South of Sunshine

  “It’s already past seven.” I smile. “Van is going to make us pay if we’re any later.” I give Bren one more peck for good measure.

  A few turns later, we pull into Van’s drive. He’s already halfway out the door. “Midnight,” Van calls back to his mom. Mrs. Betty waves enthusiastically from the door. I wave back.

  “Your momma is so sweet,” I say to Van through Bren’s open window.

  “She’s a peach. Let’s go.”

  Bren slides out of the car to let Van into the backseat. He’s sporting a new fedora and pristine white Converse high-tops. “Captain Jack” is airbrushed along the side.

  “Okra Festival,” I say. “Really, Van? If my memory serves me correctly they stopped allowing rides. It’s just dunk tanks and cheesy carnival games run by toothless hobos. Maybe we should—”

  Van pops his head between the seats. “Sorry to disappoint, but we are not going to the Okra Festival. We’re going dancing.”

  “Dancing,” Bren and I say at the same time. She is all Chipper Chipmunk. I snarl.

  “I’m not going to Sonny Dee’s.” It’s a bright and cheery teen club where anyone aged thirteen to nineteen can go. They don’t even dim the lights. Mostly the pre-acne crowd goes over there, or the super holy. Sometimes they rock out to Christian techno. Ugh.

  “No, sweetie.” Van rests his hand on my shoulder. Bren backs out of the driveway. “Okra Festival is what I told goody-two-shoes Bren because we know she cannot tell a lie.”

  “That’s not true,” Bren protests.

  “Pa-lease,” Van says. “You couldn’t even ditch sixth period on Friday, even when Mrs. Bellefleur gave you permission to take the Community Swap books back to the public library with Kaycee.”

  “It’s true, babe. You’re infected with honesty. It’s an honorable trait but sucks when deceiving the parentals.” I pat Bren’s hand, teasingly. She shakes her head at our patronizing and smiles.

  “Tonight, ladies, we’re going to man up. We’re headed over to Memphis … to Breakers. Turn left up here Bren, toward the interstate.”

  “We cannot go to Breakers.” My nerves knot in my stomach. My hands turn clammy. Technically it’s not a gay bar, but quite a few eccentric people go there and some gay people. I’ve heard they have three dance floors with a maze of seating areas full of dark corners. “You have to be eighteen to get in.” I remind Van.

  Van digs into his pocket for something. “Since you’re the only jailbait in the car …” He frees an ID from his wallet. “You will be Mindy Lovelace tonight, who is actually nineteen.”

  “Your skuzzy cousin from Hillville?” I snatch the license from him. “I look nothing like that heifer.” I check out her picture. She has the same nondescript hair color as mine, but with a defined curl. Freckles dot her face, and braces tack her teeth. “I don’t have braces and she’ll be twenty next month. I cannot pass for almost twenty.” I give the ID to Bren to check out.

  “Yikes,” she says.

  “I’m not dressed for dancing.” I say this even though I know I’m looking awfully cute in my galaxy print leggings, black wedge high-tops, and deep purple shirt with the neck so large it hangs off my shoulder.

  Bren pecks a kiss on my exposed shoulder. “I’m liking it.”

  “Traitor.”

  “Kaycee, relax. They don’t care about the people under 21. It’s the drinking age IDs they scrutinize. Trust me, we’re going to get in that place, and then we’re going to dance our asses off.” Van snaps and wiggles in his seat.

  Bren squeezes my hand. “We’ll let you go first. If they don’t let the jailbait in, we’ll leave.”

  “Exactly,” says Van.

  “Stop calling me jailbait, you dorks.” I roll my eyes at the two of them, smiling.

  Van parks his face center stage between us. “Dancing is way better than fried pickles at Lawrence’s county fair. Don’t you think, Bren?”

  “Way.” Bren kisses my knuckles again.

  After an hour of Van spazzing out over Bren’s satellite radio and pumping the speakers with his “Booty Shakers” playlist, I’m actually a little stoked to dance now too. We drive by the front of Breakers, doing a slow roll in Bren’s black-on-black BMW. The long line to get in extends all the way to the corner. It’s a grab-bag mix of giddy teens and fresh, young twenty-somethings. Various flavors of people of all different orientations pepper the crowd. And we’re not talking chocolate, vanilla, and strawberry. More like Cotton Candy, Bubble Gum, and Rainbow Sherbet. There are all types of bizarrely dressed people. A few skanked-up girls smile at Bren as we pass in her BMW.

  “I might have to knock some teeth out,” I mumble, scanning the line.

  “Simmer down, hot rod,” Van says. Bren squeezes my hand.

  “Oooo, Van, did you see that guy in the cowboy hat?” I nudge him. “He looked a little sweet on those guys he was talking to. You’re way hotter than them.”

  “Mmm-hmm. But Arthur’s meeting me here so Van is going to be a good boy,” he says.

  “Arthur, Arthur? Yay! I can’t wait to meet him.” The thought of meeting someone Van is attracted to piques my curiosity. I’ve never even considered what type of guy he’d be interested in or what he’d look like.

  Bren pulls into the lot behind the building, parking her car in a lonely space at the very back. The nerves in my stomach have commenced their own dance party. As if waiting in this long line is not nerve-racking enough, Bren’s hand is on the small of my back, which is quickly becoming a sweaty puddle. I know she’s keeping it there to try to calm my nerves, but I wonder if others notice. There is a group of rebels-against-their-parents hetero couples in line, punked-out with bright-colored hair, face piercings, and edgy low-waist clothing. They lock lips like there’s a kissing contest happening while we wait in line. There are a few tatted up girls who might be twins of Charlotte Wozniak with their sleeveless plaid button-ups, Dickie shorts, and chain wallets. There are guys in line standing shoulder to shoulder, way closer than two corn-fed boys from Sunshine would be.

  Suddenly, I feel at home.

  The bouncer hands me back my “Mindy” ID with a bored expression and waves me on in. Bren pays the twenty bucks per person for the two of us without flinching.

  We emerge from the dark entry tunnel into a pulsing room of electronic beats and lights. Black lights give everything white in the club a phosphorus glow. Obscure graffiti images wrap around the curved bar and cover the walls. Apparel stickers cover the dance floor. Besides the patrons who cross it to reach the bar, the dance floor is empty.

  “Arthur.” Van lights up like a Christmas tree.

  A studious guy with designer rimmed glasses, disheveled spikes atop his head, and Abercrombie chic clothes shyly nods to Van. As Van hugs him in greeting, I’m a mix of paranoia and excitement, happy to be here but hopeful that we don’t run into anyone we know. Introductions are made. Arthur’s voice lacks any kind of accent, southern or otherwise.

  “So are you from Tennessee?” Bren notices too.

  “Yes. From Lawrence.” Arthur says in his crisp pronunciation.

  “But you don’t have an accent.” I blurt out.

  “Okay, we’re keeping this real. Let’s not embarrass Arthur with interrogations.” Van laughs, nervous, and I give him a what-did-I-say look. “What do you want to drink?” he asks Arthur, not us. “Cherry Pepper?” Arthur nods, and it makes my heart go pitter-patter that Van knows his soda of choice.

  “I’ll go with. What do you want, Bren?” I realize I have no clue what she drinks besides water and Gatorade.

  “No, babe. I’ll get—” She moves to stand.

  “Please, the cover was highway robbery to get us in here. I can handle a soda.”

  “Diet.”

  I make a disgusted face at Van. “Did she just say diet?” I ask it with as much love as I might have for a pair of
sweaty socks. “I don’t know if I can associate with her anymore.” Van and I both shun her with our laughter as we walk off toward the bar.

  “Arthur is eat ’em up cute,” I comment to Van once we’ve moved away.

  “I know. He’s so controlled and methodical and articulate. And he says he doesn’t have an accent because of all his musical training. He doesn’t like to tell people he loves opera. It makes me gooey.”

  I stop dead in my tracks. “Did you just say ‘gooey?’” There’s a moment of doubt in Van’s face that I wish I could snap a pic of. “Van, that is so freaking awesome.” I hug him. He relaxes. We both look back toward our significant others. “They look like they’re getting along.” I lean up against the bar, contemplating what Bren and Arthur are all chatty about.

  “They’re actually laughing.” Van feigns seriousness. “Look at the way Bren’s gesturing. She better not be telling him about my Depp-loving side. Embarrassing.”

  But I’m not looking at them. I’m staring at my happy, lovesick Van. The regret that I feel—and should have felt a long time ago—grounds me to the floor. “Why’d we hide this part of us?” I ask.

  Van’s posture softens, and he gives me his I-love-you-like-my-own smile.

  “Us of all people,” I say. “We’re from the same mold. We share the same fears and religious guilt for who we are, but we never shared this between us. Why?”

  He clasps his hands over mine. “Maybe it’s because I never shared and you never admitted. Together we just sat in a bucket of silence.”

  “The echo was painful.”

  Van squeezes my hands and nods. “But our bucket runneth over now. And there isn’t any going back.” His sentiment is my motto. I smile. “And if you don’t hurry and order our drinks, Arthur and Bren will fall in love, and you and I will be screwed.”

  I take the cash from Van. He goes back to the not-quite-wed couple, and I order our sodas.

  “Nice tan you’ve got.” A snaky finger grazes my bare shoulder. I slink out from under the touch. It’s the guy with the cowboy hat that we saw outside. He stares me down.

  Reflexively, I tuck my hair behind my ear, which signals to him I’m flirting, but I’m only reacting to my jolted nerves. “You have yourself a good time, you hear?” I say, turning my back to him, shutting off the conversation. I pay the bartender for the drinks, steadily ignoring the eyes piercing my back. I work to balance four drinks between my hands.

  Cowboy Hat stands and scoots in closer. He’s a smidge shorter than me. “Why don’t you dance with me? Show me what you’ve got.” Pungent beer breath assaults me, but I notice he doesn’t have an over-twenty-one wristband.

  My first impression, from when we drove by, was of his cute dimples and stocky build. Up close, he’s a stump—thick and low to the ground. He’s hanging on to the desperate end of “not quite twenty-one,” looking like he’s been rode hard and put up wet.

  I struggle to breathe and put on my best “I’m friendly but not interested” hat. “You know, I’m just here with some friends, trying to keep it laid back. I’m not big on dancing.” I hold my breath.

  “I’ve got it.” Bren’s assertive but smooth tone punches between us as she grabs two of the drinks. She smiles down at me, feigning ignorance of the waste of life behind her.

  We walk back to Arthur and Van who have claimed a bar table in the middle, no stools. By now, bodies are streaming into the club more fluidly, and the dance floor is beginning to crowd. The DJ calls all the “single ladies” to the dance floor, playing the infamous song. Van drags Arthur out on the floor. They bust into a frighteningly accurate version of the video, minus the leotards and high heels. Bren and I burst out laughing. The thought of dancing with Bren makes me nervous. Old habits die hard, and I scan the room. Not that I actually expect to see anyone from Sunshine here among the deliciously bent.

  The beat changes to a remix hip-hop song. Like bees on a honeycomb, bodies swarm to the dance floor and spill over into the seating areas.

  I tip up on my toes into Bren’s face, lips so close I’d kiss them if we were anywhere but here. “Want to dance?” I ask. She eases a hand onto my lower back and with a smooth stroll, she guides me to the dance floor.

  The thickening crowd swallows us up. In the dark, bodies start to blend. One big melting pot sways to the beat of the music. In all the push and pull of people around us, it’s hard to tell who’s who and what’s what. Some girls grind with girls, a show for their boyfriends. A few guy couples swing their hips together. No one gawks or points in horror at them, so I let my nerves calm down. Cowboy Hat squirms between two girls, thrusting with his Wranglers, only to get shoved to the side by the both of them.

  Bren laughs at the spectacle and shakes her head. She slips me a hooded smile, luring me closer to her. I slide my arms around her neck and let my body speak my desires. The action drops her hands to my swaying hips, and she mirrors the motion.

  She lowers herself around me and scoops me in closer, never missing a beat. Her lips are hot on my ear. “You’re driving me crazy.” Her words set off a frenzy in my body, lighting it on fire. It makes me wiggle against her more.

  Thirst and exhaustion eventually win out, and we go back to our table that has long since been claimed by someone else.

  “Let’s go to the back,” Arthur calls over the crowd. He guides us through a hallway that opens into a small lounge area.

  My eyes adjust to the dimmer lighting. Blood red furnishings haunt the shadows, and faux candles flicker an eerie castle glow. The bartender—who I’m sure is wearing powder on his face and eyeliner—slaps four waters on the counter, per Arthur’s request. We gulp them down without pausing for a breath.

  “Hello. Get a room,” Van says, nodding toward a groping couple in a dark corner. They come up for air and depart from the loveseat, and we leap at the chance to sit. My legs drape across Bren’s lap as we squeeze together in an oversized chair, while Van and Arthur take the small sofa.

  Bren wraps one arm behind me and curls the other over my legs, tugging me more fully onto her lap. “I think he’s found his equal,” she says. She’s totally right. “And I couldn’t be happier with mine.”

  My eyes meet hers. I’ve never been so smitten with someone. The cool ease and certainty she emits is like the sugary scent of honeysuckle that lures the butterflies. I can’t drink up enough of it. The dim light catches the glossy wet of her lips, calling me. The heat of her body underneath mine urges me forward. It’s a quick, easy kiss, but it fuels a burning deep in my belly. A wildfire spreads to the rest of my body and tingles.

  “Y’all want to dance some—” Van’s voice drops off as he realizes what he’s interrupted.

  I pull away from Bren’s lips, grateful that the lack of proper lighting hides my blush. “Yes, let’s go dance.” I jump off her lap, eager—even though that’s the last thing I want to do right now.

  They rise to their feet. Movement in the far corner catches my eye. The outline of a cowboy hat looms in the dark. It leans forward slightly, so the floor lights illuminate his face, creepy like a flashlight under the chin. His leering gaze causes me to shiver. He takes a swig of his beer, then makes an exaggerated show of snaking his tongue across his lips, licking the foam off. It flips my stomach sour. I’m not sure how long he has been watching us.

  “You ready?” Bren tugs at my hand. Arthur and Van have already taken off through the side tunnel to the other dance floor.

  “Yeah. Sure.” I chipper my voice and find my smile. Bren croons her neck to see around me, but I pull her through the archway, tight on Van’s heels. Please let the shadows gobble Cowboy Hat up again before she gets a peek.

  We dance some more. My eyes continue to scan the perimeter. Like the predator I suspect Cowboy Hat is, he slinks along the wall, working his way around for a better position to watch us.

  “Let’s dance in there.” I p
oint to the adjacent room with another more crowded dance floor and a DJ. I lead the party train over to the other room and bury us in the middle of a thriving mob on the dance floor. My sights are locked on the passageway we just traversed, expecting a black Stetson to meander through. Two songs later, I start to relax when no one remotely like Cowboy Hat follows behind.

  Bren snaps her fingers above her head, snaking her hips from side to side. I let myself loosen up and mentally smack myself for letting paranoia eat me up. Cowboy Hat has probably rustled up a set of girls and is riding the pony with them right now.

  “Top this, baby,” Van yells at Bren, and he busts into his best dance routine. Arms flail and hips thrust as he does something between the Hustle and the Cabbage Patch. It’s awful but hilarious. I have to back up to keep from getting knocked out by a flying fist. I’m laughing so hard, tears well up in my eyes. Bren’s trying to contain herself, but she can’t help but laugh too. Van waves his arm in her direction, as if he’s passing the moves over. She accepts and pop-and-locks her own version, putting Van’s absurd jive to shame.

  At first I think the push from behind me is coming from another onlooker bumping into me—until the guy’s arms lock around my waist and press me hard against his pumping pelvis. The tip of a black hat juts into my periphery. The musk of body odor offends my senses, and stubble scratches my cheek. I wriggle and writhe, trying to escape Cowboy Hat’s grasp.

  “That’s it, sugar. Get on it.” He grunts in my ear, and his sour beer breath nauseates my stomach.

  “Let go.” I try to pry his arms off me. In the middle of the struggle, he’s managed to pull me away from the action happening on the dance floor, and I can barely see the top of Bren’s head over the crowd.

  “Don’t worry about her. She don’t have the equipment to give you a proper good time.” He quickly replaces his hands the moment I pry one loose.