South of Sunshine

by Dana Elmendorf

  We’re supposed to be working on our volleyball form—which Charlotte stinks at—so she’s climbing the rope instead. Strands of hair from her mullet are plastered to her sweaty face, and her homemade middle finger tattoo mocks us from her shoulder. She slaps the metal beam at the top and slides down military style. After she lands on the ground, she tags Bren with her eyes.

  My territorial instincts kick in, and I lean in front of Bren to block Charlotte’s view. Bad move on my part.

  Charlotte’s hands hit the wooden floors, and her heels fly up in the air. She walks upside down across the gymnasium. It’s a circus sideshow long past its prime. Surely Bren is not impressed by such antics.

  As the thought slips into my brain, Bren says, “Wow, that’s …” Shock and confusion twist her face. “Disturbing. I feel a strong need to call my mom.” She widens her eyes at me, smiling.

  I release the tension from my shoulders and laugh. “Yeah, seriously.” I stare over my shoulder at Charlotte, wanting to grunt some ape commands to let her know to back off.

  Charlotte stands right side up and spins a volleyball on her finger, probably about to balance it on her nose. Great, not only do I have Chesty Hannigan moving in on Bren, I have to worry about Charlotte now too. But then Charlotte smiles and flashes me a thumbs-up. The way she’s nodding her head, it’s like she’s encouraging me to make a move on Bren. I swear that girl ain’t right.

  “You should have seen her do-si-do during square dance week. I had nightmares for a month.” When I turn back around—Smack! A sting pegs me in the back, and I tumble forward into Bren’s arms. It’s an awkward tangle of limbs, but I retreat fairly quickly.

  “Wozniak, get control of that ball,” Mrs. Eastman barks. She is the epitome of a PE teacher: stocky figure, spiked hair, and a man’s voice. Charlotte smiles huge, like she meant to push us together. “Dawson, are you going to flirt with my pupils all day or do you have somewhere to be?”

  Bren beams. I want to crawl in a hole and die. “Gotta go,” Bren says. And I’m left with a circus ape, a drill sergeant for a teacher, and twenty sets of eyes trying to figure out who’s flirting with whom. So much for my rocking week.

  Chapter 7

  In the back corner of the library, Van and I scrunch down behind the shelves and sit on the floor—it’s the corner where I catch stray lovers kissing at least once a month. We’ve come back here for a super-secret meeting. Planning the float for the homecoming parade is some serious business here in Sunshine. As senior class president and one freaking amazing artist, Van’s in charge of the homecoming float—I’m just here to reaffirm his ego. Mr. Peterson gave him permission to skip computer class because he actually believed Van when he told Mr. Peterson that his dog had eaten his homework—which, for computer class, is a USB drive—one that Van’s parents are now supposedly rushing their dog into emergency surgery to have removed.

  “I can’t believe he bought that.” I widen my eyes.

  “I know. It got me out of not doing my homework and going to class.” Van pulls out a fat file folder. “I’m probably going to hell.”

  “Most definitely.” I pull out my fraying notebook, crammed full of notes. “Did he really say that he could recover the data?” I snicker.

  “Yeah. But I told him not to get his hopes up. Stomach acid can be seriously destructive.” We both bust up laughing.

  “Shhh.” I hush him as I hear Mrs. Bellefleur a few rows over.

  “Come on, you’re her pet.” He sits cross-legged. The toes of his black and white zebra striped Converse peek out from under his knees. “I have a get-out-of-jail-free card by association.”

  “Stop saying that. You never know what mood Mrs. Bellefleur will be in. If she’s been reading Nicholas Sparks again, our super-secret meeting will be off.”

  “What super-secret meeting?” Bren peers over the top of the short bookcase I’m leaning back against. Shocked, I look up at her, and she smiles down at me. My insides go every which way.

  “Did you invite her?” Van asks loud enough for Bren to hear, but he’s only kidding. I kick him anyway. Bren chuckles as she comes around to join us. The space barely fits two of us, so we have to bunch together tight to make room for her, which means there is touching, glorious and nerve-racking all at the same time.

  Bren adjusts her long legs three or four times before she can get comfortable. “So what’s the big secret?”

  “Nothing,” Van and I say together. Tight lipped are we.

  “Come on, guys, tell me.”

  “Uh-uh.”

  “No way.” We both cross our arms and make our best tough cop faces. Van needs to work on his, but I rock it.

  “Why not?” she asks.

  “Because,” Van says.

  “Because,” I parrot. But I’m not sure why we can’t tell her. Not that we aren’t going to tell her, but still. “Why can’t we tell her?”

  “Becauuuuuse—” Van pauses and slips a glance to Bren, as if he’s trying to come up with a good reason. “Because she says she’s from Boston, but I’ve never heard her say ‘cah.’”

  “Good point.”

  “But I told you —”

  I lean into Van, cutting Bren off. “You never know, Van, she could be a rival Tomahawk or Boll Weevil.” He nods at my clever assumption.

  “Boll Weevil?” she asks.

  We both look at Bren. “Do not underestimate the Boll Weevil,” Van starts.

  “They can destroy an entire cotton field in less than a week. Serious predator here in farm country.”

  Bren laughs. “Yeah, if you’re a Hanes T-shirt.” Even though what she says is giggle-worthy, Van and I look at her with blank, serious faces.

  I roll my eyes back to Van. “I don’t think we can trust her, even if she takes the Oath.”

  “The Oath,” Van says ominously, slowly nodding his head in agreement.

  Adamant protests fly out of Bren. She promises to abide by the Oath. Van and I have our own little conversation, ignoring her. We pretend not to trust her and muse about her being a spy for one of the underclassmen. We keep her in the dark for a little longer, then Van says, “Fine. If you agree to say the Oath, we will tell you.”

  Bren nods her head, all eager.

  “I, state your name.” I hold up my right hand and Bren and Van do too. “Put your hand down, dork. Only she has to swear.” Van drops his hand.

  “I, Bren Dawson.”

  “Promise to respect and never belittle, make fun of, or disindumbedify the secret.”

  “Is that even a word?”

  I bite my bottom lip to try and keep a straight face. “If it’s in the Oath, it’s a word.”

  “Don’t question the Oath.” Van backs me up. Bren repeats the vow. Van jumps in. “No matter what phallic symbols may result from our work.”

  I crack and start giggling something fierce. Some of the “masterpieces” the students make do look suggestive. “What he said,” Bren says.

  I add, “And I promise to abide by this oath and keep secret the events discussed at the super-secret library meeting forever henceforth.”

  “Amen,” says Van.

  “Amen.” Bren drops her oath hand. “What’s the big secret?” she asks.

  It’s painfully hard to focus on what Van is saying with Bren so close to me. Van tells her about our homecoming football game. It’s the biggest Friday the Wildcats have all year, with a big game against our rival, the Cairo High Syrupmakers, a crowned queen, and a huge parade beforehand. The big super-secret is the design of our float for the parade. Each class has to create a float, according to the theme. The whole town, including the elementary school and middle school, comes to watch the parade. Today the student council announced the theme: Tennessee Treasures. The winning class gets the Friday before Thanksgiving break off.

  “Cool,” Bren says. “Who judges?�
��

  “Well, that’s the tricky part,” I say. “About half the votes comes from the teachers here. Principal Cain picks five teachers, but he doesn’t tell the students who he has picked until it’s over, so we can’t sway their vote or bribe them.”

  “But the other half comes from the elementary school, kindergarten through fifth. Each grade level gets one vote. That’s six more votes,” Van finishes.

  “Eleven votes in all. We’re talking very close here. And the way to win the kids’ votes,” I say, pausing dramatically, “is by throwing the most candy during the parade.”

  “Wow,” Bren says. “Scary how you guys have this calculated down to a science. And you’re bribing kids with candy. That’s just awful.”

  “It’s war, Bren honey.” Van pats her arm. “It’s not always pretty.”

  “Okay then, how does one go about building a float?”

  “Well, let me show you.” Van opens his file folder with fifteen years of float pictures and designs from previous winners. We’re explaining to Bren the technical aspects of the structure, what the teachers prefer in design, and the importance of the materials, when something tickles my knee. Bren’s pinky stills when I dart my eyes in her direction. Van just keeps on talking, unaware.

  Maybe it was by accident—like her pinky just twitched—and I wanted it to be something more? Then Bren reaches for my knee, and I jump, shoving the file folder up. The contents dump out into Van’s lap.

  “Hey, watch it, McCoy.” Van picks up the jumbled mess. Bren holds a single photo in her hand, and I realize she was just reaching for the picture Van was handing her.

  I safely tuck my knees into my chest and tell my brain to get a handle on all this wishful, fantasy touching nonsense.

  “Anyway,” Van gives me a what’s-your-problem glare and continues on with his ideas.

  My fetal-tight body doesn’t help. The moment I start to relax, Bren rearranges her legs. The toe of her shoe taps mine, and I flinch at the contact. Float photos and schematics go flying once more.

  “Jesus, Kaycee.” Van slams down the folder. “You’re twitchy as a squirrel. What’s wrong with you? You got ants in your pants?” He jams the stuff back in the folder.

  “Sorry. Leg cramp.” I rub my calf and do not look at Bren, but in my periphery I can see her big fat grin.

  “Hey,” a harsh whisper comes from overhead. Above me, Sarabeth stares down at us. “Isn’t the float committee supposed to be meeting in the choir room?” Yes, the choir room. Space, glorious space. I jump to my feet.

  “Some super-secret meeting this is,” Bren says with a smile and stands.

  My eyes stay down, and I shimmy out of the tight corner. I catch up with Sarabeth just as the final bell rings.

  From behind I hear Van ask Bren, “You coming?”

  “Nope. Shooting hoops with the team. Later.” Ways are parted.

  I need a Valium, or rather something non-pharmaceutical to calm my jittery nerves. Stupid Kaycee. How could I have let my feelings off the leash so easily? I have no idea how I’m supposed to rein them back in.

  After our official homecoming parade meeting, I wait against Sarabeth’s black Jetta. It’s her turn to drive for carpool. Directly behind me on the driver’s side door, she and Andrew share a very public display of affection. A tiny piece of bitterness flakes off me, jealous I can’t have public moments like that with Bren. Not if I ever want to show my face in Sunshine again. Or at home for that matter.

  The metal door to the gym crashes open, and a sweaty Bren emerges with a basketball wedged under her arm. She holds the door open with her other arm, and Chesty-freaking-Hannigan walks under it, bobbing her head all coy. Chelsea walks Bren to her car, parked two rows over from Sarabeth’s. Ridiculous cooing and giggling make me want to gag. Chesty leans forward in Bren’s line of sight. The valley between the mountains Hu and Mongous is exposed.

  What a display. How sickening. I already handed her Dave, what else does she want?

  Bren looks up at me. The soured look on my face gives away my disgust, and I cover it with a wobbly smile. Bren bends over and whispers something in Chelsea’s ear that makes her slap Bren’s arm flirtatiously. After another minute of “check out my boobs” from Chesty, Bren jumps in her car, which forces Chelsea to say good-bye.

  As Chelsea walks away, she sees me brooding. My arms tighten around my book, and I give that skank the hairy eyeball like nobody’s business. She does a little whatcha-gonna-do-about-it shrug.

  “You okay, Kaycee?” Sarabeth asks as she opens her car door. Andrew’s halfway to his truck.

  I straighten. “Yeah, I was just … thinking about how much work I need to do on this stupid English lit paper I have.”

  Sarabeth’s eyes glance over to Bren’s car and back to me. “Football game isn’t until later tonight. We could squeeze in a quick ride. How about we take the horses down to Nance Creek? Get out in the country for a bit. The fresh air will help you clear your head.” Sarabeth may not always know my secret thoughts, but she knows when my heart is heavy. And she knows just the trick to fix it.

  “Yeah,” I agree, “Let’s go.” I put on my happy-go-lucky smile and hop in the car.

  Inside, I seem to have lost my happy and my go-lucky.

  The soft clip-clop of hooves echoes in the valley of the creek. This late in the year, the summer has dried up most of the water. Sarabeth rides her painted pony, a gift from her parents. My horse is an old gelding named Rambo. He would have been off to the glue factory years ago if such a thing still existed.

  “Is everything okay with you?” Sarabeth glances my way.

  “Of course. Why wouldn’t it be?” I keep my eyes focused on the rocky creek bed in front of us.

  “Well, it’s just … lately you’ve been acting different.” She keeps slipping small glances my way, making me as nervous as a cat in a room full of rocking chairs.

  “Different? Different like how?” I’m trying my best to sound surprised by her comment. All the while, my raging heartbeat clogs my throat.

  “I don’t know. You seem jumpy lately. Distracted even.”

  A shaky laugh escapes my lips. “Oh, you know me, I’ve always been antsy.”

  “I guess. But you’d tell me if something was bothering you, right?” Without looking, I can feel her staring at me. It’s like she’s waiting for me to tell her something.

  I push down the fear rising in me. “Yeah. It’s cool. I’m fine.”

  “I worry about you. And I just don’t want you to lose focus and get any silly ideas or anything.”

  I put on my best happy smile. “Oh please. Don’t worry about me. I leave all the silliness to Chuck the Buck. I’m fine. Swear. Nothing different here. Same ole me I’ve always been.” It’s the truth. I’ve been who I am since the day I was born. I’m just not sure how much of who I am she’s aware of, but I suspect it’s more than I give her credit for.

  She pats the thick muscular neck of her horse. “Yeah. I know.”

  Does she know? She’s not saying anything directly, but I think she has a good idea of why I’m acting so “distracted.” I don’t know how she’d handle it if I told her the truth about me. A part of me wants to trust her. Talk to her. But how am I even supposed to talk openly to her when I’m just starting to be honest with myself?

  I have to find some way to work this out. Find someone I can talk to, someone I can trust. Someone who gets it. Because this freaking back-and-forth pull of denial is killing me. If I don’t figure this out soon, my Bren opportunities are going to be gobbled up by Chelsea Hannigan. I am not going to hand Bren over so easily.

  Chapter 8

  As you drive down Main Street, it’s hard not to notice the two-story painted brick wall on the backside of Hauser’s Pawn Shop. A giant Sunshine High Wildcat rips through the wall like it’s shredded paper. Painted below is the high school’s
current football schedule and scores. We creamed the Vikings last week. The Wildcat’s colors have faded over the years, but the image still screams Friday Night Lights. I park my car at the base of the wall and walk up to Hot Flix, Van’s family-owned video store. I plan on spending my Friday night with him instead of going to the football game with the rest of the town—and, probably, Bren with Chelsea. Ugh.

  Hot Flix smells like fresh popcorn from the vintage style popper in the front window. The theater carpet is bright blue with colorful confetti sprinkled all over it. Behind the counter, a giant flat screen hangs, playing mostly—if not always—Johnny Depp. It’s probably the only video store still open within a hundred-mile radius. Those DVD vending machines just haven’t taken over Sunshine like people expected. I think folks around here still like the old-fashioned way of doing things, preferring human contact to a hunk of metal and plastic.

  In the back are two doorways curtained in black. Curtain number one leads to the office and bathrooms. Curtain number two hides the porn closet. It’s the shame of Sunshine. You have to be eighteen to enter the closet, and a number-coded system keeps video covers from ever seeing the light of day. It also happens to be—at ten bucks a rental—Hot Flix’s bread and butter.

  So much for shame.

  “Hello, sweet pea,” Van’s mom says to me as she emerges from curtain number one.

  “Hello, Mrs. Betty.”

  Van’s mother has the face of Mrs. Claus. Thin silver spectacles perch on top of her nose. Gray and blond blend together in Mrs. Betty’s beauty-shop styled hair. I have never seen her in anything but a dress, vintage style with a slim waist and buttons down the front. Mrs. Betty gives the biggest hugs, as if you’re about to go off to war and she’ll probably never see you again.

  After she releases me, I flop down on the plush sofa. Worn stretched-out fabric covers the most comfy couch I’ve ever lain on. Van’s mother moved it in here so his lazy friends could hang out with him at work. I suggested Mother put one in at Merle Norman—the suggestion went over like a lead balloon.