South of Sunshine

by Dana Elmendorf

  “It is,” I say “It’s this disgusting old roller rink where we skated as kids, but the rednecks took it over. Unless we want to risk getting our asses kicked, I say no.”

  “Where’s your bathroom?” Bren walks toward curtain number two.

  “No!” Van and I holler at the same time. “That’s the porn closet,” I say. “Go over there.” She goes where I direct her with a very wary look on her face. “I’ll explain later,” is all I offer.

  “Cuddle city up in here,” Van sings once Bren has disappeared to the back.

  “Shut up, Vander.” But I’m grinning from ear to ear.

  “Bowlerama? Arcade? Lawn darts?” Van suggests.

  “Lame. Juvenile. And, hello, it’s raining,” I say.

  Van thinks a moment, then he gets that look in his eye. “I know. Let’s play Cat and Mouse.”

  Bren returns from the bathroom, ready to go. “I have no clue what Cat and Mouse is, but I’m game.”

  “Oh yeah.” I’m up on my feet, fetching my cell phone from my pocket. “I’ll call Sarabeth. And have her call Chuck. You call the M&M twins.” While I’m dialing, Van rushes to shut down the store.

  I look Bren dead in the eyes. “Oh, you just wait. You haven’t lived until you’ve played Cat and Mouse.”

  Van nods in agreement. He flips off the lights. In the dark, my smile fades. Oh God, I’m actually doing this and there’s no backing out now. What if someone sees us? I hope Bren doesn’t expect any kind of touchiness in front of the others. What have you gotten yourself into Kaycee Jean McCoy? Van locks the doors to the video store.

  Rain cascades down in sheets off the car wash’s roof, creating a curtain of water. “You see,” I say to Bren, “the beauty of hiding in the car wash is no one expects you to park in an exposed stall. But they forget the car wash doesn’t have gutters, and on rainy days, you get the perfect cover.”

  Bren nods, impressed. The three of us are cramped together in the bench-seat of Van’s 1969 frost green Chevy Nova, restored by his father’s handiwork. I am very aware of everything that is Bren. Soft arms, beachy scent, and her hand that has taken up a little more space on my knee.

  “So, we just sit here … and wait?” She’s lost her enthusiasm from earlier.

  “Trust me.” I waggle my eyebrows. “We won’t be waiting for long.”

  “Meeeeoooow.” The CB radio crackles. “Big Kitty’s ready for some dinner. Who wants to be lunch? Over,” Chuck calls out to us mice.

  Van snatches up the mic, but before he can speak, Sarabeth replies. “Bubblegum and Camp Counselor Drew are ready and raring to go. Ten-four.”

  “We’re using CBs, not cell phones?” Bren whispers to me.

  “Bren, honey,” Van says, “we need to hear where everybody is so we can know if Chuck’s getting close. Besides, you don’t get cool handles on the phone.”

  “Carolina Hot-pants here.” Misty calls out. “I’m sitting back and munching on some cheese. Copy that?”

  “Ooh, Misty must have a good hiding spot,” says Van.

  Bren frowns so I explain, “She’s telling us she has all the time in the word if she’s sitting back having lunch.”

  “The Snooki Bandit is tucking out of sight as we speak. Hey, jerk.” We hear a horn honk. “Save some room on the road for me. Sorry, guys,” Melissa says. “Copy and over and out and all that.” Static keys through the mic.

  Van triggers his mic. “Copy that, Big Kitty. Mad Hatter, Pixy Stix and …” Van pauses, puts the CB to his chest. “Who do you want to be Bren?” he whispers.

  She shrugs and looks at me. “Boston B-ball?” she suggests.

  “Uh-uh.” I look at Van. “Long and Tall.” He’s nodding an “oh yeah” with me.

  “And Long and Tall are snug as a bug in a rug. Copy that?”

  All the mice call in one at a time with vague hints to where they are. Bubblegum sees water. It’s a trick clue with all this rain. “I bet Sarabeth is over by the water tower,” I say to Van. He nods in agreement.

  Rain pounds the corrugated tin roof of the car wash. “It’s loud in the barn,” is the clue Van offers.

  While the others give their clues, Bren asks, “What’s up with the ‘Camp Counselor Drew’ handle? It sounds creepy.”

  Van wrinkles his nose. “It is. The first summer Sarabeth and Andrew met, they hooked up at Football & Cheer camp. I suggested he use Mr. Heisman or QB on the SB—Sarabeth Beaudroux.” Van glances sideways and snickers.

  “Vander, you’re such a sleaze.” I shove him.

  “I see me some gravel,” Carolina Hot-pants calls. Van grabs up the mic and chats in code to the other mice, teasing Big Kitty.

  Bren squeezes my knee. “Pixy Stix?”

  My cheeks blush. “Van picked it. He says I’m so sweet, I give everybody a toothache,” I say in my best doofus voice. “Cliché, right?”

  “Much better than Long and Tall. Sounds like one of those cheesy cocktails with an umbrella and a chunk of fruit,” she teases me.

  “Uh,” I mock offense. “You don’t like it? Cause Boston B-ball is so much better. Besides, your legs are pretty awesome.”

  “Thanks.” Bren smiles and looks down at my hand—which happened to be wrapped around her arm. “I like you getting comfortable around me.” Her eyes scan my face, linger on my lips.

  “Me too.” It’s barely a whisper. I try not to let my eyes stray to her lips, but they can’t help themselves. She has the perfect amount of plump and pucker to model her lips in a Covergirl ad. Bet they’re soft too.

  Headlights flicker past the other side of our veil of water. Chuck’s big ole four-by-four zips past the front of the car wash. Brake lights flash. His tires squeal to a halt.

  “Go, go, go, go, go!” I smack the dashboard. Van throws the Nova in reverse at the same time Chuck does. We whip out the back side of the car wash with a Hollywood spin. When Van floors it, I latch on to Bren’s arm, tighter than tree bark. She clamps down on my knee.

  “Go left down Maple Street. Quick.” I yell. Seatbelts click. I look over my shoulder. Chuck’s roll-bar lights snap on. His truck tips a tad as he takes the turn too fast.

  “Aren’t we found?” asks Bren, confused by our running.

  “We have to be trapped in his headlights for a full three seconds before we’re officially caught.”

  “Watch out, Mad Hatter,” Chuck roars over the radio. “Your ass is grass, and I’m the lawn mower.” We all bust up laughing. My stomach bobs as we take a hill too fast. Bren grabs the oh-shit handle. We zigzag through neighborhood streets, barely keeping out of Chuck’s lights.

  “Why are you getting on the highway, Van? He’s going to catch us,” I say.

  Van’s Chevy three-fifty engine block roars to life, getting a taste of asphalt. “Trust me.” He white-knuckles the steering wheel.

  Chuck hangs tight on our tail. “You’re mine, Pixy Stix,” he says in a maniacal voice.

  The Nova’s pedal is pegged to the floor. Rain pelts the windshield. Wipers flap. Up ahead, I see redemption: Dead Man’s Curve. “You will be slowing down,” I say to Van. It’s not a question. I squeeze Bren tighter.

  “Yes, of course.” Van grins. “But he’ll have to slow down way more than me unless he wants to tip that high boy over.”

  We barrel down, getting closer to the curve, and bam! Roll-bar lights blind us in the rearview mirror. Chuck counts out over the CB. “Three, two—”

  We take the curve before he gets to one, and sure enough, he takes it a bit too fast. I hold my breath as his truck leans too long to one side. Then his tires catch hold and he fishtails on the wet blacktop. His tires slip off the road. Mud spits out from behind his wheels. He’s stuck.

  “Wahoo!” we scream a victory cry. I madly stomp my feet on the floor. High fives are given all around. I pick up the mic. “Pixy Stix here. Looks like we have
a jack-knifed Kitty on Dead Man’s Curve, and these three blind mice are safe and sound. Copy that?”

  “You should have known better than to take on a Nova, Chuck.” Andrew laughs over the airways. “I mean Big Kitty.”

  “Holy crap.” Bren jolts forward in the seat. “That was freaking awesome.” She shakes my leg violently, her eyes bright.

  “I told you,” I say. “Leave it to us country bumpkins to find entertainment in anything.”

  Chuck is nowhere to be seen. Curses bark over the CB about the mud sucking him down into the shallow ditch. Van circles back toward town. My heart is still reeling in the moment. I open my mouth to suggest our next hiding place—

  Blue lights flash in the rearview mirror.

  I key the CB. “Damn it. We’ve been red lighted by a brown paper bag.”

  “Copy that,” Camp Counselor Drew says. I turn the CB off.

  “What’s that mean?” Bren asks.

  “A cop in an unmarked car,” I say. Van pulls the car to the shoulder and kills the engine. Raindrops peck the roof, making a hollow sound in the silence of the car.

  Back behind us, the cop exits his vehicle, and I recognize his bulky frame immediately. “Jesus, this is just great,” I say. Van gives me a puzzled look. “It’s Billy Arden. The big gorilla himself.” Van mouths a silent oh.

  Billy Arden—as in the cop who prides himself on being a hard case. The same Billy whose sole goal in life is to bust high school students for weed and underage drinking. Billy, Larry Beaudroux’s cousin and my mother’s secret boyfriend who she thinks I don’t know about.

  Billy sidles up to Bren’s window. Her long arm turns the crank to roll it down. Gray skies loom overhead, but Billy keeps his mirrored aviators on, spritzed by the rain. His nostrils flare. “License and registration,” he says and leans down to peer in the window. Both his huge, hairy-knuckled hands grip the doorframe. I pass over Van’s papers, and that’s when Billy says, “Kaycee Jean McCoy, is that you?” Now those sunglasses come off.

  “Yes, sir.” I straighten to attention at my full name. His eyes move from me to Bren then to our hands—hers still resting on my leg, mine clinging to her arm. Simultaneously Bren uses that hand to cough, and I rub my sweaty palms on my shorts. “Were we speeding, Officer Arden?” Speeding, reckless driving, running stop signs, and ten other infractions at least.

  “You were doing sixty-eight in a fifty-five zone.” He glares at Van. “Y’all in a rush to get somewhere?” He locks Bren in his sights like he’s trying to figure her out. The whole right half of her body is getting soaked from the rain sprinkling down. A clap of thunder rumbles the sky.

  “No, sir,” Van says. “Just wanted to hurry and get home before the storm gets worse.”

  Rain drenches Billy’s tan shirt, but he drums his fingers on the vinyl of the door, letting his silence torture us.

  It works.

  He stands back up with a sigh and scribbles in his booklet. Even my mother’s secret relationship can’t get us out of a speeding ticket. I’m almost tempted to mention my mother but stop for fear of making things worse.

  “I better not catch you speeding on my highway again,” he says, and hands the ticket over to Van.

  “Yes, sir, Officer Arden,” Van says.

  But he’s not listening to Van. He’s eyeballing the road behind us. Headlights brighten in the rear view as Chuck the Buck’s truck slowly rolls by. Just as he passes on our left, he shoots his gun fingers at us. Dang it. We’re it.

  “Yes, sir,” I say, holding out my hand for the license and registration. “Won’t happen again, I promise.”

  He hands it back with another warning, and we all nod obediently.

  “We’re lucky he only wrote us a ticket,” Van says as he puts the car in park in front of the Quick Stop.

  “I know.”

  “At least you won’t get in trouble with your momma, because then she’d have to fess up to doing the nasty with him.”

  “True.” Even though I’m grateful for that part, I wonder if Billy will say anything to her about how cozy Bren and I were. I try to imagine a scenario where he might write it off as something other than two people groping each other, but my mind draws a blank.

  Van pauses in the car doorway. “Kaycee, peanut brittle?” I nod. Van points a finger to Bren. “Anything?”

  “Gatorade.” She bucks her pelvis up to pull some cash from her pocket. The door shuts after Van takes her money.

  Do I think Mother would actually say anything to me? She has gotten pretty good at dodging the subject so far. Maybe she really does just think I’m a tomboy. She won’t think that after Billy talks with her, though. A part of me wants to explain myself to him, but what would I say?

  “Hey.” Bren squeezes my hand. “What’s worrying you?” Her beautiful eyebrows frown at me. Her brown eyes melt my soul. “That cop, you’re worried he’s going to say something to your mom.” I nod. “So your mom doesn’t know.”

  “No.” Which comes out harsher than I intended. “Sorry.”

  She weaves her fingers with mine. With her free hand she traces the number eight continuously on the back of my hand. “Not all parents can be as open-minded as mine.“ Her admission surprises me. “Yep, my parents are pretty awesome. Of course, there was a brutal fight at my Tia Lola’s wedding. Involving a ten-year-old me in this horrid junior bridesmaid’s dress—lace upon lace upon lace.” She sticks her tongue out, gagging.

  I’m smiling now. I cannot picture Bren in any kind of dress.

  “Mom bribed me with a new basketball hoop if I promised to wear it. But when my cousin Louis made fun of me as we were walking down the aisle, I dove—flowers and all—and whaled on that poor kid.”

  “Ohmygosh, Bren.” Laughter shakes my body. “I cannot believe you kicked your cousin’s butt in the middle of your aunt’s wedding.”

  “He called me ‘la cabra en un vestido.’ Which means ‘goat in a dress.’” I’m rolling with laughter now. “Nobody calls Bren Dawson a ‘la cabra en un vestido’ and gets away with it.” She stops laughing and gives me a mock-serious look. “I knocked his molar out.”

  “That’s awful. And you gave me crap for killing satanic rodents. I think we’re going to change your CB handle to Cabra en un Vestido.”

  “Absolutely not. Long and Tall works just fine.” She shakes her head, smiling, and sighs. “After that, I guess my parents just knew. By the time I was almost thirteen, we had ‘the talk,’ and when I asked detailed questions about girls and what it felt like to kiss them, we had another kind of talk. I don’t think it surprised them. I’d never really been the classic girly type growing up. After that, they were open doors to anything I had questions about.”

  “Wow. I don’t see my mother doing any of that.” I stare at my lap. “My mother’s like this neat and tidy, everything-fits-just-so, kind of woman. Sometimes I wonder if going against the grain is really worth it, when everyone else expects me to be this certain person.”

  When I look up, Bren’s fierce gaze burns through me. Her leg bobs up and down, and she stares at my lips. “I’ll make it worth your while.” She leans in and presses her lips to mine, keeping them there for the longest, most glorious two seconds of my life. She smiles against my mouth, then pulls away. “We’ll figure it out, together.” There’s conviction in her gaze which makes me believe her.

  From my periphery I see Van coming out of the store. Bren does too. She leans back just as Van opens the car door.

  “Brrrr.” He shivers. “It’s wet and cold out there.”

  I couldn’t disagree more. My entire body has been set on fire.

  “Colder than a witch without her metal bra on?” Bren asks.

  Dead silence fills the car. Van and I eye each other. On cue we erupt in laughter.

  “What? I heard it from Misty, I think. Did I say it wrong?”

&nb
sp; “Yes.” Van pulls out of the Quick Stop, dying with laughter. “It’s ‘colder than a witch’s titty in a brass bra.’”

  Bren shoos her hand at him. “Close enough. I almost had it.”

  “Almost only counts in horseshoes,” Van says and turns the CB back on. “Hey y’all, guess what Long and Tall just said.” Van repeats Bren’s mix-up. They roast her Yankee butt like nobody’s business.

  “You guys,” she knocks my leg with hers. “I wish I’d never said anything.”

  “Hey, you know what my momma says about wishing,” I say to Bren. “Wish in one hand and spit in the other, and see which one gets filled up faster.” Van and I guffaw like a couple of donkeys.

  Bren cozies up with her door, but she’s laughing too. Van says over the CB, “Y’all she’s getting pissed now. You better stop.”

  Chuck the Buck breaks through the radio. “Tell her it’s better to get pissed off than pissed on.”

  Sarabeth adds, “That Yankee probably doesn’t know whether to scratch her watch or wind her butt.”

  I break in over the radio waves of insults. “Hey hey, act like y’all got some raising. Don’t be ugly.”

  There is a fumble with the mic and Camp Counselor Drew jumps on. “Hey, Chuck the Buck would know something about that. He looks like he’s been hit with the ugly stick.”

  Chuck mouths off a lame comeback. Southern analogies sling back and forth. They cut Bren down in good humor. When she finally gets a word in edgewise, she says, “I don’t even know what language you guys are speaking. What the heck is a ‘coon’s age’ anyway?”

  We erupt in laughter, and she hugs her side of the car.

  “Ugh.” She covers her face, laughing too. “All this mockery for one, tiny error. One.” She shakes a single finger. “You guys are ridiculous.”

  We repeat “ridiculous” over and over with British accents, not that she sounds like that, but it’s funny to see her squirm.

  “Aww, come on Bren.” I tug on her arm. “We’re just messing around.” She pulls away, faking mad. “You want to be that way, that’s fine.” I cut my eyes at Van.

  “Finer than a frog hair split four ways,” we say in unison.