this certain person.”

When I look up, Bren’s fierce gaze burns through me. Her leg bobs up and down, and she stares at my lips. “I’ll make it worth your while.” She leans in and presses her lips to mine, keeping them there for the longest, most glorious two seconds of my life. She smiles against my mouth, then pulls away. “We’ll figure it out, together.” There’s conviction in her gaze which makes me believe her.

From my periphery I see Van coming out of the store. Bren does too. She leans back just as Van opens the car door.

“Brrrr.” He shivers. “It’s wet and cold out there.”

I couldn’t disagree more. My entire body has been set on fire.

“Colder than a witch without her metal bra on?” Bren asks.

Dead silence fills the car. Van and I eye each other. On cue we erupt in laughter.

“What? I heard it from Misty, I think. Did I say it wrong?”

“Yes.” Van pulls out of the Quick Stop, dying with laughter. “It’s ‘colder than a witch’s titty in a brass bra.’”

Bren shoos her hand at him. “Close enough. I almost had it.”

“Almost only counts in horseshoes,” Van says and turns the CB back on. “Hey y’all, guess what Long and Tall just said.” Van repeats Bren’s mix-up. They roast her Yankee butt like nobody’s business.

“You guys,” she knocks my leg with hers. “I wish I’d never said anything.”

“Hey, you know what my momma says about wishing,” I say to Bren. “Wish in one hand and spit in the other, and see which one gets filled up faster.” Van and I guffaw like a couple of donkeys.

Bren cozies up with her door, but she’s laughing too. Van says over the CB, “Y’all she’s getting pissed now. You better stop.”

Chuck the Buck breaks through the radio. “Tell her it’s better to get pissed off than pissed on.”

Sarabeth adds, “That Yankee probably doesn’t know whether to scratch her watch or wind her butt.”

I break in over the radio waves of insults. “Hey hey, act like y’all got some raising. Don’t be ugly.”

There is a fumble with the mic and Camp Counselor Drew jumps on. “Hey, Chuck the Buck would know something about that. He looks like he’s been hit with the ugly stick.”

Chuck mouths off a lame comeback. Southern analogies sling back and forth. They cut Bren down in good humor. When she finally gets a word in edgewise, she says, “I don’t even know what language you guys are speaking. What the heck is a ‘coon’s age’ anyway?”

We erupt in laughter, and she hugs her side of the car.

“Ugh.” She covers her face, laughing too. “All this mockery for one, tiny error. One.” She shakes a single finger. “You guys are ridiculous.”

We repeat “ridiculous” over and over with British accents, not that she sounds like that, but it’s funny to see her squirm.

“Aww, come on Bren.” I tug on her arm. “We’re just messing around.” She pulls away, faking mad. “You want to be that way, that’s fine.” I cut my eyes at Van.

“Finer than a frog hair split four ways,” we say in unison.

“You people are going to hell.” Bren gives me a fake glare.

“Now that’s the spirit.” I hook arms with her. “Now, say, ‘y’all.’ Come on now.”

She does—with zero twang—but she indulges me. Even though we’re all goofing off and having fun, her words do not slip my mind.
We’ll figure it out … together.

I hope that’s exactly what we do.

Chapter 11

Today is a big day. Andrew and the boys finished framing out the float. The plan this morning was to pick up Sarabeth after breakfast. If I’m already running late, I know she will be for sure. I hurriedly blow dry and scrunch my hair. By the time I pop into the kitchen for a bowl of cereal, Mother is already in there, cooking away.

A huge pot of sauce simmers on the stove, fresh basil and mushrooms on the cutting board. Two bottles of wine sit next to the loaf of French bread. Somebody’s planning a sleepover with Mr. Billy. It’s silly they hide their relationship. But I know how my mother thinks. It just wouldn’t look Christianly to date someone two months after his divorce. I wonder what our Baptist preacher would say about the wine.

I bite my lips to keep from letting a grin escape. “It’ll be a late night, so I’m staying with Sarabeth,” I say.

“I figured so. Don’t stay up too late and miss church in the morning.”

“I won’t.” But we always do.

“What about that new girl, Bren? Is she going to be there?” The question comes out of left field. Mother casually stirs the spaghetti sauce, but her eyes keep dancing back to me. I don’t answer right away. “Because, you know, I really don’t know her family all that well. I’m not sure if I want you hanging out with her.”

That confirms it for me. Freaking Billy Arden ratted me out to Mother, and she knows.
She knows!
I knew this whole dating Bren stuff was a bad idea. Whatever made me think I could hide it from Mother was beyond me. This sucks. Now how am I supposed to see Bren? I slurp down the milk left in my bowl. When I come up for air, an idea hits me. “No,” I say, while I put my bowl in the dishwasher. “I heard she has a date with Mark, Jenny Littleton’s son.” The lie slips out as easy as breathing.

“How nice.” Mother perks. “He’s a right sweet boy.” Relief softens her entire posture. I grab my keys. “Don’t forget we have the bake sale after church tomorrow. Don’t be late.”

I kiss her on the cheek like a good girl. “Don’t worry, Mother, I won’t.”

Out in front of Sarabeth’s house, floral vans and catering vehicles fill the driveway and block the street. From the side gate, I see Mrs. Beaudroux signing for deliveries and directing her staff where to set up the tables. Crates of stemware and fine china clank as they are carried to the back by the Beaudroux’s maid—degraded with a cliché fifties uniform for house maids.

I wait for Sarabeth to load the rest of her stuff in my car, float decorations and whatnot. I check my Instagram. Bren posted another picture of an accidental love note—a pothole in the asphalt in the shape of a lopsided heart. A huge smile breaks across my face. It’s our way of saying “I miss you” to each other as publicly as possible.

“Whatcha grinning at?” Sarabeth asks as she gets into the car.

Quickly I lock my screen and shove my phone in my pocket. “Eh, just a stupid text from Van. What’s up with the big shindig?” I redirect the conversation.

“That?” She looks up from her cell to the house. “They’re having some big dinner with these Japanese bigwigs.” She goes back to texting.

“For the factory?”

“Yeah.”

“Are they with an automobile company?” I ask, as we pull away.

“Yeah, I think. Who cares?” She shrugs, not taking her attention off her phone. Anybody whose livelihood depends on it cares—like my mother’s boutique. Things like that don’t concern Sarabeth. If the factory shut down tomorrow, their family would keep on thriving. Old money goes a long way in Sunshine. The only reason her daddy is fighting so hard for it now is because he’s working on his brownie points for when he runs for mayor next year.

“Are Bren’s parents going?” I peer around the corner where I’m about to turn, as if I’m Miss Cautious Driver. Sarabeth’s pause and stare do not go unnoticed.

“No.” She’s texting again. “It’s just an introduction thingy. Did Van say he picked up the purple glitter for the irises? He knows we’re gonna need like twenty bottles of the stuff, right?”

“Yep. Rode with him over to Memphis yesterday to get the last of Craft World’s stock.”

Sarabeth’s phone beeps. She giggles. “He’s so bad.”

“What?” I smile.

“Andrew wants to know if I’ll … you know.” She makes the universal gesture for blow job. “I told him to meet me behind the barn.”

“Ew. You
like
doing that? I could never—” The comment leaps out of me before it registers what I’m implying.

“Well, duh. Don’t you? You act like you’ve never gone down on a guy before.”

I shiver in disgust. “I haven’t.” Again, the mouth with a mind of its own talks without thinking.

She lowers her phone to her lap. “You and Dave didn’t … play around that night you stayed at his house until two in the morning?”

That particular evening, Dave’s parents were out of town. He drank beers on his couch while we watched lame
South Park
reruns. We did that until he passed out, and I fell asleep. At two in the morning I woke up with his beer-breath mouth snoring in my face. Sarabeth made her own assumptions—which I never bothered to correct. She doesn’t even know I hated kissing him. “He drank too many beers and couldn’t get it up, remember?” I glance over at her to see if she’s buying it.

She chews on the inside of her lip. “Huh. Whatever. It’s fun.”

We drive in silence for a little while, heading out into the country toward Andrew’s house. The float is being built in one of their farming sheds, down the long winding drive by his home. It’ll stay there until the morning of the parade. It’s a good twenty minutes away from town and not worth anyone’s effort to drive out to vandalize.

Once we’re out of city limits, the houses become scarce, and the roads wind around every which way. I get to thinking, if she does that for him, does he do
that
for her?

“Well, of course he does,” Sarabeth answers the question I’m mortified that I actually verbalized. “Haven’t you ever—” She stops herself.

She knows I’m a virgin, and I know she’s not. But all the other stuff in between, I may or may not have embellished about here and there—or flat-out lied about. I keep my eyes on the road ahead, but I can feel her looking at me. My face flames.

“Yeeeah,” she says slow and easy. “I guess you haven’t. It’s really … um, awesome actually. I mean, hey, Andrew and I have been dating for over two years now, so of course we’ve done tons. Don’t get me wrong, in the beginning it was horrid. Not like the freaking movies, at all.”

“Hmm,” is the most I can say, pretending to be laser-focused on the winding road, but my ears are wide awake.

Sarabeth describes their first time. I do my best not to cringe. Lucky for me, Sarabeth and modesty are not friends as she describes the sexual things they do together. For the first time, sex actually makes total sense to me. She complains about certain things Andrew does to her and raves about others, and I find I’m taking mental notes. Not that I have any intention of doing those things with Bren anytime soon, but these are activities I’ve never allowed myself to ponder—before now.

When we arrive at Andrew’s shed—thoroughly sex-educated—only three cars are parked in the field next to it. The huge building lies about a football field away from Andrew’s house. Their combine tractor is parked on the exterior, saving room for the float inside.

“Hey, baby,” Sarabeth greets Andrew with way more attentiveness than I’m comfortable witnessing after our conversation. “Go on inside, Kaycee. I’ll be in in a sec.”

“Oh, come on, let the girl watch. She might learn something.” Andrew bumps his pelvis against Sarabeth’s.

“Disgusting.” I shake my head and go inside. Squealing giggles and male grunting fade off in the distance behind me.

Wow.
Inside, I quickly notice that the skeletal structure of the float is the most complicated we’ve ever attempted before. The Grand Ole Opry serves as the backdrop, with the Tennessee state flag on the sides and Elvis himself standing in a bed of irises in the middle. Toward the front, the gates of Graceland frame the thrones for the homecoming king and queen. Van’s overall design is freaking amazeballs.

“Where do we start?” I ask Sarabeth once she and Andrew
finally
make their way inside.

Sarabeth hands out orders to the few people who are already here. As more seniors arrive, she and Van put them to work too. For co-chairs, they work together way better than they’d ever admit. My eyes dart to the door every time someone enters, hoping for Bren.

Purple and plum glitter cakes Van’s fingers, and I try to help him scrape it off.

“What is
she
doing here?” Sarabeth’s sour tone brings my attention to the door.

Bren strolls in with long easy strides. One hand smoothes her windblown hair. I thrill at the sight of her.

“I invited her. You’re cool with that, right?”

“She did swear to the Oath.” Van elbows me. We both laugh at our own private joke.

“Humph.” Sarabeth eyes the both of us with skepticism. “I expect to get some work done today.”

My face screws into a what’s-that-supposed-to-mean look. She chats it up with Bren all the time. Maybe she’s getting jealous of how much time I’m spending with Bren? Or worse, maybe she’s nervous about why I’m spending so much time with Bren in the first place.

“Hey, guys.” Bren smiles.

Every single touch, flirty word, and unsaid thought from the last week floods my nervous system, and I want to pull her into me.

“Hey,” I say, bobbing on my heels, thumbs securely hooked into my back pockets.

“I like your nails.” Her eyes scan me from my head to my perfectly polished toes. Considering the tortuous
hell
I’d had to endure to have someone dig, scrape, and scrub at my feet, the gold starbursts I’d had painted on my toes better have been worth it.

We stand facing each other, in a sea of senior peers. It’s as if there’s an invisible barrier between us, forcing us to be … cordial. We take a collective breath. “You want to help me put on the tinsel?” Absently my hand tucks my hair around my ear, and my hip sways to one side like a coy schoolgirl. Geesh.

“Sure—”

“Bren.” Sarabeth strong-arms her. I forgot Sarabeth was standing there. “Andrew is having trouble securing the float lighting. He needs someone tall to hold it up. Can you help him?” She points to Andrew at the back of the float.

“Absolutely,” Bren says, apologizing with her eyes to me.

Sarabeth helps me tuck the tinsel through the wire framing at the front. “I’ve noticed Michael watching you.” Sarabeth nods behind me. I turn to see a scraggly boy, whose waist is so narrow he makes all the girls envious. His family owns the local gas station. But as alluring as free gas may be to most, I can’t get past the spit-slicked hair or the shiny skin.

“He looks”—I take another gander at him to confirm—“oily.”

“What about Jimmy?”

“Jimmy? The same Jimmy who can’t seem to keep his pants up and who has worn the same curled-brim baseball cap since our freshman year? His family owns a pig farm. Oh yeah, that’s just how I imagined myself, someday—a pig farmer’s wife.” I growl. “What’s up with you pushing me so hard to tie up with someone? I’m cool with singlehood.” I ready myself to point out my obvious losing-Dave-to-Chelsea heartbreak, even though my only heartache is that Chelsea has moved past Dave and onto Bren. So have I.

“Humph,” she grunts. “Look, I just want you to be happy and to not make any choices that will ruin your future. You do want a boyfriend, right?”

My face goes beet red. There’s a lump in my throat.

Sarabeth turns away, unable to look me in the eye. “Okay, maybe the boys in Sunshine aren’t prime picks. But it’s our senior year, Kaycee. If you don’t secure a boyfriend by college, then … then … you’ll be lonely. Maybe you’ll find someone there, though, who knows?” She pauses and looks over at me. I keep plugging away on the decoration. Girls around here might look at college as an opportunity to find a husband. But this girl plans on getting her degree in history, then getting the hell out of Sunshine.

“I know it’s a long ways away, but after college, Andrew and I will probably get married. Don’t you want to get married? Our farms could be right next door to each other. We could have as many horses as we wanted. Wouldn’t it be cool if we raised our kids together? They’d grow up to be besties just like you and me. We could teach them how to ride. We could tell stories to our grandkids about how we fell in love and married our high school sweethearts. Doesn’t that sound perfect?” Sarabeth reels in her painted scenario, sounding almost desperate for me to agree with her.

“Sure,” I say, a bit sharper than I mean to. Yes, I want a happily-ever-after, but it won’t be one like Sarabeth—or my mother for that matter—envisions. It will be years before Sunshine embraces the gay marriage law, and our Baptist church probably won’t ever. I
would
love to have kids, but how would this town treat them? The thing that really bugs me is it seems like Sarabeth is trying to enlighten me on what I’ll be missing if I “choose” a gay “lifestyle,” as if the perfect vision of marriage requires a husband. Or maybe she’s poking and prodding to get me to fess up? Like if I answer no to all of the above, then that seals it—I’m a lesbian. Because you know, being a lesbian means I never want to get married or have children.
Ridiculous.

I’m tired of talking white picket fences, so I change the subject, handing Sarabeth another garland strand. “You think Bren’s dad set up a good match for the factory?”

“He better have, considering how much my daddy’s paying him. Why are you always so concerned about Bren? You have other friends you can talk about, right?” She huffs.

“You know what,” I say, tossing the garland down, “I’m going to go work on Elvis.” She shrugs her indifference. Between her playing matchmaker and her moodiness over Bren, I’m fed up.

The M&M twins have recruited two of the best seamstresses from home ec to make Elvis’ infamous white costume. A few other kids manipulate the male mannequin to resemble his classic pose. After I stand around for a while, I realize I’m not needed here, and I go over to the iris assembly table.