South of Sunshine

by Dana Elmendorf

  “You kids going to watch Captain Jack tonight?” she asks all giddy.

  Lord, I hope not. “Not sure what the big guy has planned for us.” I cut Van a look. He sees me, but he’s helping a customer. “You and Mr. Lovelace got a hot date?” I ask, forcing myself to be social, though all I really want to do is mope.

  She giggles. “Oh no. He wouldn’t know ‘hot’ if he touched an oven. I’m going over to Craft World to buy a whole bunch of paints. After seeing your pedicured toenails the other day, I got an inspiration for a big project.” She winks.

  The last time Mrs. Betty got an idea for a big craft project, she knitted thirty-two dog sweaters for the local pound. Homeless pups never looked so posh in their vibrantly colored chenille sweaters.

  “Be good, kids. See you later, hon.” She waves bye to Van.

  “Well, Mr. Perkipsky,” says Van, “if you liked Little Shop of Horrors, you’ll love High School Musical.” What? I do my best not to snicker.

  Van is the guru of movies. You can tell him a few movies you love, and he can name off ten more that you’ll like equally as much. He’s got a ninety-nine percent accuracy rate—pretty impressive. The old man thanks him for the rental and leaves.

  I bury my face in the crook of my elbow. “High School Musical, really?”

  “Hey, the old man has a musical fetish. He doesn’t care what they’re about.” I hear Van pecking away on the computer. “Are you going to the football game tonight?”

  I shake my head.

  “You didn’t go last week either.”

  “Neither did you,” I growl, though he actually has a social life. I was avoiding certain people.

  “Huh.” He works quietly while I wallow in my misery. “What do you think about our float idea? Picking several iconic treasures of Tennessee to feature on our float instead of one will be pretty epic. I just hope we can pull it off.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Did you hear that the freshmen are building a giant-sized ball of cotton? It’s supposed to be something grand like what you’d see in the Rose Bowl Parade. Sounds cool.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Sophomores have some big secret. The juniors are doing a giant songbook with sheets of music for the song ‘I Wish I Was in Dixie.’” He sings the last part. “Bo-ring.”

  I grunt.

  More pecking. “You’re going to work on the float next weekend, right? Bren said she’d be there.”

  The sound of my sigh is a cross between a dying moose and a deflating balloon.

  “What’s wrong with you? You sound pathetic.”

  A week of watching Chelsea mauling Bren will do that to a girl. At first Bren seemed to encourage her advances, but by Wednesday, Bren seemed … annoyed? Or maybe that was wishful thinking on my part. In sixth period today, Bren tried to talk to me, but Dewey Decimal won out.

  “Do you think Chelsea Hannigan is a lesbian?” I vomit the question.

  “Wow. Okay. We’re going there today. Um, I’d guess she’s bisexual, and please, God, don’t tell me you’re in love with her.”

  I peek out from under my arm. “Chesty? Please, Van, give me more credit than that. Not her.”

  “Phew,” he blows out a breath. “Oh …”

  “‘Oh,’ what?” I scowl at him.

  “I didn’t say anything.”

  “Yes you did. You said ‘oh.’” I sit up and narrow my eyes at him. “What does ‘oh’ mean?”

  “You know what it means.”

  And I do. I can’t pretend I don’t because he’s right. This isn’t about Chelsea. It’s about Bren. The thing with Van and me is, we have an unwritten don’t ask, don’t talk about it policy. He’s comfortable with his it. His parents know about it, but no one talks about it … or me being it, for that matter.

  Van’s parents have always been a touch on the squirrelly side, especially Mrs. Betty, so it’s like everyone expects him to be different. Also, he’s never hidden his flair for fashion or downplayed his love for theater or art. He’s never had to hide who he was because everyone just knows. It’s like as long as he doesn’t dip into Sunshine’s pool, no one cares where he swims.

  Me, on the other hand, an ordinary girl with good conservative upbringing—why, if I came out, it might threaten their logic that gays aren’t well-bred people. Pair me up with another well-bred person, and we might get the crazy idea to marry like regular folk now that the Supreme Court has made it so easy. Oh no, we wouldn’t want to disrupt their conformed lives.

  Another customer comes in and halts our conversation. I lay back on the couch. For me, the first time I realized it was the day Charlotte Wozniak kissed me. Now, the thought of that happening brings bile to my throat. At the time, we were nine going on ten. I blame an inattentive Ms. Veda and an overdose of Days of Our Lives.

  Ms. Veda took care of Charlotte and me over the summer. After Dora the Explorer went off, the five hours of soap operas began. Cat fights, scandals, and make-out scenes got the better of us. Now, I’m not blaming TV for being it. I’m just saying it was the first time I suspected … it.

  Under a tented sheet draped over the couch, Charlotte laid one on me. Sparks flew. It was only our lips smashed together, and our heads twisting side to side, but it was still a kiss. When we came up for air, the first words out of my mouth were, “Let’s do it again.” We didn’t get more than three or four kisses in before the sheet was ripped off of us—Ms. Veda’s expression of horror scarred me for life.

  “Are we going to talk about this, or are you going to do your usual not talking about it?” Van asks once the store is empty again.

  I exhale a huge breath, like the fizz of a soda bottle that’s been shaken up. “How do you deal … with being, you know …”

  Van just sits there. He chews on his bottom lip as if he’s trying to figure out how to tell me the circus has denied my application for employment. “Do you remember that episode on SpongeBob SquarePants when SpongeBob gets really rancid breath from eating a ketchup-onion-and-peanut-plant sundae, and everybody in town avoids him, so Patrick thinks it’s because he’s ugly and teaches SpongeBob how to be proud of his ugliness?” Van asks in one long breath.

  I stare blankly. “I … don’t watch SpongeBob.”

  “Gawd, Kaycee.” Van hangs his head down and flops against the counter, exasperated.

  I jump to my feet and flail my hands wildly. “I don’t know what you’re saying. You think I’m ugly?”

  Van lifts his head. “SpongeBob says, ‘I’m ugly, and I’m proud.’”

  “What?”

  Van slaps the counter and straightens his spine. “You want to talk about it?” he says through gritted teeth, making phantom quotes in the air. “You’re going to have to say the word, Kaycee. Say … ‘lesbian.’”

  “I did.” But I know he’s not talking about my Chelsea question.

  “How do you expect anyone to accept you if you can’t accept yourself? I know what you are. You know what you are. Not saying it doesn’t keep you from being one. So just admit what you are. Say, ‘I’m a lesbian.’”

  If looks could kill, I would turn Van into a bloody pulp, pooling on the floor. We have an unwritten rule for Christ’s sake! How dare he break the rule? I don’t ask him about the guys he sees when he disappears over to Midland City or Lawrence on a random Saturday night.

  Survival instincts tell me to walk out that door and leave. Just go.

  But it’s like imaginary glue has adhered my feet to the floor. I crash back down on the couch. “You don’t talk about your ‘friends’ in Lawrence.” I cross my arms over my chest and glare out the front window.

  “You don’t ask.” He simply shrugs, but his point stabs.

  Minutes of long, anguished silence pass. More customers come and go. Van checks a few DVDs into the computer, dusts the shelves, and opens up the mail. Not once does
he look at me or acknowledge that I’m still sitting here.

  “Lesbian,” I mumble.

  “Huh? What was that?” Van cups his ear and strains his neck.

  “Lesbian.” It’s not much louder, but I know he hears me.

  “Say, ‘I’m ugly, and I’m proud.’”

  I can’t help but laugh. “I’m ugly, and I’m proud.” I shake my head at him.

  “Say, ‘I’m gay, and I’m proud.’” His eyes plead.

  It’s just five words. They won’t kill me. But they will make things different. Heck, I’m already different. I can’t make these feelings stop. Lord knows I let many a boy put his tongue in my mouth to make these feelings stop. I don’t want another boy’s tongue in my mouth for the rest of my life. Ew.

  I bury my face in my hands. “It’s just easier to keep doing what I’m doing.”

  Van sighs and comes over to sit beside me. “But wouldn’t you rather do what makes you happy and not everybody else?” Van rubs my back.

  “I don’t want people to hate me.”

  “People are going to hate you, gay or not. There’s no stopping it. Trust me, I know. But it also opens the door for people to love you. People like Bren.”

  My heart sticks in my throat. This constant battle to keep myself in check gets harder and harder. Always trying to rein in my urges—and puberty sure as hell isn’t helping with that. Tears well up in my eyes. I take in a breath and hold it.

  I look up at Van with my red-rimmed eyes. He wipes the moisture off my cheeks. “I’m gay, and I’m proud.” I sniff.

  Van sweeps me into his arms. He’s telling me things like how proud he is of me and wasn’t that easy and we’ll figure this out. And I wonder if my mother will say these things to me one day. Will she hug her arms around me tight like Van is doing now?

  I clear the snot from under my nose with my sleeve.

  “That’s disgusting.” Van hops up. “Let me get you a tissue.”

  I chuckle and accept his tissue. “I don’t know what to do.”

  “Just be you.”

  “But what about my mother?” I dab a stray tear.

  “Baby steps. We’re not there yet. Let’s get you comfortable with the idea first, then we’ll figure out our next move.”

  “How’d you tell your parents?”

  He shrugs apologetically. “I didn’t ever really have to. They just kind of … always knew.”

  “And they’re okay with it?”

  “Mom couldn’t care less either way. Dad, on the other hand, he’s still processing it. I think he’s holding out, hoping I’ll grow out of this like I did my unicorn collecting days.”

  “I can’t believe you used to collect unicorns. That’s, like, so … gay.” I exaggerate rolling my eyes.

  “I know.” He yanks me up off the couch. “Now that that’s over with,” he wipes my cheeks one last time, “let’s figure out how we can get Chesty Hannigan’s paws off Bren.”

  “Oh my God, you see it too. It’s ridiculous how she just throws herself on Bren.” I hurl myself onto Van and make a gagging sound.

  “Sickening.” Van detaches me from his chest with two fingers. “Let’s start with letting Bren know you like her without shouting it to the world. And when you’re ready to be more vocal, I’ll teach you how to sing.”

  Van nestles down on the couch with me and schools me in the art of flirting on the sly. It sounds like a plan I can live with. When I start to freak out about what could happen if somebody sees me, or what might happen if people at school find out, or how I‘m going to ever tell my mother, Van reminds me that we’ll deal with today, today. Tomorrow we will deal with when it gets here. One day at a time.

  “Like alcoholism?” I ask.

  Van pats me on the head. “No, honey. Gay is not a disease, despite what some bigots around here might think. All I want you to focus on is letting Bren see the most beautiful side of you. Everything else will just follow.”

  The thought of opening that door for her makes the pit of my stomach all warm and fuzzy. “I don’t know if I can do this by myself. Will you go with me?”

  “Let me get this straight—you want me to be the third wheel on your first date with Bren?”

  I throw my arm over my face again. “When you put it like that … yes. Just hang with us. Let me get past this … whatever,” I beg. Van sighs. “Please?”

  His second sigh is more resigned.

  “If you do this, I promise to watch an entire afternoon of Johnny Depp movies without complaining.”

  He points his finger at me. “That means no gagging when I comment on how talented he is, and no rolling of the eyes when I replay a scene.” I nod vigorously, and he says, “Okay.”

  “Yes, yes, yes.” I sit up, clapping. “Oh, wait. We can’t do it tomorrow night. Sarabeth asked me to sleep over and finalize float plans.”

  “It’s fine. I have a date anyway.” A sly grin spreads across his face.

  “Ooh, what’s his name?” It’s a simple question—one I should have asked long ago but never did. The freedom to talk openly now seems to deepen our friendship to a whole new level.

  “Arthur.”

  “Arthur?” If my scrunched up face didn’t speak for itself, my skeptical tone did the trick.

  A stray couch pillow whacks me in the head. “Oh, because ‘Bren’ is such a hot name.”

  “Oh, but it is. It just rolls off the tongue and makes you want to visit Costa Rica.” My phone beeps, pulling me back from the tropics. “It’s Mother. She wants to know if Hot Flix has ‘turned into an Econo Lodge.’”

  “Tell her that if Hot Flix decides to change businesses, we would be a five-star resort, not some cheap-ass motel.”

  “Yeah, let me get right on that.” I text her back, telling her I’m stopping by Sonic before I head home. “Because that’ll make her love you more.”

  “Well, she can’t love me any less.”

  “True. But I better go. So, Sunday works for you? Or do you have another hot date?”

  Van walks me to the door. “Sunday … you, me, and Long and Tall.”

  I smile. Bren does have some great legs. I just hope I can keep my nerves in check long enough not to look like an ass.

  Chapter 9

  “I don’t get why you’re always hanging out with that boy,” is the first thing out of my mother’s mouth when I get home. I don’t go for the bait. “Why didn’t you do something with Sarabeth tonight?”

  I let out a big sigh. I put my keys on the entry table by the giant Holy Bible. It’s always laid open to Psalms. “Friday night. Football season. She cheers.” I’ve explained this to my mother a thousand times the last few years.

  “You could have gone to the game.”

  “I don’t want to be the lone dork, sitting all by myself in the stands.” I toss my Sonic sack on the oak table and fix myself some iced tea.

  “What about Misty or Melissa? Can’t you sit with them? They seem like good girls.”

  If she had any idea how many boys they were macking on at the party, she wouldn’t be saying that. But their family owns the local dry cleaners, so they’re obviously “good girls.”

  I really don’t want to have this conversation again. I sit and smooth the nonexistent wrinkles on our checkerboard tablecloth. “Mother, I don’t know why you have such a problem with Van,” I say, but I really do know. But if she’s not willing to call a spade a spade, then I’m going to make her dance around it. “He’s a good kid. His parents are nice as can be. His mother runs the Ladies Ministry group over at their church.” I bite into my cheeseburger.

  “I didn’t say I had a problem with Van. I’m just saying if you keep hanging out with him, you might start acting—”

  My deer-in-the-headlights expression cuts her off. Just how is she going to finish this? I know she knows about me an
d Charlotte’s soap opera reenactments. Ms. Veda’s good Christian self had to tell her. And I got a serious talking-to from it, all about what the Bible had to say on the matter, but I always assumed Mother wrote it off as experimenting kids being silly. Now I’m not so sure.

  “—Tomboyish,” she finishes. It’s a political answer, dodging.

  I don’t comment because she and I both know that I do not act like a tomboy. Maybe my favorite color isn’t pink and I can’t stand shopping and high heels, but I love other girly stuff. Like collecting butterflies and watching the babies at the church nursery.

  Mother busies herself cleaning the kitchen while I finish my burger and fries in silence. “Oh,” Mother says as an afterthought, “some girl named”—she squints to read the paper—“Bren called. Why didn’t she call your cell?”

  My entire being freezes. Why is Bren calling me? Is she home from the football game already? While I’m trying to control the panic/freak-out building inside my body, I gulp, gulp, gulp down the rest of my tea. Mother waits for me to finish. Calmly I put the glass in our dishwasher, thankful we are the only McCoys in Sunshine’s tiny phonebook. “She’s new. The Dawsons’ daughter. She doesn’t have my cell number,” I say, snapping the dishwasher shut.

  Casually, I grab the slip of paper from Mother’s hand with Bren’s number on it.

  “Yes, yes, yes. The Dawsons. That’s right, her mother came into the store the other day—she looks a little Hispanic or something but really put together. I hear her husband is right handsome. Larry Beaudroux is paying him a lot of money to replace Rally Tools. If he can keep the factory jobs here, all of us shop owners won’t go out of business.” Mom turns to me just before I close my bedroom door, nodding her head. “You should call this Bren girl.” As if the brilliant idea just came to her. “See if she wants to do something.”

  “I think I will,” I say. She glows at the idea. “Maybe we can do something after church on Sunday.” This tickles her pink. I close my bedroom door and rest my entire body up against it, letting the message sink in.

  “Yes!” I leap from my door to my bed. The brass headboard claps against the wall. I refrain from dancing around the room, singing, “Bren Dawson called me.”