South of Sunshine (11 page)

I spin in the centrifugal force of Bren’s merry-go-round. A drunken haze of Bren loosens my entire body, and I’m pliant in her restless hands. They skim up from my hips, over my arms, into my hair, and back down. I can’t seem to drink in enough of her either. I grip the nape of her neck and pull her tighter against my mouth. A low moan hums from her mouth to mine—then Bren pulls back.

She wobbles slightly as she leans her bodyweight on one arm, exhaling heavy breaths. I smile at the sight of her trying to regain her control. She stares down at me. “Thought you said you weren’t any good at this.”

“Guess I was wrong?” I shrug my shoulders and giggle awkwardly.

She smiles and taps a few soft kisses on my mouth. Tenderly she brushes her lips back and forth over mine. The sensation brings a burning from my stomach, and it spreads within me. “Glad you like it,” she says over my mouth.

“I do. This is nothing like kissing Dave Bradford,” I say before I can stop myself.

Laughter vibrates from Bren’s chest. “I hope not.” Her head tilts. “You’re not thinking of him, are you?”

“Oh gosh, no. No, no, no. Not at all. You don’t understand.” I notice my fingers are smoothing and stroking the sides of her hair. I stop. “I just mean, this is not disgusting or repulsive—well, of course it’s not. I’m saying … I’m actually enjoying this. Like
really
enjoying this.” I bury my face in my hands. “Okay, that just sounded pathetic.”

“Sounds perfect.” She pulls my hands off my face. “You’re pretty darn cute when you get flustered.” She doles out two or three more kisses.

I sigh. “I’ve never done this before,” I confess. “Not kissing. I’ve kissed before, but not like this and never with a girl, not for real. I don’t know where we go from here.” Because there is no going back to the Kaycee I was before.

Bren rolls to her side and props herself on her elbow. She loops my disheveled hair behind my ear, out of my face. A tender kiss dots my lips. “The fact that
we
are going somewhere makes me happy. I get that things are different here than other places, but I don’t want my girlfriend to constantly second-guess her actions. I want you to be comfortable. If that means I have to be more reserved under the public eye, then I’ll control myself, for now.”

The word
girlfriend
echoes in my head.

“Just promise me something,” Bren says. “Promise me when it’s just you and me, you won’t hide.”

I stroke her soft hair, and then graze my thumb over each perfect brow. Bren closes her eyes to absorb my touch. “Promise.” I kiss her. I’m vaguely aware that her parents are somewhere in the house, trusting us. But the frenzy of Bren’s mouth on mine builds again. It’s a dizzying high I don’t want to come down from.

After a while, Bren draws back. She rests her forehead against mine. “We should … watch a movie,” she says. I must have made a whining sound because she follows with, “If you keep kissing me like that, I’m not going to behave.” A wildness dances in her eyes, making me nervous and excited all at the same time. She groans an I-don’t-want-to-be-good-but-I-should protest and turns toward the TV, tucking me into her shoulder.

I cuddle into the curve of her body. She buries her face in my hair. Warm breaths puff the top of my head when she laughs at the goofy black-and-white comedy we’ve settled on.

The fact that she’s willing to hold my hand while I figure this out melts my heart. I want nothing more than to be the girlfriend she expects, but realistically I’m not sure how to step out into the world as Kaycee, the Lesbian. Her patience makes me want to show her I can do this all the sooner.

I just hope her patience doesn’t wear out.

Bren wakes me some time past midnight. I use the bathroom to change into her long T-shirt and brush my teeth. She sidles in past me to do the same as I exit. She scrunches her nose at my sleepwear. “I should have given you my Camp Chipmunks T-shirt from the fifth grade—way shorter.”

“You’re such a perv.” I shove her in the bathroom and close the door before she can respond.

In her room, I slip under the covers. They’re still warm from us laying on them. The smell of spice and fabric softer wafts from the sheets. The idea of me sleeping an entire night on Bren’s pillows zips a bolt of energy through me. I thrust my arms and legs out, sprawling over as much of her bed as I can. Giddiness takes me over, and I move my arms and legs open and closed. It’s not until I hear the bathroom light click off that I know I’m busted.

“
What
are you doing, crazy Kaycee?” An ear-to-ear grin consumes Bren’s face.

I pull her covers over my head so I don’t have to actually look at her when I answer. “Snow angel … in your sheets.”

Her weight dips the bed, and she yanks the covers off my head. “You are eat up with it. You know that?”

I wallop her head with a pillow. “You don’t even know what that means,” I say. Too late, she wrestles me for the pillow, but I pummel her with it a few times before she takes it.

“I’ve heard enough colloquialisms from
y’all
.” She pins my arms down and tosses the pillow on the floor. “I think I know when someone is eat up with it.” She’s right, I’m totally consumed by everything that is her. She’s all I can think about.

We both giggle when I squirm around, trying to get away, but dang it if all those long limbs of hers don’t keep me from getting far. She knocks the other pillow off the bed before I can reach it and yanks me back by the ankle.

I stop struggling and snicker at my epic defeat. Bren lightens her hold on my wrists and straddles herself over my legs. I puff the hair out of my face, panting. “Phew.
You …
are the one eat up with it.”

Bren’s playful smile slips into a solemn tenderness. She leans over into my face. “That, I am.” She brushes the sweetest kiss across my lips.

I pray that whatever is eating the both of us up doesn’t bite us in the butt later. Because right now I’m falling so hard, I might not ever recover.

Chapter 13

If the Sunshine courthouse is the heart of the city, Sunshine Baptist Church is the liver—a liver ten times the size of its heart. The church where I was baptized sits a stone’s throw away from historical court square on Main Street. Pastor Ronnie Olsen has preached at our spirit-filled, God-fearing, and Bible-believing church for the last twenty years. It’s one of forty-nine churches in Sunshine, but it’s the biggest and the oldest.

This morning I absolved myself of all guilt for staying at Bren’s by making sure I was home in time for service. Not Sunday school, though. Mother, none the wiser about where I was the night before, didn’t ask me about the sleepover at Sarabeth’s, only about decorating the float. The way I figure it, lying is only a sin when it’s committed … technically, I have not lied.

As we get out of Mother’s car at the church parking lot, Mrs. Perkipsky’s voice calls out behind me. “Where is your hosiery, dear Kaycee? With your knees all exposed I suspect your legs are quite cold. I at least hope you have a slip on.” Her gray hair helmets her head in a perfect beauty shop tease. Garish coral lipstick stains her lips; tinted cracks seep past the defined lip line. Blush the color of apricot globs on her cheeks.

Nobody chastises her for her ghastly makeup.

Sinful me, I shouldn’t have worn my devil-skirt, bearing that oh-so-tempting one inch of flesh above my knees. It wouldn’t surprise me if Mrs. Perkipsky requested an undergarments inspection to insure I wore a proper lady’s slip underneath. I’d like to inform her that one, it’s unseasonably warm for September, and a humid eighty degrees is sure to strike by nine a.m.; and two, at my last check, we were decades past the fifties.

Instead I bite my tongue. “No, ma’am. I’m not too cold. But thank you
so
much for your endearing concern for the welfare of my lingerie.” Mother cuts me a look. Quite possibly my exaggerated thanks could be considered a sin.

I’ll pray out my sarcasm inside.

Three sections divide the congregation—it’s bad enough most churches in Sunshine are racially segregated, but within the church there is an additional separation of status. Mother and I take our usual spot at left center, the humble sinners section. She chats with Ms. Rita while we wait for services to begin. The Sunday school classes file into the sanctuary, and I’m glad I don’t see Sarabeth. If I’m lucky, she worked on the float late into the night, and her parents let her sleep in.

But I’m not lucky.

The deacons prop open the front doors to the church. Sunlight radiates into the room from God’s holy entrance. Despite the fact that the front steps butt up to Main Street, and the parking lot is behind the church, some people love making that long journey around to the front like it’s a red carpet affair. For well-funded parishioners like Mr. Larry Beaudroux, it’s all about the grand entrance. He and Mrs. Beaudroux step into God’s spotlight in all their pristine glory, and Sarabeth follows behind them. I slink down into the pew and study the church bulletin as if it’s the SATs, not that it does any good with my mother waving at them like a flag.

“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 my 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.