by JL Mac
“Nope. That’s all.” She slaps down folded paperwork and keys in front of me. “Now, if ya want, I could call our other location and see what they have on hand,” she offers.
“Not necessary, but thank you,” I say, plastering on my most diplomatic smile. “This will do fine.”
“Palmetto Grove is what—an hour and some change away? Good thing this sucker gets thirty miles to the gallon,” she says with a nod, clearly not considering the fact that a woman wearing a Givenchy shift dress with coordinating Jimmy Choo heels would not necessarily be the type to give two shits about fuel economy.
“Too true.” I nod absently, sliding the keys and rental agreement off the counter between us. “Thank you, Patty.” I turn on my heel and snag my rolling suitcase ready to locate bay four, lane A, spot sixteen where my roller skate is said to be parked. That’s when a low whistle catches my attention and my stomach plummets to the floor. I swivel my head to my left to see a very familiar face.
“I knew I smelled high class and a ton of sass,” one of my closest friends from high school says with a huge smile on his handsome face and his gray-blue eyes twinkling.
“Chicken Nugget!” I laugh and charge at him at a brisk pace, my heels clicking crispy against the airport floor. He scoops me up roughly and I yelp before his grip around my ribs squeezes the breath out of me.
“I wasn’t sure you’d drag your hoity-toity tail back to piddly old Palmetto,” he laughs into my ear as we hug. His arms around me are familiar but foreign at the same time. They are no longer thin, boyish arms. These strong, filled out, manly arms are a reminder we have all grown up.
“Yeah, well, if I could skip my little sister’s wedding I would but don’t tell anyone,” I whisper conspiratorially.
“Trust me, I don’t have to. Anyone who knows Raegan Potter knows all too well that you want nothing to do with our little town anymore,” he laughs, but I wince at the truth tucked neatly in his lighthearted words. God, this visit is going to drain me, but seeing Chick is high on the brief list of perks.
“Need a ride home?” he asks, and I ignore the hike in my pulse and the squeeze of the knot in my chest at his use of the word home. Home? Is it? No. Not anymore. I mentally maneuver around my private thoughts and jingle my rental keys in front of me.
“And miss out on driving this sweet thang,” I drawl sarcastically. “Not a chance, Chicken Nugget.”
“All right, all right,” he nods, displaying that same grin I’ve seen a million times. The dimple in his left cheek pops out and even though he’s grown a thick beard, his dimple is still there as clear as ever. His face is that a of a man now with fine laugh lines bracketing his eyes and mouth but their presence on his face only adds to his appeal.
“What are you doing here, anyway?” I ask, steering my thoughts away from the boys who I grew up with that turned into very handsome men.
“I just dropped off a friend,” he shrugs. I nod and begin shuffling toward the exit. Chick walks along with me. “We are bowling tonight at eight if you wanna come. Beer’s on me.” My mind reels back over ten years and memories of loud music, musty bowling alley carpet, neon colors and black lights flood in.
“Rock and bowl Thursdays?” I whisper wide-eyed.
“Yep. Still dirt-cheap and a whole lotta fun. You comin’?” The hope in his eyes is hard to snuff out but I can’t handle running into him. Not yet.
“Uh…” I say shifting from one heeled foot to the other. Chick’s smile falters slightly and a look of pity takes its place.
“Sy won’t be there. He’s out-of-town getting ready for this big thing he has coming up,” Chick says quietly. I swallow and force a smile.
“Yeah, I mean I don’t care. Ancient history,” I shrug, feigning indifference. “I’ll see what’s going on at Momma’s house with wedding madness and all of that but if I can sneak away I will.” I promise knowing it is highly unlikely that I will be going anywhere near one of our favorite hangouts during high school. Chick hugs me again and a lump forms in my throat. What the hell is my deal already? If I plan to survive this visit home I had better don my best battle gear and pull myself together. I swallow the lump away and tip my chin to Chick. “See ya, Chicken Nugget.”
“You bet your ass you will,” he grins. “That’s the best part about small towns. Can’t miss people if you tried.”
That’s my fear.
Chick waves off and we part ways with me feeling a little less confident about this visit home than I had hoped to be.
Louisiana’s humid climate and accompanying musty air clings against my skin like my great aunt Gerdy’s metallic pink lipstick. Familiar, expected even, wholly loathsome all the same. I can feel my makeup melting away on my trek through the rental car parking area. I locate my lime green roller skate, toss in my luggage, and roll my eyes as I fold myself into the driver’s seat. Switching the radio station, I try, with great difficulty, to focus my attention on the satellite news station but the minute I hit the highway toward Palmetto my mind drifts back and I’m along for the ride no matter how I resist.
Raegan
13 years old
“Welcome to eighth grade, y’all. Now almost everybody here knows each other already but we have a new student this year. If you don’t mind, step forward and introduce yourself, son.” Old Coach Thibodaux nods looking down at his clipboard. He tugs at the waistband of his polyester blend shorts, adjusting them higher on his hips.
“Hi y’all. I’m Jeremy Chennewitt,” the tall, skinny, cute boy with one dimpled cheek says. I smile at him and give a small wave.
“Do what?” Coach says with his Cajun accent really underscoring his words. He tilts his head and kind of leans forward like he’s hard of hearing and I think I’ve heard Momma say that he is from his time in Vietnam.
“Jeremy Chennewitt,” the boy clarifies through a laugh. He repeats himself, annunciating his odd last name a little more. Most everyone here in Palmetto is a Landry or a Thibodaux or a Le Blanc or Fontenot or some other common Cajun last name.
“Son, I don’t reckon I can say this,” Coach sighs glancing down at his clipboard again.
“Chin-uh-wit,” the boy says, slowly breaking down his last name.
“Yeah, okay, then,” coach nods still frowning. “Sounds like chicken nugget. Chicken nugget, then,” he says resolutely, scribbling something on his clipboard.
“All right then,” Chicken Nugget says smiling. The rest of us giggle at the nickname our old gym teacher has assigned to the new kid. Credit to him for smiling and taking it in stride. Sylas Broussard grins at the new kid and bumps his shoulder against Chicken Nugget’s.
Leave it to Sylas to be the first to strike up a friendship with the new guy. It doesn’t shock me. Everyone is a friend of Sy’s. Everyone loves Sy. Everyone except me of course. It’s not that I don’t like Sy. I like him okay I guess, but he never leaves me alone. The problem is Sy’s mom Audrey and my mom are best friends, so I get forced into spending more time with Sy than anyone else at our school. He’s either at my house for some holiday, party, barbeque or Sunday dinner, or my family is at his house for the same. He’s always smiling and laughing and cracking jokes. It’s dumb. And annoying too. Sucks for me that there is no escaping him.
If it weren’t for the iPod, I would avoid him much more than I already do. Gym class passes in usual fashion. The girls group up and giggle and gossip like it’s a sport. The boys horse around and act like cavemen. The nerds read. The misfits sit aside and… do whatever misfits feel like doing. Me, I visit with all of them. Except Sylas. The bell rings and we all grab our backpacks and begin filing out the door. It takes Sy all of twenty seconds to find me in the crowded hallway.
“My turn. What did ya listen to last night?” he asks with his hand thrust toward me expectantly. I swing my pack around and dig into the recesses for the iPod and headphones.
“Um… The Beatles, The Supremes, Simon and Garfunkel,” I mutter. “I’m so tired of the same old music on this t
hing,” I whine slapping it down in his hand. He squeezes my hand, trapping it in his for a second then lets me go.
“I know we said I would ask my mom and dad for a laptop for my birthday this year so we can add more music to the playlist but don’t you think we should just ask both our parents and let them know we can just share it?”
“Uh-uh. No way am I sharing anything else with you, Sy. Sharing the iPod is bad enough.” I shake my head hard sending my long ponytail over my shoulder.
“Aw, c’mon, Rae, I ain’t that bad.” He smirks.
“You’re literally the worst,” I insist as we bump shoulders on our trek through the crowded hallway.
“Take it back,” he demands in a disgruntled kind of voice.
“Not a chance. It’s the truth.” I hold my head high and keep my eyes locked on his, refusing to back down or show weakness. Teddy said I should show no fear. Of course Teddy also said the reason Sy picks on me is that he likes me… like that, so I take my big brother’s advice with a grain of salt.
“Fine,” he says smugly then fast as lightning his lips are on my skin in the spot just below my ear and his arms around me like we are together. The whole hallway which is filled with classmates, erupts. They’re all cackling and laughing and oh’ing and ah’ing. My stomach dips, my cheeks burn and I shove him back, glaring at him.
“Not so bad,” he says in a way that I can’t tell if it’s a question or a statement. He smirks arrogantly then turns to walk away, high-fiving Chicken Nugget on his way. I can already see those two conspiring to get into trouble together.
Ugh!
The main highway coming into town seems all at once familiar and foreign. It’s been a decade since I’ve driven these roads. The tall grass along the roadside still sways smoothly in the breeze as though it’s underwater. The buildings downtown are all accounted for as I drive past them. Red’s Garage is on the left, Lovely Locks hair salon where the “purple-haired’s” as daddy calls the old ladies in town—go to get their hair rolled and set every week is on my right. I smile. The town florist, Palmetto Grove Growers has a fresh look on their storefront but the marquee is the same. Old Bayou Diner, a place I ate countless meals with Sylas. I swallow hard and press my foot down on the accelerator, eager to get to my parent’s house and away from memory lane.
The minute the lime green nightmare pulls into my parents’ gravel driveway, relatives begin filing out waving from the front porch like Forrest Gump waving to Lieutenant Dan on the dock.
“Jesus fuck, Bubba Gump Shrimp Company and crew,” I whisper as I wave back, a stiff smile plastered on. I put the car in neutral and pull the e-brake behind dad’s pickup, the Gold Star sticker in the back window of his Ford not going unnoticed. A stab of pain pierces my chest at the sight of the Gold Star no family wants attached to them. I take a fortifying breath, forcing away all thoughts of Gold Stars and how people acquire them before facing my relatives. I swing the door open and the hugging and petting begins.
“Oh, hon’ you made it! Look at you,” my mom says like it’s a miracle and yeah, okay… perhaps it is. It’s no secret I am not keen on being back home. She hugs me then holds me back from her by my upper arms, the blue eyes that match mine surveying me in that way mothers do.
“Hey, Momma.”
“You’re like a celebrity, Rae! My goodness this dress,” she beams touching the fabric like it’s a foreign substance, and to her I suppose it is. My mom’s closet contains nothing designer and why would it? This is Palmetto Grove. High fashion doesn’t even get their attention. It’s not what blows their hair back around here. What does blow their hair back is Friday night football games and Homecoming and Mardi Gras and crawfish season and the annual July fourth celebration downtown. Shopping for the hottest new pieces from all the trending designers is a small vice of mine, and while it provides me with a sense of catharsis Gucci, Tom Ford, Givenchy and all their expensive comrades are irrelevant to people here. Mom steps aside, making room for my dad to retrieve his hug. He’s already pulled my suitcase from the pregnant roller skate.
“So glad you made it honey. You look even better in person than on the TV,” he says in his gentle voice, his blue-green eyes sparkling down at me.
“Thanks, Daddy,” I whisper, briefly resting my cheek against his chest the way I did when I was a girl. I may be many things but I will always be a daddy’s girl at heart. While I don’t enjoy the idea of this trip, I do very much enjoy smelling my father’s aftershave with his arms around me again.
“Raaaaae!” Ellie squeals on her way down the steps before tackle-hugging me. “Ohmygod! It feels like I haven’t seen you in aaaaaages!” I squeeze her tightly against me and mentally shove away the emotion clogging my throat.
“Can’t breathe, Ellie,” I joke, pretending to gasp. I hand out hugs to Doug, my future brother-in-law, Uncle Carl and Aunt Joy, as well as my cousin Raven, who introduces me to her fiancé, Will. I smile and nod and put my campaign manager skills to work.
Like midtown Palmetto Grove, my childhood home hasn’t changed much at all aside from a few pieces of furniture I don’t recognize, a slew of new picture frames, many of me, Ellie and Teddy and some including Sylas. While we weren’t a wealthy family, we were lucky to have a nice middle class upbringing. The smell of this house, the familiarity of its contents brings back an onslaught of memories I force away.
Two hours into chatting and eating more genuine southern soul food than we should, the doorbell rings. My mom and dad exchange a look and my hackles stand at attention. I lean back in my seat and train my attention on the both of them.
Fuuuck, my entire mental inner circle gasps in unison. Blind Rage throws her chair against the wall. Regret is smirking with an “I told you so,” expression. Negativity is slumped back in her seat staring at the ceiling. Practicality looks confused. Everyone else ducks out. Self-Preservation straightens her cuffs. Predictable. I’ve got this, she whispers.
“Expecting more guests?” I ask curt as ever as I dab a crumpled paper napkin to my lips.
“Oh, you know our house. There is always someone comin’ or goin’.” Mom waves her hand in no specific direction playing at nonchalance. The woman may have a true fascination with politics but she lacks the capacity to participate with any measure of success given the level of skillful deception that is a prerequisite.
“Mhmmm,” I hum with narrowed eyes still locked on my mother who is now shuffling plates and utensils around the table looking suddenly harried. My dad slips away from the kitchen and returns a moment later with none other than…
“Raegan Potter, as I live and breathe,” Audrey Broussard hums my name like she’s praising me.
“Audrey,” I smile, rising to my feet from the barstool I was perched on. I hug her slight frame to me and feel a surge of sadness creep in at how much older she looks though it truly has only been three years since I last laid eyes on her. For me, Audrey’s appearance is frozen in time a decade ago, back when I was in love and constantly bounding in and out of her house, her screen door clapping against the frame with an echo a thousand times a weekend it seemed like. Ten years and a cancer diagnosis, followed by a fight for life, shows on her. Her body was host to a fierce battle, and it has left her thin and visibly aged, a sight that sends a pang of sadness and guilt through my gut at high velocity. I think those same ten years show on me too, though for different reasons and in different ways.
Like the hunk of ice that you call a heart, Self-Loathing muses.
“You didn’t think you’d be able to come to town and avoid seeing me, did you?”
I had hoped, Self-Preservation says.
“Of course not. I was counting on it,” I lie to her face. Sure, I love Audrey like my own mom but she isn’t my mom in the capacity that I had expected her to be, and for that exact reason I didn’t want to see much of her if at all possible. Her dark eyes glitter in the light like her son’s and it’s more than I can handle, especially when coupled with the sadness I feel seeing her
aged so.
“Good! Now how are you doing out in DC? We see you on the news all the time these days.” I ignore her use of the word we and focus on diplomacy.
Oh, ya know, still licking the wounds your bastard son left me with a decade ago, I think.
“I’m great! I love my work and getting to experience the seasons in DC is amazing.”
“I’m so proud of you Rae.” Her eyes twinkle like his as she says she’s proud of me and it makes my entire being hurt. All of me. In and out, tip to toe. Even, all my weird inner selves recoil. It simply hurts.
Twenty minutes of predictable, polite conversation ensues before it finally shifts away from me—thank fuck for small blessings—and I seize my opportunity for escape. I slip upstairs to my bedroom. Suddenly, a night spent with Chick and a pitcher of beer at the Palmetto Grove Bowling Center sounds like heaven. I scroll through the contacts on my cell phone only to realize I don’t have his number. I would love to know whom else I might encounter tonight before I commit to going. I quickly open Facebook Messenger and fire away asking Chick for his cell number. Less than two minutes later my cellphone buzzes as a text comes through.
Get your fancy ass in your go-cart and come on over to bowl! This is Chick by the way.
Me: Hey! How do you have this number? It’s a national secret, you know.
I chuckle to myself.
Chick: Your momma gave it to me and your # ain’t no secret around here. She’d give it to anyone.
“But of course,” I mutter rolling my eyes.
Me: On my way. Anyone I may see that I don’t want to?
Chick: Nope. See you soon.
I slide off my twin bed and flip my suitcase open in search of something bowling friendly to wear. I come up with a pair of black skinny jeans and a cream chiffon and silk blouse that feels like a dream against my skin. I slip on my discarded Jimmy Choos and frown looking down at them. This won’t work.