South of Sunshine (19 page)

“We’ll figure it out, okay?” Sarabeth steps forward as if to hug me, but I slap her hand back. She recoils as if she’s just been burned.

“Get out.” I let all my seething hate push her away. Tears streaming down, she bolts out the door. It smacks against the wall with a loud clap before closing.

We’ll figure it out, okay?
The familiar words echo in my head. It’s the same promise Bren gave me that rainy day that feels so long ago. It’s another thought I neatly fold and tuck away.

I just don’t know if I can survive ten months of brainwashing. What if they succeed? What if they strip me down to nothing but a shell? I’d be a zombie, going through the motions of the living but dead inside. I’m not sure I can stick around here long enough to find out.

I have one month to come up with a plan B before they ship me off. One month.

Chapter 20

“Honey, you don’t have to go. Why don’t you call in sick to school for the rest of the week?” Mother stands over me, wringing her hands.

I pick at the piece of raisin toast on my plate and consider her offer. The thought of lying in my bed under the covers—for the rest of my life even—sounds like bliss. If I truly thought she was concerned about my mental sanity and not about the embarrassment I was causing her with the horrid bruise on my face, I might have taken her up on the offer.

The damage is done. My secret is out. No amount of hiding will change that fact. Sure, my mother wants to believe I was “experimenting,” but if she truly did, she wouldn’t be sending me away to bury the truth. The big fat ugly truth of what I really am … gay. Sin. Shame. Call it what you will, but delaying the inevitable of facing my peers at school will not change that fact. With only a month left of normal, I don’t want to waste it at home. Besides, it’s the only place I’ll get to see Bren, even if it’s from afar. And since Mother password-locked the home laptop, it might be my only access to a computer.

“No, I’ll go. It’s better if I keep to my routine.” The new numbness I’ve adopted will get me through. I leave my uneaten toast on the table and get ready. I dab on just enough concealer to lighten the black eye so at least I won’t have to hear the shocked gasps along with the whispers.

Mother stops me at the front door before I leave for school. “I was thinking, you should take a few days off from working at the shop. You know, until you’re feeling better.”

She smiles that unreadable smile, but I know her intentions. Having to explain the black eye to her customers is humiliation at its finest. Even if we could create a little white lie, they’d learn the truth eventually once the gossip made the rounds.

“If that’s what you want.” My voice is barely a whisper. I let the door clap shut behind me.

I keep my head down and blend into the background as much as I can. It’s an easy job since everyone at school is playing the Let’s Ignore Kaycee game. At lunch I crunch on an apple outside in the unofficial smoking section by the bus drop-off. Where there is no chance of my friends ever venturing.

Again, Bren is not at school.

The only glimpse of Van I get is when he completely ignores me as we pass in the hall of my Social Media class. Before Mr. Peterson can make it back from the teacher’s lounge, I hop on the computer and go around the school’s firewall to check my email. Nobody loves me except spam. And worse, I can’t even stalk Bren on social media because all her accounts are gone, probably because she’s blocked me. To be cut off completely helps the darkness inside of me grow.

After the final bell, I dash out of computer class and hurry to my car. I want to be off campus as quickly as possible. But I can’t bear to go home either. It would be nice if I could go to work to keep my mind off of how much I’m missing Bren or to keep it from wondering what awful things people are saying about me. But Mother has banned me from the boutique, and by November she’ll have me banned from the house.

If my mother wants me gone, then I’ll make her wishes come true. I’ll give her what she wants right now. I get in my car and drive toward the interstate.

After a two-minute interview with Betsy the waitress, I take a job bussing tables and washing dishes at the truck stop—it’s a suck job with crappy hours and sketchy clientele, but there is plenty of work. Enough work to keep me busy and gone so my mother will never have to see me.

And I won’t ever have to see her either.

For the next week, I bus tables past midnight, half-ass my homework on breaks, and do the minimal amount of chores to keep Mother from complaining. I eat a hearty dinner of saltines and iced tea before I crash into my bed and pray for sleep.

“Did you hear?” a girl asks.

I snap my head up from foraging in my backpack. Panic kick-starts my heart. Three sinks down from me, a girl washes her hands in the sink. It’s been so long since someone at school has spoken to me, I’m stunned speechless. Until I see—in the reflection of the bathroom mirror—her friend emerging from the bathroom stall.

“Andrew and Sarabeth are homecoming king and queen. Pretty perfect, huh? I hear the seniors’ float is freaking amazing. Do you think the freshman even have a chance?” The girl and her friend have a small discussion about homecoming, mums, and what they’re going to wear. To them, I am as noticeable as the cinderblock walls.

As their idle chat continues, I apply my lip balm. A gaunt face stares back at me. My black eye has faded to a gorgeous shade of rotting green and yellowish-brown. Not even worth the effort to cover anymore.

I wait in the bathroom until the last possible minute, before grabbing my books from my locker for my next class. As I leave the bathroom, a brief thought to congratulate Sarabeth passes through my mind, but why? She has done a good job of avoiding me, especially with Andrew shielding her from my presence whenever our paths cross. I haven’t seen Van around them either. I guess they’ve shunned him too. But he doesn’t seem to be as isolated as I am because I’ve noticed he spends a lot of his time with the art students, when he’s not avoiding me. My popularity seems to have sunk to the depths of Charlotte Wozniak.

“You all right there, McCoy?”

I peer past my locker door and see Chuck standing at the end of the hall, alone.

I wipe the tear off my face I didn’t realize had escaped. I’m half-confused why he’s talking to me and half-shocked he even cares. I give him the slightest nod. He stands there starring at me, like he’s not convinced and won’t move until I assure him better, which confuses me even more. The bell rings, snapping him out of his thoughts.

“Good,” he says with a small smile before going to his class.

By Friday, I stand in front of Mrs. Bellefleur, waiting for her to get off the phone. I glance around the library, hoping to catch a glimpse of Bren, but I know she’s not here. She hasn’t been to school since the Friday before the hayride. When no one is speaking to you, it’s hard to find out what’s going on. The only rumor I’ve heard is that they are in Boston, visiting her grandmother, and I overheard that from one of the teachers. Something about the rumor didn’t feel right. It wasn’t so much what the teacher said, but how she said it, with worry and dismay in her voice. I hope her grandmother isn’t sick or something.

The phone clunks in the cradle as Mrs. Bellefleur sets it down. “How have you been, honey?” She gives me a heartbreaking look over the top of the coffee cup she sips from, waiting for me to answer.

I want to crash into the chair in front of her desk and spill my soul to her. Tell her that I’m barely hanging on. That I miss my friends so bad it’s physically starting to hurt. The pressure on my chest is unbearable.

But I don’t say any of those things. I muster up the best smile I can, which Mrs. Bellefleur sees right through but doesn’t call me out on. “I’m fine.” It’s my staple response to anyone who asks.

She sets her coffee cup down, and her fingers drum the side. She sizes me up, as if contemplating what she should say to me next.

I rock from one foot to the other under her scrutiny. I admire the contents of her shelves, the papers on the desk, the stack of book boxes along the wall, and look at anything except her eyes. My hands find their home in my back pockets, and my heels jog me up and down. The long silence toys with my nerves, and I fight the urge to bolt.

Mrs. Bellefleur sighs in resignation. “There’s only a short stack of books to shelve this week. Guess the parade floats have occupied the students’ time.”

It hurts to hear about the parade and know that I’m not a part of it.

“That was Jackie from the public library on the phone. She has a couple of books for us.” Mrs. Bellefleur nods to the stack of books on the bottom of the cart. “Those need to be returned to her. Just bring the books they have back to school with you on Monday. Don’t hassle with coming back today.”

“Yes, ma’am.” I grab the cart to wheel it out.

“And Kaycee …” Mrs. Bellefleur stands.

I stop in my tracks but refuse to meet her eyes, so I stare at the floor.

“If you ever need to talk, I’m always here.”

The invitation tempts me, but I cough to clear the frog in my throat. “Yeah, sure. Thanks, Mrs. Bellefleur.”

I tempt a glance at her as she picks up her coffee cup. It’s not her usual Forks, Washington, black mug. It’s white with an arch of a rainbow. In surprise, my eyes lift from the cup to her, but she’s already busy at her computer.

Not sure what to think or say, I swivel out of the room, pulling the cart with me.

Stuffing the books on the shelf, I think about the cup. It’s probably just a rainbow, not a
rainbow
rainbow
.
I can’t imagine anyone in this God-fearing town knowingly showing their support.

Except Van’s mom.

Thinking of the painted heart and rainbow makes me miss him.

All the horrible words I yelled at him come flooding back at once. Of all people, he should have been the one I leaned on, not pushed away. Maybe if I just talked to him, explained myself then maybe he’d—

“Come on, Lindsey. You have to go with us,” Chelsea’s voice pleads.

Through the reference section, I spy Chelsea sitting in the make-out corner of the library with someone. The sharp chemical smell of fingernail polish burns my nose. She glosses on a coat. Gently I slide a book out of place to see who she’s sitting with. It’s that weasel girl from my lab class, Lindsey.

“You will love Breakers. It’s so fun.”

“Well, I don’t know,” Weasel whines.

“What are you, a wet blanket? Why would you say no to fun?” There so much indignation in her voice, I can’t imagine how Chelsea maintains friends. “I’m telling you, my buddy Carlos and I go over there all the time. It’s the shit.” She goes back to her nails. “He’s got this vintage convertible that’s the tits too.” Lindsey gasps.

Ugh.
Figures she’s friends with someone like Carlos.

“Relax, Lindsey. It’s an expression. Geesh.” She blows on her nails. “So you coming or what?”

My hate for Chelsea blooms a little more. That skank tries to pretend she’s not gay or at least bisexual, and here she is recruiting for Breakers. I have half a mind to jump out from behind the shelf and scream to Weasel Girl, “She’s gay. They’re gay. Everybody’s gay!” I’m sure Chelsea would feign shock and swear she had no idea Breakers was a known place for gays. It wouldn’t do any good to out her. She would keep hiding like a coward.

I slip the book back into the shelf with a sickening realization. Here I am, wanting to throttle Chelsea for not owning the fact that she’s bisexual. And yet I haven’t owned up to being a lesbian.

The whole world knows I’m a lesbian, but I’m still hiding. I drop my face into my hands and rub my temples. I have no idea how to fix this mess. I wish I could talk to Van. He’d know what to do.

Automatically, I reach into my back pocket for my phone, only to find it empty. The image of my phone skip-skip-skidding down the highway to its death flashes in my mind. Until I earn enough money to buy another one, I’m stuck with using the home phone only.

No problem. After I’m finished putting away the books, I’ll zip over to the public library and wait for Van at Hot Flix. That’s what I’ll do. Face to face, not some phone text apology. It will take begging and groveling and probably a few torturous weekends of Johnny Depp-worshiping marathons, but I will do what I have to to make it up to him.

I make quick work of the remaining books I have to shelve. Just before I leave, I dip into Mrs. Bellefleur’s office. “Um, I’m going to take off now. If there’s anything I missed, I’ll finish it up next week.” I start to exit, then pause, unable to walk away quite yet.

“Forget something, honey?” asks Mrs. Bellefleur. Her question is innocent, her voice expectant. As if she’s waiting for something, something that’s long overdue. That’s Mrs. B for you. She knows what’s what long before you do. It’s like her secret librarian superpower.

I poke my head back in. A quick glance at her rainbow mug builds my confidence. I step into her office and plop down in the empty wooden swivel chair across from her desk. My feet push off the flattened gray carpet, turning me from side to side. For a long moment I don’t say anything, just stare at the massive chaos crowding her desk, and she watches me patiently.

“I’ve known you a long time, Mrs. B.”

Mrs. Bellefleur gives a solemn nod and settles back into her equally uncomfortable wooden swivel chair, with her fingers clasped over her stomach. She’s not old enough to be one of those sweet grandmother types, but she’s too old to be my mother. Besides her endearing grumpy husband and three tabby cats, I know nothing about her family. Maybe she’s an aunt or sister or the black sheep for all I know. What she is, is someone I’ve always felt at home around. Someone I can be myself with.

The words thicken on my tongue. My nerves jitter my knees up and down. A long breath exhales out of me, a release of all the anxious energy I’ve been storing up for years. “I just figured two people who have known each other for this long should be honest with one another. I don’t really feel comfortable around too many people when it comes to … certain aspects of myself.”

Mrs. Bellefleur doesn’t say anything. Casually she picks up her coffee and takes a long, slow sip. She raises a single brow, encouraging me to continue.

“I guess all I wanted to say was … you probably should know that … I’m a lesbian.” I choke on the last word. Not from embarrassment or fear but from the sheer joy of freedom in having just told somebody. Someone who I’m fairly confident won’t tear me down for it.

Fried nerves jolt me out of my seat before she can respond, but I don’t get halfway out of my chair before Mrs. Bellefleur snags me by my wrist—the woman has lightning-quick reflexes. She makes her way around her desk and pulls me into a smothering hug.

“Thank you, Kaycee,” Mrs. Bellefleur whispers into my hair.

I don’t understand why she’s thanking me. It’s not like I did anything for her. For some reason her thanks brings on more emotion, as if my body understands why before I do. The battle for fighting off the tears becomes harder. I try to pull away from her. She squeezes tighter.