South of Sunshine (12 page)

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.

“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.