Down and Out in Bugtussle

by Stephanie McAfee

  “What are you doing?” I ask. “That smoke—”

  “My tint is illegal,” she whispers. A moment later, J. J. Jackson appears on the driver’s side of the car. When he leans down and looks in the window, I smile despite myself.

  “Ace Jones,” he says. “Why am I not surprised to see you in this car?”

  “Hello, Sheriff Jackson,” I say. “I can explain.”

  “I bet you can,” he says. Stacey is speed-digging through the console and throwing junk everywhere.

  “Stacey,” I whisper, “don’t worry about it.”

  “Why? Are we going straight to jail?” She looks at me and then at the sheriff.

  “Do you want to go to jail?” he asks. “I’ll take you if you really want to go.”

  “Oh God,” she says. “That’s him. That’s the guy. Oh my stars!”

  “Stacey Dewberry, is it?” the sheriff says.

  “Yes, s-sir,” she stutters. “Stacey Lynn Dewberry. Do I need to get out of the car, sir? I’m sorry for my dangerous vehicular maneuvering. I was just trying to save me and my friend here from certain death gettin’ burned to a crisp. And while I’m at it, I’d like to apologize for blurting out about your wife, I mean, your girlfriend, no! Your fiancée’s condition at the party the other night.”

  “Ms. Dewberry,” J.J. says in the kindest tone I’ve ever heard him use, “I’d like to thank you clearing that up for us.” He winks at me and pats Stacey on the shoulder. “We were having what some might call a failure to communicate. Your outlaw friend over there tried to drop some hints, but she didn’t do such a good job. I’m actually glad you did that. Saved me a lot of trouble.”

  “And also, I can’t find my registration.”

  “I don’t need to see your registration,” he tells her. “I’ll take your word it’s in there somewhere.” He tips his hat and smiles. “Y’all just keep one thing in mind for me.”

  “What’s that, Sheriff?” Stacey asks.

  “Where there’s smoke there could be fire.” He looks at Stacey, then nods toward me. “Now take her home before she gets you into any more trouble.”

  “Yes, sir,” Stacey says.

  “Thanks, J.J.,” I say. “See you later.”

  “Ace Jones, it better be a lot later.”

  Stacey doesn’t say much on the drive home and when she pulls into my driveway, I ask if she’s okay. Turns out she’s worried about her car. I run up to the porch, open the door, and flip on the floodlights. Then I go unroll my water hose. Buster Loo comes outside to inspect the goings-on and immediately takes up with Stacey. She holds him while I hose down her car. I feel bad about what happened and I’m going to feel worse if her fenders are all scratched up. I think I’m just as relieved as she is to see that there’s no major damage. Just one scratch that Stacey tells me she can buff right out with a buffer she scored for a buck at a yard sale. She offers to buff my car for me. I politely decline. I invite her in the house, but she says she has to go home and get ready for school tomorrow.

  “It takes me a while to pick out my clothes,” she says. “See you tomorrow, Ace. Bye-bye, little doggie.” Buster Loo starts whining when she gets in her car and doesn’t stop until I take him inside and give him a treat.

  Thursday, Freddie finally makes eye contact. I smile but decide not to push my luck. I’ve had days when I just wanted to be left alone—I guess everyone has—so I try not to worry about it. I finish up another hard day on the job, the only relief being lunch with Stacey Dewberry who is still pumped up about yesterday’s adventure into what we now know was a burning field. The rest of the day creeps by at a snail’s pace and then the buses take ten minutes longer than usual to leave. When it’s finally okay to go, I think about sprinting to my car because I’m so ready to get out of there. But I don’t; I’m not much of a runner.

  As soon as I walk into the house, I hear a faint buzzing sound coming from the bottom of my gigant-o-bag. It takes me nearly five minutes to dig out my phone. My first thought is Lilly, my second is Logan Hatter, and my third is the dreaded unknown number, which, of course, it is.

  “‘Hi, this is Bo Hammond,’” I read aloud to Buster Loo. “‘We still on for tomorrow night?’”

  I think about texting back all kinds of mean stuff in hopes of making him leave me alone, but then I remember that I don’t even know this guy. Maybe I should just give him a chance. Ha! Yeah, right! I get worried when I realize I seem to be developing a character trait that I truly despise in others: being overly judgmental—or maybe just mental.

  “Hello,” I text back, resisting the urge to make any cracks about his being Birdie’s yard man because he could very well make ten—if not twenty times—what I make as a permanent substitute teacher. “Yes, thank you.”

  “Pick you up at seven?”

  “Sure.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Thank you.”

  I look down at Buster Loo. “How did I get reduced to this?” I ask my little dog. He twists his head to the side and flops one ear over. Buster Loo starts running around in circles, then makes a beeline for the front door. “Why, yes, Buster Loo,” I say. “I’d love to go for a walk.”

  26

  Friday morning, I walk into the lounge during second period to find Freddie Dublin with his feet propped on the table. His shoes are on the floor next to the couch. His socks are navy blue with tiny white flowers.

  “Good morning,” he says, like he hasn’t been ignoring me all week.

  “Good morning,” I say as I walk over to the drink machine.

  “Sorry I’ve been snobby this week,” he begins. “I don’t want you to think—” He stops. I decide to let him off easy.

  “No worries, Freddie. You don’t have to explain anything to me.” I reach and get my Diet Mountain Dew from the dispenser. “You know, I should start stocking these in the fridge like you do your Vitaminwater. It would save me a tub of money.” He nods his head, looking at his socks. “I thought you had class this period,” I say.

  “Some kind of sophomore meeting in the gym,” he replies. “Thank God.”

  “Well, I hope you have a good day,” I say.

  “You, too.”

  At lunch, Stacey pesters me about barhopping until I finally give in and agree to go.

  “But it’ll have to be tomorrow night,” I say. “I have a blind date tonight.”

  She heckles me about that for a minute, then rewards me with a tidbit of gossip: Freddie and his friend are considering reconciliation.

  “That’s good to hear,” I tell her. “I hope that all works out because I’ve really missed talking to him.”

  “He’s got some family problems, too,” Stacey says. “His parents are splitting up and it’s getting ugly. Everyone’s taking sides. They’re fighting over the cats. It’s crazy.”

  “That’s terrible,” I say, and wonder again how Stacey Dewberry, Mouth of the South, scored the role of number one confidant for Freddie Dublin. I’m embarrassed by how jealous that makes me.

  “Do you think your friend Ms. Lane might like to go out with us?” Stacey asks. “Of course, we wouldn’t have a chance of talking to any men with her around.”

  “Why not?” I ask. Not because I don’t know, but I want to see how Stacey phrases her response.

  “Because she looks like freakin’ Bo Derek in that movie 10! That’s why not!”

  I smile as I imagine Lilly’s blond hair braided in cornrows. “Much like our pal, Freddie,” I say, “she’s taking some time right now. Which is perfectly normal; I mean, who can blame her? I’ll let her go on like this for another week, but then you may have to go with me to her house and manhandle her out the door.”

  “Are you serious, Ace?”

  “About which part?” I ask, laughing.

  “The manhandling part,” she says, and she’s completely serious.

  “Oh no, of course not. But we might go see her if she doesn’t come around soon. If you want to.”

  “I’d like th
at.”

  *

  Friday night, I’m sitting on the couch in yet another one of my uncomfortable dresses—one of those scratchy numbers made up of ninety-nine percent slimming fabric and one percent dress—when I notice my date is fifteen minutes late. I stare at the clock, trying not to get my hopes up. At thirty minutes after, I go in the bedroom to change into some normal clothes. At eight p.m., my phone buzzes and it’s my not-a-date-after-all. He’s so sorry, but he had to work late, and his phone battery died and blah blah blah.

  “Thank you, Jesus!” I exclaim, quickly texting him back to assure him that’s fine by me. He doesn’t mention rescheduling and I certainly don’t bring it up. “Dodged the bullet tonight!” I tell Buster Loo, who is in the middle of the living room floor doing the worm squirm. “And the shirtless yard man is probably just as relieved as I am.” At ten p.m., my phone beeps and it’s Logan Hatter. I promptly invite him over. Then I call Pier Six Pizza.

  When I wake up Saturday morning, Logan is halfway through making breakfast. He’s also made a fantastic mess, which he promises to clean up after we eat. He pours me a cup of superstout coffee and then instructs me to sit down and relax.

  “I’m so happy you’re back at school, Ace,” he says, and I think again about how much I love him. Like I love my UPS guy and my friend Cynthia who cuts my hair. “I missed you while you were gone, and that Cameron Becker may be the smokin’ hotness, but I’m getting sick of her. She needs to go.”

  “She can’t help it, Logan,” I say. “It’s her first year teaching, remember?”

  He picks up the coffeepot and sniffs it. “I’m sorry—did I pour you a cup of crazy just now?” He puts the pot back down. “I thought you wanted your job back. I want you to want your job back. She gets on my nerves. She gets on everyone’s nerves. She screams at those poor kids all day every day.” I watch him place frozen biscuits on a cookie sheet. “How many of these do you want?” he asks.

  “Two, please,” I say.

  “Two for you, six for me.” He looks up. “Just kidding.” He looks at Buster Loo, who is sitting next to his foot like a Coke bottle. “How many for you, little buddy?” Buster Loo waves his paws up and down in response. “Six for you, too? Great.”

  “He wishes,” I say, and Logan chuckles.

  “Yeah, so she screams all day every day and everyone in the hallway is tired of her. Even Mrs. Spencer said something about it, and she hasn’t uttered a bad word about anyone since she started teaching there back in the 1800s.” I giggle and he continues. “I don’t know how she does it, seriously. How does her voice not give out on a daily basis?”

  “Logan, that job is kicking her ass,” I say. “I feel sorry for her.”

  “Yeah, you feel sorry for her because you’re palling around with her BFF, Freddie Dublin.” He puts the biscuits into the oven and turns around. “That guy’s hair looks so good. Every day. How does he do that? Is it some kind of gel? If it is, then you need to find out what kind and go buy me some.”

  “I’ll start an investigation immediately.”

  “Thanks,” he says. “There’s just something about him.”

  “There’s nothing about him. He’s a very nice person.”

  “Someone’s fallen under his spell.”

  “He’s not like that, Logan. I’m telling you. He’s not.”

  “If he’s sweet-talked you out of trying to run Cameron Becker off and get your job back, then he is like that, Ace.”

  “He’s very charming and charismatic. Don’t hate him because of his pizazz.”

  “Oh-kay,” he says. “Well, if Little Miss Becker fails her last evaluation, that’ll be two in a row, and she’ll be outta there anyway. Then you’ll have to come back.”

  “Yeah, she really blew that last one.”

  “She can blow me,” he says. “I can’t stand that crazy bitch.”

  I don’t know if I’ve really fallen under Freddie’s spell or if I’m just getting soft in my old age, but I feel sorry for Cameron Becker. “Don’t call her that,” I say. “I think she’s trying as hard as she can.”

  Logan shakes his head. “Well, she needs to try a little harder.”

  We have a pleasant breakfast after which he cleans up the kitchen as promised. I sit down on the couch and he takes a seat in the recliner and we watch television until well after lunchtime, which is not the normal protocol for a booty-call.

  “So, what are you doing tonight?” he asks, and the question actually makes me nervous.

  “Well, Stacey has been hounding me for weeks about going out with her,” I say, watching his expression carefully. “So I finally agreed to go honky-tonkin’ with her.”

  “Honky-tonkin’ with Stacey Dewberry?” He laughs. “Yee haw, girl!”

  “Right,” I say. “You wanna come?”

  “Well, I don’t know what I’m doing yet,” he says, and his elusiveness bugs me more than it should. “Might see y’all out.”

  “Maybe,” I say. “If you’re lucky.”

  “If I’m lucky, I’ll get to come back here tonight.” Okay, now I really don’t know what’s going on. I immediately start to worry that I’m his backup booty—the one he calls if he doesn’t find anyone else. I’m too old for this silly shit! Don’t ask, don’t tell—that is our relationship.

  “You’re a pretty lucky guy,” I say.

  “Am I?” He gets up and starts walking down the hallway. Without looking back he says, “I’m just gonna go back here and see how lucky I really am.”

  Buster Loo makes a run for the doggie door, and I get up and follow Logan Hatter back to my bedroom.

  27

  Saturday afternoon, I call Lilly and she actually answers her phone.

  “Hey, sister,” I say, trying not to get too excited. “How are you?”

  “I’m fine,” she says. We talk about this and that, but when I bring up Chloe’s wedding shower, she gets in a hurry to get off the phone. I wonder for a minute if she might have wanted an engagement ring from Dax before he left. I hadn’t thought of that before now. I change the subject so we can stay on the phone a bit longer.

  “Okay, wait a minute before you hang up,” I say. “I’m going barhopping tonight with Stacey and, remember, you said you wanted to go if I went….” I pause, hoping.

  “Not tonight, Ace,” she says. “I’m not in the mood.”

  “What are you going to do?” I ask.

  “I’m going to sit here on the couch and watch Love Actually again.”

  “I’ll come over and watch it with you. I love that movie.”

  “You don’t have to do that,” she says. “Besides, Saturday night is the only time Dax has a chance to call, which makes no sense because, I mean, they’re in freakin’ Nevada. Why can’t he just use his cell phone whenever he wants?”

  “I have no idea,” I say because I don’t. “How’s he doing?”

  “Well, when he called last week, he was sick as a dog and could hardly talk. Then he fell asleep while we were on the phone,” she says. I can tell she’s about to start crying.

  “Are you sure you don’t want me to come over? I’d really like to hang out. I’ll bring Buster Loo.”

  “It’s okay, Ace,” she says. “I wouldn’t be good company. I’ll call you tomorrow.”

  “Okay,” I say. “I hope you get your phone call.”

  “Me, too.”

  I hang up the phone and look down at Buster Loo. “Little fellow, if Auntie Lilly doesn’t get to feeling better soon, you may have to go friend-sit for a little-bitty while.” He whimpers and looks at me as if he truly understands what I’m saying.

  An hour later, I’m standing in my closet, flipping hangers back and forth and getting pissed off because I can’t find anything to wear. I still have Stacey’s pink shirt and zebra pants, but I think that’d be a little much for a night of mere barhopping. Outfits like that should be reserved only for hard partying.

  “I have got to have something in here that I can wear,” I say to
Buster Loo, who is doing a fine job of looking concerned about my problem. I push all the school clothes to the side and notice a few boxes I must’ve forgotten to unpack. “Really?” I say. “More boxes? I can’t believe I’m still finding crap I haven’t put away yet.” I open the box and find a bunch of new clothes that I bought on a shopping trip last year with Jalena. “Dang!” I say, suddenly happy to have found the wayward box. “I forgot all about these!”

  I empty the contents onto the bed and dig through the pile until I find a denim skirt and a red-checkered top, which I promptly try on. “Shit,” I say to my reflection. “I’m not auditioning for Hee Haw for Fatties.” I take off the shirt. I go through the pile again, this time hanging, folding, and sorting, and eventually I come up with a nice white top. “Perfect!” I say, then start digging through my closet for some shoes because Stacey told me not to wear my moccasins. She claimed it was because someone wearing boots might step on my toe and possibly break it. I think she just doesn’t like my moccasins. I call her to see if she has a pair of boots that I can borrow—in case I want to do some toe-stepping of my own.

  “Flat-heeled,” I say. “Or very low-heeled.”

  She says she has just the thing and when she shows up at my door thirty minutes later, she hands me a pair of brown cowboy boots with turquoise inlay. She’s wearing a very short miniskirt and a hot pink and black checked top that falls off her shoulder, revealing the strap of a glistening pink tank. Her hair looks like it does every day. Only maybe with a little more hair spray.

  “Eight and a half,” she says, handing me the boots. “You can have ’em if they fit, ’cause they’re too small for me.”

  “These are beautiful!” I look at the bottom of the boot and see the name, Johnny Ringo. “They look really expensive.”

  “Got ’em at a yard sale in Birmingham for three bucks,” she explains. “I love to hit up those community garage sales in the nice parts of town.”

  “Me, too!” I tell her. “Let’s go to some sometime.” Neither Lilly nor Chloe would be caught dead at a yard sale.