South of Sunshine

  “You people are going to hell.” Bren gives me a fake glare.

  “Now that’s the spirit.” I hook arms with her. “Now, say, ‘y’all.’ Come on now.”

  She does—with zero twang—but she indulges me. Even though we’re all goofing off and having fun, her words do not slip my mind. We’ll figure it out … together.

  I hope that’s exactly what we do.

  Chapter 11

  Today is a big day. Andrew and the boys finished framing out the float. The plan this morning was to pick up Sarabeth after breakfast. If I’m already running late, I know she will be for sure. I hurriedly blow dry and scrunch my hair. By the time I pop into the kitchen for a bowl of cereal, Mother is already in there, cooking away.

  A huge pot of sauce simmers on the stove, fresh basil and mushrooms on the cutting board. Two bottles of wine sit next to the loaf of French bread. Somebody’s planning a sleepover with Mr. Billy. It’s silly they hide their relationship. But I know how my mother thinks. It just wouldn’t look Christianly to date someone two months after his divorce. I wonder what our Baptist preacher would say about the wine.

  I bite my lips to keep from letting a grin escape. “It’ll be a late night, so I’m staying with Sarabeth,” I say.

  “I figured so. Don’t stay up too late and miss church in the morning.”

  “I won’t.” But we always do.

  “What about that new girl, Bren? Is she going to be there?” The question comes out of left field. Mother casually stirs the spaghetti sauce, but her eyes keep dancing back to me. I don’t answer right away. “Because, you know, I really don’t know her family all that well. I’m not sure if I want you hanging out with her.”

  That confirms it for me. Freaking Billy Arden ratted me out to Mother, and she knows. She knows! I knew this whole dating Bren stuff was a bad idea. Whatever made me think I could hide it from Mother was beyond me. This sucks. Now how am I supposed to see Bren? I slurp down the milk left in my bowl. When I come up for air, an idea hits me. “No,” I say, while I put my bowl in the dishwasher. “I heard she has a date with Mark, Jenny Littleton’s son.” The lie slips out as easy as breathing.

  “How nice.” Mother perks. “He’s a right sweet boy.” Relief softens her entire posture. I grab my keys. “Don’t forget we have the bake sale after church tomorrow. Don’t be late.”

  I kiss her on the cheek like a good girl. “Don’t worry, Mother, I won’t.”

  Out in front of Sarabeth’s house, floral vans and catering vehicles fill the driveway and block the street. From the side gate, I see Mrs. Beaudroux signing for deliveries and directing her staff where to set up the tables. Crates of stemware and fine china clank as they are carried to the back by the Beaudroux’s maid—degraded with a cliché fifties uniform for house maids.

  I wait for Sarabeth to load the rest of her stuff in my car, float decorations and whatnot. I check my Instagram. Bren posted another picture of an accidental love note—a pothole in the asphalt in the shape of a lopsided heart. A huge smile breaks across my face. It’s our way of saying “I miss you” to each other as publicly as possible.

  “Whatcha grinning at?” Sarabeth asks as she gets into the car.

  Quickly I lock my screen and shove my phone in my pocket. “Eh, just a stupid text from Van. What’s up with the big shindig?” I redirect the conversation.

  “That?” She looks up from her cell to the house. “They’re having some big dinner with these Japanese bigwigs.” She goes back to texting.

  “For the factory?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Are they with an automobile company?” I ask, as we pull away.

  “Yeah, I think. Who cares?” She shrugs, not taking her attention off her phone. Anybody whose livelihood depends on it cares—like my mother’s boutique. Things like that don’t concern Sarabeth. If the factory shut down tomorrow, their family would keep on thriving. Old money goes a long way in Sunshine. The only reason her daddy is fighting so hard for it now is because he’s working on his brownie points for when he runs for mayor next year.

  “Are Bren’s parents going?” I peer around the corner where I’m about to turn, as if I’m Miss Cautious Driver. Sarabeth’s pause and stare do not go unnoticed.

  “No.” She’s texting again. “It’s just an introduction thingy. Did Van say he picked up the purple glitter for the irises? He knows we’re gonna need like twenty bottles of the stuff, right?”

  “Yep. Rode with him over to Memphis yesterday to get the last of Craft World’s stock.”

  Sarabeth’s phone beeps. She giggles. “He’s so bad.”

  “What?” I smile.

  “Andrew wants to know if I’ll … you know.” She makes the universal gesture for blow job. “I told him to meet me behind the barn.”

  “Ew. You like doing that? I could never—” The comment leaps out of me before it registers what I’m implying.

  “Well, duh. Don’t you? You act like you’ve never gone down on a guy before.”

  I shiver in disgust. “I haven’t.” Again, the mouth with a mind of its own talks without thinking.

  She lowers her phone to her lap. “You and Dave didn’t … play around that night you stayed at his house until two in the morning?”

  That particular evening, Dave’s parents were out of town. He drank beers on his couch while we watched lame South Park reruns. We did that until he passed out, and I fell asleep. At two in the morning I woke up with his beer-breath mouth snoring in my face. Sarabeth made her own assumptions—which I never bothered to correct. She doesn’t even know I hated kissing him. “He drank too many beers and couldn’t get it up, remember?” I glance over at her to see if she’s buying it.

  She chews on the inside of her lip. “Huh. Whatever. It’s fun.”

  We drive in silence for a little while, heading out into the country toward Andrew’s house. The float is being built in one of their farming sheds, down the long winding drive by his home. It’ll stay there until the morning of the parade. It’s a good twenty minutes away from town and not worth anyone’s effort to drive out to vandalize.

  Once we’re out of city limits, the houses become scarce, and the roads wind around every which way. I get to thinking, if she does that for him, does he do that for her?

  “Well, of course he does,” Sarabeth answers the question I’m mortified that I actually verbalized. “Haven’t you ever—” She stops herself.

  She knows I’m a virgin, and I know she’s not. But all the other stuff in between, I may or may not have embellished about here and there—or flat-out lied about. I keep my eyes on the road ahead, but I can feel her looking at me. My face flames.

  “Yeeeah,” she says slow and easy. “I guess you haven’t. It’s really … um, awesome actually. I mean, hey, Andrew and I have been dating for over two years now, so of course we’ve done tons. Don’t get me wrong, in the beginning it was horrid. Not like the freaking movies, at all.”

  “Hmm,” is the most I can say, pretending to be laser-focused on the winding road, but my ears are wide awake.

  Sarabeth describes their first time. I do my best not to cringe. Lucky for me, Sarabeth and modesty are not friends as she describes the sexual things they do together. For the first time, sex actually makes total sense to me. She complains about certain things Andrew does to her and raves about others, and I find I’m taking mental notes. Not that I have any intention of doing those things with Bren anytime soon, but these are activities I’ve never allowed myself to ponder—before now.

  When we arrive at Andrew’s shed—thoroughly sex-educated—only three cars are parked in the field next to it. The huge building lies about a football field away from Andrew’s house. Their combine tractor is parked on the exterior, saving room for the float inside.

  “Hey, baby,” Sarabeth greets Andrew with way more attentiveness than I’m comfortable witne
ssing after our conversation. “Go on inside, Kaycee. I’ll be in in a sec.”

  “Oh, come on, let the girl watch. She might learn something.” Andrew bumps his pelvis against Sarabeth’s.

  “Disgusting.” I shake my head and go inside. Squealing giggles and male grunting fade off in the distance behind me.

  Wow. Inside, I quickly notice that the skeletal structure of the float is the most complicated we’ve ever attempted before. The Grand Ole Opry serves as the backdrop, with the Tennessee state flag on the sides and Elvis himself standing in a bed of irises in the middle. Toward the front, the gates of Graceland frame the thrones for the homecoming king and queen. Van’s overall design is freaking amazeballs.

  “Where do we start?” I ask Sarabeth once she and Andrew finally make their way inside.

  Sarabeth hands out orders to the few people who are already here. As more seniors arrive, she and Van put them to work too. For co-chairs, they work together way better than they’d ever admit. My eyes dart to the door every time someone enters, hoping for Bren.

  Purple and plum glitter cakes Van’s fingers, and I try to help him scrape it off.

  “What is she doing here?” Sarabeth’s sour tone brings my attention to the door.

  Bren strolls in with long easy strides. One hand smoothes her windblown hair. I thrill at the sight of her.

  “I invited her. You’re cool with that, right?”

  “She did swear to the Oath.” Van elbows me. We both laugh at our own private joke.

  “Humph.” Sarabeth eyes the both of us with skepticism. “I expect to get some work done today.”

  My face screws into a what’s-that-supposed-to-mean look. She chats it up with Bren all the time. Maybe she’s getting jealous of how much time I’m spending with Bren? Or worse, maybe she’s nervous about why I’m spending so much time with Bren in the first place.

  “Hey, guys.” Bren smiles.

  Every single touch, flirty word, and unsaid thought from the last week floods my nervous system, and I want to pull her into me.

  “Hey,” I say, bobbing on my heels, thumbs securely hooked into my back pockets.

  “I like your nails.” Her eyes scan me from my head to my perfectly polished toes. Considering the tortuous hell I’d had to endure to have someone dig, scrape, and scrub at my feet, the gold starbursts I’d had painted on my toes better have been worth it.

  We stand facing each other, in a sea of senior peers. It’s as if there’s an invisible barrier between us, forcing us to be … cordial. We take a collective breath. “You want to help me put on the tinsel?” Absently my hand tucks my hair around my ear, and my hip sways to one side like a coy schoolgirl. Geesh.

  “Sure—”

  “Bren.” Sarabeth strong-arms her. I forgot Sarabeth was standing there. “Andrew is having trouble securing the float lighting. He needs someone tall to hold it up. Can you help him?” She points to Andrew at the back of the float.

  “Absolutely,” Bren says, apologizing with her eyes to me.

  Sarabeth helps me tuck the tinsel through the wire framing at the front. “I’ve noticed Michael watching you.” Sarabeth nods behind me. I turn to see a scraggly boy, whose waist is so narrow he makes all the girls envious. His family owns the local gas station. But as alluring as free gas may be to most, I can’t get past the spit-slicked hair or the shiny skin.

  “He looks”—I take another gander at him to confirm—“oily.”

  “What about Jimmy?”

  “Jimmy? The same Jimmy who can’t seem to keep his pants up and who has worn the same curled-brim baseball cap since our freshman year? His family owns a pig farm. Oh yeah, that’s just how I imagined myself, someday—a pig farmer’s wife.” I growl. “What’s up with you pushing me so hard to tie up with someone? I’m cool with singlehood.” I ready myself to point out my obvious losing-Dave-to-Chelsea heartbreak, even though my only heartache is that Chelsea has moved past Dave and onto Bren. So have I.

  “Humph,” she grunts. “Look, I just want you to be happy and to not make any choices that will ruin your future. You do want a boyfriend, right?”

  My face goes beet red. There’s a lump in my throat.

  Sarabeth turns away, unable to look me in the eye. “Okay, maybe the boys in Sunshine aren’t prime picks. But it’s our senior year, Kaycee. If you don’t secure a boyfriend by college, then … then … you’ll be lonely. Maybe you’ll find someone there, though, who knows?” She pauses and looks over at me. I keep plugging away on the decoration. Girls around here might look at college as an opportunity to find a husband. But this girl plans on getting her degree in history, then getting the hell out of Sunshine.

  “I know it’s a long ways away, but after college, Andrew and I will probably get married. Don’t you want to get married? Our farms could be right next door to each other. We could have as many horses as we wanted. Wouldn’t it be cool if we raised our kids together? They’d grow up to be besties just like you and me. We could teach them how to ride. We could tell stories to our grandkids about how we fell in love and married our high school sweethearts. Doesn’t that sound perfect?” Sarabeth reels in her painted scenario, sounding almost desperate for me to agree with her.

  “Sure,” I say, a bit sharper than I mean to. Yes, I want a happily-ever-after, but it won’t be one like Sarabeth—or my mother for that matter—envisions. It will be years before Sunshine embraces the gay marriage law, and our Baptist church probably won’t ever. I would love to have kids, but how would this town treat them? The thing that really bugs me is it seems like Sarabeth is trying to enlighten me on what I’ll be missing if I “choose” a gay “lifestyle,” as if the perfect vision of marriage requires a husband. Or maybe she’s poking and prodding to get me to fess up? Like if I answer no to all of the above, then that seals it—I’m a lesbian. Because you know, being a lesbian means I never want to get married or have children. Ridiculous.

  I’m tired of talking white picket fences, so I change the subject, handing Sarabeth another garland strand. “You think Bren’s dad set up a good match for the factory?”

  “He better have, considering how much my daddy’s paying him. Why are you always so concerned about Bren? You have other friends you can talk about, right?” She huffs.

  “You know what,” I say, tossing the garland down, “I’m going to go work on Elvis.” She shrugs her indifference. Between her playing matchmaker and her moodiness over Bren, I’m fed up.

  The M&M twins have recruited two of the best seamstresses from home ec to make Elvis’ infamous white costume. A few other kids manipulate the male mannequin to resemble his classic pose. After I stand around for a while, I realize I’m not needed here, and I go over to the iris assembly table.

  Van has production under control. He puts me to work cutting out the shapes. “You just suck at gluing and sprinkling, honey,” he says. I stick my tongue out at him. From across the room, Bren catches my eye, and I smile. Just about the moment I’m going to nod for her to come over and make flowers with me, Sarabeth puts her on another task.

  It’s hard not to suspect she’s doing this to keep us apart. It’s like she knows I’m falling for Bren, and she’s doing her damnedest to keep it from happening. This is what I don’t understand—Sarabeth loves me and wants me to be happy, but she’s pushing me in this other direction. It’s like she’s trying to steer me away from making the wrong choice. What she doesn’t realize is that it’s not a choice.

  Three hundred flower petals later, my scissor hand cramps. “I need a break.” I stand and stretch my aching back.

  Van leans over to whisper in my ear. “Can you take over? I’ve got to go.”

  I raise a brow.

  “Meeting a friend in Lawrence,” he grins. It does my heart good to know he’s meeting Arthur. “Supervise but don’t touch a thing. You flunked art in preschool, remember?”

 
“You will not let me live that down will you? And for the record, U is for Unsatisfactory, not flunking. Now go and have fun.” I shoo Van toward the door. I scan the float area for Bren. When I don’t see her slaving away for Sarabeth, I get a little nervous, thinking maybe she left without saying good-bye. The bathroom door opens, and Bren steps out with a wad of paper towels wrapped around her hand.

  “Holy crap,” I say and walk over to her. “Did you cut yourself?” I pull her hand closer for inspection. It’s warm in mine. Her scent of ocean and spice makes me want to run my fingers through her hair.

  “It’s just a scratch. The chicken wire snagged my palm.” The second I remove the paper towel, blood seeps out.

  “You need a Band-Aid. A big one.” I spy the office over by the front entrance. “I bet they have a first-aid kit in there,” I say. She dares a glance at her hand. Her face pales. “You going to be all right?”

  She looks anywhere and everywhere except the direction of her bleeding palm. “Uh-huh.”

  “Uh-oh. Come sit down.” I drag her over to the office by the hand I’m still holding. Through the glass window separating the office from the work area, I can see a first-aid kit mounted to the wall. Bren eases herself down into the chair, applying pressure like I told her. I grab the supplies from the box.

  “You are such a wuss.” I chastise her as I pull out the supplies I need. “Scared of spiders and the sight of blood, I bet you make your momma proud.” She manages a smile at that.

  Wound cleanser bubbles over the cut. She seethes through her teeth. It bleeds worse than it is. It’s a haggard scratch but not deep.

  “At least I’m her favorite daughter,” she says.

  “Only daughter,” I mumble and giggle. “It’s not too bad. We won’t need to Medivac you to Vanderbilt.” I make a show of rolling my eyes. I fold a small piece of gauze over the scratch and lay the extra large Band-Aid over the top.

  Bren leans into me. She speaks in a low voice. “I’ve missed you today.” The tip of her finger traces my kneecap, and I melt into her touch.