South of Sunshine

by Dana Elmendorf

  “How are you feeling this morning?” Sarabeth asks as she slips beside me in the pew. She has the gall to have sincerity in her voice.

  The potato salad. Right. My incredulous look is enough for her to come off it.

  “Okay, so maybe last night,” she says as she stares at the church program she rolls and unrolls, “I was a bit harsh. I know Bren is your friend. Coming down on her like I did, for whatever reason, isn’t cool.”

  I know the “whatever reason” she’s avoiding. I cock my head curtly. “Why is Bren just my friend?” This is not the first time this has come up. “I thought everyone was friends with her.” Bren seems to know more people at school than I do.

  “Come on, Kaycee. It’s obvious how much you two … enjoy being friends.” Her pause rubs me the wrong way. She quickly amends with, “Maybe I just don’t know her well enough. All three of us should hang together. You know, the church has that hayride in a few weeks. Or maybe we can get our toes done or go shopping at that new boutique over in Bristol or something.”

  Are Bren and I obvious? I’ve taken every precaution to keep myself in check, but I do get caught up in just being near her. I wonder what Sarabeth would think if she knew I stayed the night at her house. Would she even believe that we slept in separate beds? The smell of Bren’s sheets still lingers in my memory. The thought of kissing her again awakens that warm buzz in the center of my stomach.

  “So that sounds good to you?” Sarabeth grins at me, hopeful. I’m smiling too, but with thoughts of Bren, not of pedicures and boutiques. Sarabeth drags me to those things often enough. I don’t even know if Bren likes that stuff.

  “Or something,” I say. The organ and piano music key up, sending everyone to their seats. I’m saved from having to define the “or something.”

  “Okay. Call me later,” Sarabeth whispers. She edges her way out of our pew and joins her family center-stage in the front, next to the Goodmans.

  Mother nods a silent hello to Mr. Billy Arden at the end of the pew before she sits. “Mrs. Perkipsky said she would help us with the bake sale today.” Mother pats my knee, pleased to share her news with me.

  Yay me. I’m sure I’ll get a lecture on how vulgar my sparkly nail polish is or how the basic fundamentals of makeup include a deep foundation and layers of blush, not just mascara and lip gloss.

  The choir begins, and I focus on the gospel of the hymns. There’s something spiritual about losing yourself in the rhythm of the songs. Music seems to be the voice of our souls. Our formal choir sings the traditional hymns I prefer. Though I think it might be fun if we had a band like Van’s charismatic church sometimes. They sing jazzed up versions of the gospels. Mother says rock ‘n’ roll in church is sacrilege. I think it’s just another way of worshiping God.

  After the choir leads us in a few songs, Pastor Ronnie takes the pulpit. “Will you inherit the kingdom of God?” His solemn voice echoes throughout the reverenced sanctuary. He begins with a self-reflective thought, imploring us all to question our actions in life. Calling out the closet drinkers to be honest with themselves. We might not be able to buy beer on Sundays here, but I know a lot of people in this church who stock up on Saturday.

  Like most sermons, I start to tune him out.

  Ever since I hugged Bren good-bye this morning—we couldn’t kiss with her parents watching—every spare second my mind returns to her. Everything about her summons that part of me I thought I had neatly tucked away inside myself long ago. And I love it. When we are together, the need to have constant physical contact overpowers the both of us. She’s the more confident initiator, but I’m learning. Her laid-back attitude eats up all my apprehensions and fears. For a short time, only she and I exist.

  As much as I didn’t want to leave this morning, her family was planning to go to church too. Not to Sunshine Baptist but to St. Mary’s Catholic Church, the only Catholic church out of all the churches in Sunshine. I didn’t know anyone, until now, who attended there. If I can manage to slip past my mother’s radar, I’m going see her again this afternoon. I’ll have to gage Mother’s mood and hopefully—

  “Nor homosexuals,” Pastor Ronnie bellows, jarring me from my thoughts.

  Suddenly my skin becomes cold and clammy. I tempt at glance at Mother who is thoughtfully listening to the sermon.

  “Nor thieves, nor the covetous, nor drunkards …” The pastor pauses to make an accusatory scan of his parishioners. “Nor revilers, nor extortioners will inherit the kingdom of God.” He slaps the top of his Bible. “I ask you again my good people. Will you inherit the kingdom God offers us all? Or do your sins keep you from His riches?”

  To my left, Mr. Lloyd coughs, and I jump. Ms. Rita glances at me, and my skin flames red. Then she smiles, and I mirror something similar to a smile back. The soft bump of Mother re-crossing her legs causes me to twitch in her direction. Her soured expression refocuses me back toward the pastor. Hellfire and brimstone rise up from the pulpit. It’s as if a giant neon sign has pointed an arrow above my head, and everyone in the congregation is glaring at me, knowingly.

  The island I lived on for so long is too far off the horizon for me to return to it. Inside I reach out for a life preserver. My eyes flit from Mrs. Perkipsky to my mother and then all the way to the front to Sarabeth. I reach in vain.

  I close my eyes and think of Bren. In the darkness I hold on to the thought of her, her warmth, her calm, and her peace with herself. In her ocean, I begin to tread water again.

  I remind myself that God loves me. He loves everybody, no matter what. I am in His image, in all ways, I reassure myself. So is every other being in this church. Abominations are incapable of love. Words like “detestable” describe the taste of lima beans or gum stuck to the bottom of your shoe, not one of the Lord’s loyal followers. Not me. What’s disgusting are the flimsy walls that I caged myself inside of for so long.

  By the time I open my eyes, Pastor Ronnie has begun the benediction. For the first time in my life, I cut the strings tying me to the cocoon I can no longer return to. I have evolved. In my heart, I know Pastor Ronnie is wrong in his interpretation of the Bible I clutch.

  Suddenly I feel hot and sticky. The urge to step out of this fire raises me to my feet. When Mother smiles up at me, for a brief moment I assume her smile is a sign of her approval of my newfound distaste. But then I realize the pastor has made an altar call. Right now, I’m not in the mood to renew my spiritual commitment. I shave past everyone’s knees as I exit the pew. Instead of walking toward the altar, I beeline to the back of the sanctuary and slip out the front doors.

  I walk up Main Street. My feet feel light. My steps, assured. I’m almost giddy—until I get mad. Why didn’t I ever look at being gay like this before?

  The summer afternoon of Charlotte’s and my romantic escapades floods my mind, or, more specifically, the evening that followed. At the table that night sat me, Mother, and King James. Corinthians, Leviticus, and Genesis glared back at me while my mother explained to me the error of my ways. For the longest time after that, I wouldn’t dare look at Charlotte Wozniak for fear I might turn into a pillar of salt.

  Pastor Ronnie is wrong. My mother is wrong. And I’m right pissed off about it. They are the ones who set up the rules in my world, telling me my love for someone would keep me out of heaven. Rules that I persecuted myself over because I thought I was choosing to be this way. I might as well flog myself because of my sandy colored hair or green eyes. I’m not sinning. Sin is a willful and deliberate violation against God. He doesn’t punish me for how he made me. No more than he punishes people for wearing a cloth of two different threads.

  This tendency that draws me toward Bren, there’s no controlling it or taming it for that matter. I’ve tried and failed in the past. And I don’t want to fight it. It’s about time I stop punishing myself for something nature intended.

  Sweat beads on my forehead. Blisters burn m
y strappy sandaled feet. I stand in front of a storefront window, confused. A large painted red heart blares at me. All the colors of the rainbow burst out of it and ripple across the window. The only part of the glass widow that isn’t painted is the small area around the Hot Flix’s lettering.

  So this is the big craft project Mrs. Betty was working on. I wonder what inspired her sudden openness to express her pride. The backlash she’ll get for this will be hellish.

  An older couple in their church clothes passes with no more than a casual smile at the window before they go into the diner next door. Who am I kidding? We’re talking Sunshine, Tennessee, here. I doubt anyone around here even knows what this rainbow symbolizes, or, more specifically, that it represents acceptance of this family’s gay son.

  Why couldn’t my mother paint rainbows instead of instilling the fear of God in me? To take something as valuable as my faith and use it against me is appalling. It’s not just about being gay … I’m not good enough for her. I’m tired of trying to be the perfect daughter. Why does my wardrobe have to be just so, or my hair neat and straight, or my toes painted in a single, acceptable color? Fear and worry about my mother finding out I’m gay fades away because I believe she already knows, but she’s knee-deep in denial. So was I.

  “Shall I commission my mom to make a mini version for you?” Van asks. His keys jingle as he unlocks Hot Flix’s front door. “Or would you prefer to stand out front all day for a look-see?” He laughs as he holds the door open for me.

  In that moment, I need to know. The one thing that has consumed and controlled me my entire life stands before me and demands to be validated or dismissed. “Are we going to burn in hell, Van?” My feet are cemented to the sidewalk, waiting, needing his answer.

  The smile on his face flattens. Van tilts his head, curious. His eyes scan my clothing and stop on the Bible I’m barely hanging on to. “Absolutely not,” he says with such conviction I believe him.

  There is just enough authority in his voice to get my blood circulating again, and I walk past him into the store.

  “Well,” Van amends, taking a second look at my church clothes after he flips over the open sign. “You might burn for wearing that horrid navy floral skirt. Where the heck did you buy that thing? The Goodwill?”

  I chuckle. “Mother made me wear it.” I sink into the sofa. The video store has an eerie dead feeling without the lights on, the flat screen playing, or the fresh smell of popcorn in the air.

  “Is your mother legally blind or what? Oh, wait—” Van flips the lights on. “The only time you wear the clothes your mother buys is when you’re feeling guilty. What have you done, young lady?” He raises his brow with a devilish grin on his face.

  My cell phone beeps from the pocket of my ugly devil-skirt. It’s a text from Mother.

  Where are you? Are you feeling okay?

  “Speaking of the legally blind …” I open my phone to text her back. I really don’t want to look at her right now, much less endure an afternoon of belittling from Mrs. Perkipsky while selling baked goods. “I stayed over at Bren’s house last night.” A hundred-watt smile beams from my face.

  The blank stare from Van is priceless. “You slept with Long and Tall?”

  My phone beeps again, but this time it’s Bren. “Speaking of Long and Tall …”

  Mom is attempting to make fried catfish and hush puppies?!? Please tell me hush puppies have nothing to do with dogs. Save me?

  While I’m texting Mother back, I answer Van. “And no, I did not sleep with her, innocently or otherwise. She respects her parents—who know I’m not just a BFF—so she slept in the guestroom. That’s just the kind of honorable person she is. Sickening, right?”

  Feel fantastic. Headed over to Bren’s for lunch. Will be home late, I text mother.

  “Bren’s a downright saint. I hope it’s not infectious.” Van pours the kernels into the popper.

  “I know.”

  I text Bren back, You’ve never had hush puppies?!? You haven’t lived until you’ve eaten hush puppies! On my way.

  “I’ve gotta go, Van. And I need to borrow the Nova. Bren invited me over for lunch.”

  “You cannot drop a bomb about staying the night with her and then take off with my only set of wheels.” But he reaches into his pocket for his keys.

  “You said it yourself—this skirt is awful, and if I go back to the church to get our car, Mother will make me stay and help with the bake sale. I’ll leave the keys under the floor mat, and your mom can drop you by my house later to pick it up.” I reach my hand out, but he holds his keys for ransom. I offer him a little holdover. “Her parents are amazing. Her T-shirts smell like ocean and spice. She’s the best kisser I’ve ever had the pleasure of making out with.”

  Van dangles the keys over my palm. “Did she sneak back in the room after her parents went to bed?” His eyebrows wiggle.

  “No.” I take the keys. “But she confessed she was ‘eat up’ with me. I promise I’ll call you tonight and tell you every gory detail,” I holler behind me as I leave.

  The Nova’s engine rumbles a deep purr. I get another text from Mother. I think you just need to eat at home. I have lots of leftover spaghetti I don’t want to go to waste.

  I text her back. Why don’t you call Mr. Billy Arden? I’m sure he won’t mind having spaghetti with you again. I add a little smiley face.

  From here on out, Kaycee Jean McCoy is going to follow her heart. Others will just have to deal.

  Chapter 14

  My life consists of eat, sleep, and Bren. Every morning Bren picks me up for school. Sarabeth was less than happy about not carpooling with me anymore. For lunch, Bren and I no longer sit with the rest of the group in the cafeteria. We take our lunch backstage in the Drama classroom. On afternoons when I don’t have to work at Mother’s boutique, we veg at Bren’s house. Most of my dinners are eaten with her family.

  The last couple of weeks have put my mother in a foul mood. The way I see it, as long as my chores are done, grades are good, and my duties at the shop aren’t neglected, Mother has no reason to complain. Besides, I have not said one word to Mother about publicly dating Mr. Billy, despite the rumors I hear at church about a possible affair prior to his divorce.

  Waiting on the couch while mother cooks a romantic dinner for Mr. Billy, I get another text from Sarabeth. It’s the fourth time I’ve blown her off for a night with Bren. A part of me misses hanging out with Sarabeth and catching up in the car ride before school. I want to spend time with her, but I also don’t want to have to explain my sudden Bren fixation.

  Hayride next Friday night. Don’t say no, pleeeeease. You should invite Bren :D

  I cringe at the fact that she has to beg and then bait me with an invitation for Bren to get me to consider hanging with her. I’ve seen the classic ditch-your-friends-for-the-new-relationship move, and I hope it doesn’t look that obvious. We’ve been best friends since preschool. We haven’t missed a church hayride since we were eleven. Of course the last two years I didn’t see much of her on those hayrides because she and Andrew were occupying one of the dark corners of the wagon where all the couples make out. Third wheels tend to squeak a little less if they group together in the center. Not sure where Bren and I fit in that picture.

  Sure. Count us in, I text back.

  The doorbell rings. “My ride is here, Mother. I’ll be home by midnight,” I call into the kitchen, then open the front door. Bren wears a vintage Sex Pistols tee under a soft gray collared shirt, unbuttoned. Dark-washed couture jeans—that she did not buy within a hundred mile radius of our fashion dead zone—hug her long legs.

  My eyes stop at her feet. Kelly green Chucks pop below her cuffed jeans. “Please do not tell me Van is doing your shoe shopping now.”

  “They’re awesome. Look.” She twists her foot around. On the outside reads “Long and Tall” in a custom rainbow stitch
.

  “You’re ruined now. Next thing you know, you’ll be critiquing Johnny D movies.”

  “We did analyze Ed Wood at lunch today.”

  “That’s it. Give me your phone.” I dive for her back pocket. “You’re banned from seeing Van. I forbid it.” Her long arms keep me at bay. We both squirm and laugh as I try to wrestle her phone from her.

  “You two girls going out … alone tonight?” Mother’s voice is stiff.

  Out of instinct or self-preservation, I step away from Bren, signifying a more than appropriate distance for friends. Spending 24/7 with Bren is one thing, declaring it more than a friendship to my mother is another. I’m not there yet.

  “Mother, this is Bren. My gir—good friend from school.” My hands slip off my pocketless leggings, looking for shelter. Instead I twiddle a thread at the end of my shirt and bob on my heels.

  “Hello, Ms. McCoy,” Bren says. Mother’s bitter smile keeps Bren from crossing the threshold to shake her hand.

  Mother scans my attire. The wide-rimmed neck of my plum shirt hangs off my shoulder, and the urge to pull it back up overwhelms me. I tug it up tight to my neck.

  “Um, actually we are picking up Van,” Bren says, and smiles at me. “I think he said we were going to Lawrence? They have a fall carnival or something.”

  “Oh yeah. They’re having an Okra Festival.” I grab my phone off the entry table, mildly aware that the Bible has been turned to Leviticus. “Later, Mother.” I skedaddle on out, and conscious of the front door being solid glass, I make no move to touch Bren. I’m relieved Bren doesn’t open my door for me when we get in the car.

  Bren waits until the end of my street before she grabs my hand and kisses my knuckles. “Missed you,” she whispers against them.

  “Missed you too.” I lean over for my kiss. At the stop sign, she takes her free hand off the wheel, clasps it behind my neck, and pulls me in. Soft and easy lips push against mine, tickling the flutter in my stomach. The dizzy-spin feeling takes over my head again. Our lips separate with a quiet smack. Her hand lingers on my neck, her thumb strokes lightly against my pulse. The way she stares at my lips, it seems like she’s debating another kiss.