South of Sunshine

by Dana Elmendorf

  It’s not easy.

  “What am I gonna say?” I whisper to myself. Ten different scenarios of how the conversation could go fly in my head at once. My fingertips drum over my lips. She could just be calling about an assignment. But why call me when I’m not in any of her classes? “You’re not asking her on a date, Kaycee. You’re just asking her to hang with you and your good ole buddy Van, and if she wants to make out, that’s okay too.” I squeal and do a manic wiggle-dance in my bed.

  I arch my back and dig my hand into my pocket for my cell phone. My finger pauses on the first number. What if my mother’s right? What if after all these years of hanging with Van, I act like a tomboy? I clasp the phone to my chest. Does Bren like girly girls? Because I’m most definitely not Chelsea Hannigan. But I’m not Charlotte Wozniak either.

  Headlights from the cul-de-sac behind our house light up my room with a yellow glow. The butterfly collection on the left wall screams girl, unless it also screams bug-collecting boy. For the record, I have never murdered a butterfly. I’ve only picked them up off the ground or out of a car’s front grill, which does not sound feminine in the slightest. Photos and images of accidental heart shapes cover my bulletin board. Girl. Just below that on my dresser sits a vintage ammunitions box filled with my love of American history, including mini-balls for muskets, Civil War buttons, and miscellaneous military trinkets my grandpa found with his metal detector. Boy. Plum purple duvet. Girl. Blue walls. Boy. Seashells from Florida. Girl. Pocketknife that I don’t carry on my person but still own. Boy. My eyes roam around the room labeling every item girl or boy, and the end result is fifty-fifty. Gah. How frustrating.

  I’m sure Sarabeth has some boy crap in her room. There’s pink and lace and teen male posters, and oh, oh, oh! There’s a Muscle Machines auto magazine on her nightstand, which is probably Andrew’s, but since I don’t know for sure, it’s Sarabeth’s—because yeah, she has a secret muscle car fetish I don’t know about.

  I’m stalling.

  Breathe.

  Dial.

  It’s ringing.

  “Hello?” Bren’s voice is sleepy and husky. So cute. Wait, did I call too late? My digital clock reads past eleven.

  Breathe.

  “Hello?”

  “Hey, Bren. It’s me, Kaycee. You know … Kay-c-double e.” I’m going for the remember-you-said-I-was-cute angle.

  “Oh, hey,” her voice perks. Score.

  “Did I call too late? I can call you later.” Though I’ve spent all my courage on this one phone call, so it may be a while.

  I hear shuffling on the other end. “No. No. I just crashed early. Shot some hoops after school, then went for a run before the football game.”

  Gah, I knew I should have gone. “The game, cool. Who’d you go with?” Jealous, much? “And how’d they do?” I hurriedly add. I already know they won. Chuck the Buck honked and screamed their victory in the Sonic drive-in tonight.

  “They massacred them, forty-two to six. I felt sad for the Dixie Opossums. You should have heard the crowd. There were a few rabid fans who kept screaming things about roadkill.”

  “You should hear them when they lose. It’s brutal,” I add. She laughs. I make a mental note that she didn’t say who she went with. “My mom said you called tonight?” Please don’t be about school, and for God’s sake, don’t ask me what Chelsea’s number is because it’s 555-never-gonna-tell-you.

  “I, um,” she starts. Did she just sigh? “Was just calling to see if you wanted to do something, sometime.”

  Yes! I hammer my fist in the air. Can you feel that, Chesty? That seals it for me. She’s not interested in going out with Chelsea, not if she’s calling me. Maybe Chelsea was annoying Bren this week. The library. I thunk my hand against head. Maybe Bren was trying to ask me out in the library this afternoon, but I was so busy pouting I blew her off. Stupid, Kaycee.

  Stop, stay in the moment, and reel in the crazy. Bren only asked to “do something.” I can “do something” with my mother, but that doesn’t mean it’s a date.

  “Is that a no?” Bren mistakes my silence.

  “No. Yes. I mean, that’d be cool. I’d like that. Actually, Van and I are hanging out at the video store Sunday afternoon and watching a Johnny Depp marathon until his mom gets done with the big church revival uptown. If you want to join us …”

  “Oh … yeah, sure.”

  Does she sound disappointed? “I’m sure he’ll be busy with customers and whatnot.” And what is that supposed to tell her? “We might even take Van’s new twenty-two out and shoot some cans.” I slap my hand over my face. Where did that come from? Well, gosh darn, Kaycee, why don’t you show her how country you can really be? Next thing you know, you’ll be taking her frog gigging or crawdad fishing or snipe hunting. This is how us rednecks do it, Bren. I search the buttons on my phone. Is there a rewind on this thing? A do-over button? Something?

  “What was that?” I put the phone back up to my ear.

  “I said, the only time I ever shot a gun was skeet shooting on a cruise once. I’m game for anything.”

  My shoulders relax a bit. No more hillbilly comments, Kaycee. “Great. How about we meet up at Hot Flix just after lunch? You know, it’s the store down from the diner where Mr. Bobby drinks his coffee every day.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” she says. “Good.”

  Guess that’s all there is to say, but I don’t want to let her go.

  “It was nice talking to you—”

  “What’d you do tonight—”

  We talk over each other and then laugh.

  “If you have to go …” Bren says.

  “No. Not at all.” I revel in the fact that she doesn’t want to get off the phone either. “I, um, hung out with Van up at the store. We just talked shop.” And other stuff.

  She asks a little about Van. I tell her I’ve known him since I was four. She comments on his flair for footwear. I share my hearts in nature theory and tell her about how Sarabeth loves the outdoors as much as I do; this seems to always shock people about Sarabeth. I hint that Sarabeth might not be fully clued in on my dating preferences—though I don’t think she’s clueless either. When Bren doesn’t really respond, I ask about her close friends. Most of them she talks with via email or old fashioned snail mail as pen pals, depending on the country, but she’s never settled long enough to have a Van or a Sarabeth. We talk about everything under the sun—basketball, volleyball—and laugh at Charlotte Wozniak’s primate instincts. I say nothing about soap operas. I find out Bren’s terrified of spiders—wussy. I tell her about the squirrel phobia I’ve had from the time a baby squirrel living in our attic found its way into our house and attacked me twice in one night.

  “Are you joking?” Bren’s laugh is breathy and deep.

  I recount the whole story. I can tell by the strain in her voice she’s tearing up with laughter. “It was running across the walls!”

  “No.” She gasps in disbelief.

  “Yes. The walls were covered in that grass-cloth wallpaper. You know, that textured stuff.” My cheeks are sore from grinning.

  “How did you get it out?”

  “I whacked it with a broom, of course.”

  “You killed a baby squirrel? I’m horrified.”

  “That was no innocent creature, Bren. Don’t let their chubby cheeks or fluffy tail fool you. They are the spawn of Satan.” We’re both chuckling now. “I’m serious. I still sleep with my closet light on.” She laughs harder.

  I’m amazed at how easy it is to talk to her. Van hates chatting on the phone. Usually Sarabeth and I talk about who said this or that and what we’re doing over the weekend. Not this “tell me your worst nightmare,” or “what’s your favorite holiday and you can’t say Christmas,” kind of talk.

  “Earth Day,” says Bren.

  “Ugh. You’re such a humanitarian. I was going
to say Halloween because of the candy, but I hated dressing up when I was little. I’m going to go with the Fourth of July. I’m a sucker for patriotism and American history. And I don’t care how old I get, fireworks feel magical, you know?”

  “Yeah, they do,” Bren says through a yawn.

  It’s after two. I don’t want to get off the phone, but it’s hard to keep my eyes open. “I’ll see you Sunday.” I yawn back at her.

  “See you Sunday.” She says it like she’s just taken a bite of warm chocolate cake and the flavors are melting in her mouth.

  There’s a pause before we hang up, where we can hear each other breathing, then I tap the hang-up icon.

  Excitement builds in me like a spring. “Yes! I’ve got a date with Bre-en. I’ve got a date with Bre-en,” I whisper. The light on my phone flashes. Panic jolts me upright, and I double-check to make sure I hung up. It’s a photo text from Bren—a picture of a Chinese lantern. In the background on the wall, the corner distorts the lantern’s shadow into the shape of a heart. I exhale. The phone buzzes in my hand.

  This was on my wall after we hung up. Thought of u.

  I stare at it a moment longer, then text her back a <3 and post her picture on Instagram. I put my phone on my nightstand, get up, turn the closet light on, and crack the door.

  Back under the covers, a tiny light inside of me refuses to die. It grows a little brighter.

  Chapter 10

  “Does my hair look all right?” I ask Van, who’s down under the counter gathering the movies from the drop box. “I tried to make it look effortless, wavy at the ends like I just came from the beach. It’s the best I could do with the rain.”

  “How long did it take you to do that?” He stands with an armful of DVDs.

  I yawn huge. “Like two hours.”

  His mouth makes an O when he sees me. “Um, she’s not going to be looking at your hair with a shirt like that.”

  I tug at my T-shirt. “Too green?”

  “Too tight.”

  “I just washed it. Should I go home and change?” I’m scrunching and pulling at the front. Van swats my hand.

  “Leave it alone or you’ll make it all wrinkled. Nobody likes wrinkled boobies” He stretches the shirt out all over with even pulls to keep it from clinging so much. “Better.” He gives me a big ole shit-eating grin.

  “You want me to pose for a picture or what?” I shove him out of my face, blushing. Another yawn escapes.

  “Why are you so tired?”

  “Friday night, I stayed up till two talking to Bren.” I gloat and beam. Of course it was forever before I fell asleep. “Last night, Sarabeth had me up just as late, finalizing plans and organizing the supplies for the float.” I wanted so bad to tell her I had a date with Bren, but I couldn’t be certain how she’d react.

  Van scrutinizes me. “That explains the eye luggage.”

  “Great. Hopefully Bren will be so focused on my tight tee, she won’t notice my carry-on.”

  “Don’t worry, you’re still an adorable tart. What are we going to do?” he asks as we plop down on the couch.

  “I told her we’d be watching a Johnny D marathon.”

  Van gives me the stink eye.

  “I shouldn’t have to suffer this alone.” I pick fuzz off the pillow. “Besides, it’s raining and more than half the town is at the tent revival in the Wal-Mart parking lot.”

  For one week every year, the five biggest Baptist churches in Sunshine convene in one place. It’s a good old soul cleansing and parishioner recruiting day. Anyone who doesn’t want to go to hell will be there. Of course the catfish fry and baked goods sale also bring in the sinners. Needless to say, it makes for a very empty video store.

  The front door bells chime. Long and Tall walks through the door. Bren shakes the raindrops from her hair and finger-combs it back again. Dots of rain wet her kelly-green V-neck tee. Preppy-fit white shorts make her long tan legs even longer. I love the chunky white Michael Kors watch she wears; diamonds crust the rim.

  She is so not dressed to be shooting tin cans off a fence post.

  When she smiles at the sight of me, it’s one of those mouth half-open, half-closed kind of smiles. I smile back. Inside my stomach has its own cheer section and right now it’s doing the wave.

  Unconsciously, Bren adjusts her watch on her wrist like it’s a nervous tick. “What’s going on, guys?” She towers over us.

  “Not much,” I say, trying not to sound so bubbly. Van and I scoot to one side, and I pat the empty spot next to me. It’s never occurred to me how low this couch is until Bren sits. Her knees stick up higher than the cushions.

  Bren points to the sixty-inch screen behind the counter. “That flat screen—”

  “Rocks.” I complete for her. She nods in agreement.

  “Are we really doing a Depp marathon?” Bren asks.

  “Yeah, are we?” I plead to Van with my best puppy-dog eyes for mercy.

  “A double feature at first, then I’ll let you know how I’m feeling.”

  I whisper to Bren. “Don’t worry, he fast-forwards a lot.”

  Van aims the remote. We could watch every Johnny Depp movie from now until the cows come home, and I’d be fine with it as long as it meant being next to Bren.

  Van snuggles down into the couch. “This one is my favorite. More of a cult classic than a blockbuster.” The doo-wop song starts, and the title flashes Cry-Baby. Fifties-clad students line up to get their immunization shots at school. All the classic characters are identified, preppies vs. greasers. Johnny Depp emerges, kicking and fighting as he protests getting a shot. My jaw drops when I get a good look at Cry-Baby’s hair.

  On the sly, I cock my head toward Van to see if he’s thinking the same thing I am. His eyes flash at me, wild with awareness. I mouth, No!

  “Say Bren—” Van starts, but my elbow to his ribs interrupts him.

  “Huh?” she asks.

  “Have you ever noticed—”

  “You want some popcorn?” I sit up.

  “—that you and Cry-Baby have the same hair,” he finishes.

  I palm my face and burrow into the couch cushions. He did not just say that out loud.

  “Really?”

  “No,” I say. Even though I know it kind of does. “See?” I finger her soft hair. “It’s not all greasy and slick. Her hair is gorgeous.” My touch releases the ocean. She smiles at me. The urge to smell my hand gnaws at me. I bury my possessed hands under my thighs.

  Van has the dang TV paused now, pointing at it. “Except you don’t have that piece hanging over your forehead. But you do have that whole bump ‘n’ swoop thing in the front working for you.” His hand waves a demonstration.

  I close my eyes and pray for the analyzing of Bren’s hair to be over. “Stop, Van. You’re embarrassing me.”

  “What? I’m just saying …”

  The couch shakes from Bren’s laughter. “Hey.” She pats my leg and leans over to my ear. “Don’t worry, I’m not sweating it. He’s just jealous he doesn’t have ‘The Do.’” The touch of her hand on my bare leg echoes throughout my body. I huff a laugh. She slumps into the couch at an angle, smug and content. Her hand stays in that undecided zone, not quite on my knee but more next to it, as if she hasn’t committed either way.

  Van is in his own world, pausing the movie at different scenes and breaking down the anatomy of Cry-Baby’s hair. He posts side-by-side pictures of Bren and Cry-Baby on Instagram. My mortification grows.

  “How do you make it do that?” Van just keeps on going. “Is it a natural cowlick or something? Or do you use product?”

  “Van, you’re killing the movie here. Let’s just watch it,” I say. He presses play.

  I’m trying to look at ease, but my body refuses to relax. Bren’s pinky finger nudges my knee. I risk a glance. Bren cuts a look over to me, a
small smile lights her eyes. Now I wish Van wasn’t here.

  My other knee bobs up and down as I keep checking the door for customers, ready to pop up for a bathroom break if someone comes in. When I force myself to stop checking the door, I kind of chill out a bit. The drizzle of rain and gray sky outside helps. I lean into Bren’s shoulder to anchor my nerves. She reciprocates. Her height and my lack thereof curve us together with a snug fit.

  Clap! I startle upright.

  “Wake up. Let’s do something,” Van declares. For a second, I’m disoriented. Van stands before me, cupping his hands together. Behind him the credits roll. “We haven’t had a single customer. With the revival going all day, I doubt we will.”

  I’m still trying to orient myself when I spy a wet spot on Bren’s shoulder, and my hand goes to my mouth. Nice one, Kaycee.

  “Did you drool on her?” Van is anything but tactful.

  “Vander.” I rub my hand over my face. Not only am I jumpy as a cricket, but I’ve slimed her. Bren’s not asleep, but one more JD movie and she’d be out too. I yawn and stretch. “What do you want to do? It’s raining.” Another yawn.

  Bren rallies herself. “Let’s do something local.”

  “Well, yeah,” Van says. “I’m not driving anywhere in this rain.”

  “No. I mean something fun you guys do that I’ve probably never experienced. Like cow tipping.”

  Van rolls his eyes. “Nobody cow tips, Bren. They only do that in the movies.”

  “Chuck the Buck does it.” I remind him.

  “Chuck the Buck is dumb as a box of rocks,” says Van.

  I can’t imagine a girl who’s been to Zimbabwe, Cuba, and God only knows where else, finding anything we do in Sunshine fun.

  Van starts to shut things down in the store even though it’s only three in the afternoon. “We could get my dad’s truck and go mudding,” Van offers. I give him a flat no. “What about Skeater’s Skates?”

  “Sounds … scuzzy?” Bren’s astute observation is correct.