South of Sunshine (5 page)

Chapter 7

In the back corner of the library, Van and I scrunch down behind the shelves and sit on the floor—it’s the corner where I catch stray lovers kissing at least once a month. We’ve come back here for a super-secret meeting. Planning the float for the homecoming parade is some serious business here in Sunshine. As senior class president and one freaking amazing artist, Van’s in charge of the homecoming float—I’m just here to reaffirm his ego. Mr. Peterson gave him permission to skip computer class because he actually believed Van when he told Mr. Peterson that his dog had eaten his homework—which, for computer class, is a USB drive—one that Van’s parents are now supposedly rushing their dog into emergency surgery to have removed.

“I can’t believe he bought that.” I widen my eyes.

“I know. It got me out of not doing my homework
and
going to class.” Van pulls out a fat file folder. “I’m probably going to hell.”

“Most definitely.” I pull out my fraying notebook, crammed full of notes. “Did he really say that he could recover the data?” I snicker.

“Yeah. But I told him not to get his hopes up. Stomach acid can be seriously destructive.” We both bust up laughing.

“Shhh.” I hush him as I hear Mrs. Bellefleur a few rows over.

“Come on, you’re her pet.” He sits cross-legged. The toes of his black and white zebra striped Converse peek out from under his knees. “I have a get-out-of-jail-free card by association.”

“Stop saying that. You never know what mood Mrs. Bellefleur will be in. If she’s been reading Nicholas Sparks again, our super-secret meeting will be off.”

“What super-secret meeting?” Bren peers over the top of the short bookcase I’m leaning back against. Shocked, I look up at her, and she smiles down at me. My insides go every which way.

“Did you invite
her
?” Van asks loud enough for Bren to hear, but he’s only kidding. I kick him anyway. Bren chuckles as she comes around to join us. The space barely fits two of us, so we have to bunch together tight to make room for her, which means there is touching, glorious and nerve-racking all at the same time.

Bren adjusts her long legs three or four times before she can get comfortable. “So what’s the big secret?”

“Nothing,” Van and I say together. Tight lipped are we.

“Come on, guys, tell me.”

“Uh-uh.”

“No way.” We both cross our arms and make our best tough cop faces. Van needs to work on his, but I rock it.

“Why not?” she asks.

“Because,” Van says.

“Because,” I parrot. But I’m not sure why we can’t tell her. Not that we aren’t going to tell her, but still. “Why can’t we tell her?”

“Becauuuuuse—” Van pauses and slips a glance to Bren, as if he’s trying to come up with a good reason. “Because she
says
she’s from Boston, but I’ve never heard her say ‘cah.’”

“Good point.”

“But I told you —”

I lean into Van, cutting Bren off. “You never know, Van, she could be a rival Tomahawk or Boll Weevil.” He nods at my clever assumption.

“Boll Weevil?” she asks.

We both look at Bren. “Do not underestimate the Boll Weevil,” Van starts.

“They can destroy an entire cotton field in less than a week. Serious predator here in farm country.”

Bren laughs. “Yeah, if you’re a Hanes T-shirt.” Even though what she says is giggle-worthy, Van and I look at her with blank, serious faces.

I roll my eyes back to Van. “I don’t think we can trust her, even if she takes the Oath.”

“The Oath,” Van says ominously, slowly nodding his head in agreement.

Adamant protests fly out of Bren. She promises to abide by the Oath. Van and I have our own little conversation, ignoring her. We pretend not to trust her and muse about her being a spy for one of the underclassmen. We keep her in the dark for a little longer, then Van says, “Fine. If you agree to say the Oath, we will tell you.”

Bren nods her head, all eager.

“I, state your name.” I hold up my right hand and Bren and Van do too. “Put your hand down, dork. Only she has to swear.” Van drops his hand.

“I, Bren Dawson.”

“Promise to respect and never belittle, make fun of, or disindumbedify the secret.”

“Is that even a word?”

I bite my bottom lip to try and keep a straight face. “If it’s in the Oath, it’s a word.”

“Don’t question the Oath.” Van backs me up. Bren repeats the vow. Van jumps in. “No matter what phallic symbols may result from our work.”

I crack and start giggling something fierce. Some of the “masterpieces” the students make do look suggestive. “What he said,” Bren says.

I add, “And I promise to abide by this oath and keep secret the events discussed at the super-secret library meeting forever henceforth.”

“Amen,” says Van.

“Amen.” Bren drops her oath hand. “What’s the big secret?” she asks.

It’s painfully hard to focus on what Van is saying with Bren so close to me. Van tells her about our homecoming football game. It’s the biggest Friday the Wildcats have all year, with a big game against our rival, the Cairo High Syrupmakers, a crowned queen, and a huge parade beforehand. The big super-secret is the design of our float for the parade. Each class has to create a float, according to the theme. The whole town, including the elementary school and middle school, comes to watch the parade. Today the student council announced the theme: Tennessee Treasures. The winning class gets the Friday before Thanksgiving break off.

“Cool,” Bren says. “Who judges?”

“Well, that’s the tricky part,” I say. “About half the votes comes from the teachers here. Principal Cain picks five teachers, but he doesn’t tell the students who he has picked until it’s over, so we can’t sway their vote or bribe them.”

“But the other half comes from the elementary school, kindergarten through fifth. Each grade level gets one vote. That’s six more votes,” Van finishes.

“Eleven votes in all. We’re talking very close here. And the way to win the kids’ votes,” I say, pausing dramatically, “is by throwing the most candy during the parade.”

“Wow,” Bren says. “Scary how you guys have this calculated down to a science. And you’re bribing kids with candy. That’s just awful.”

“It’s war, Bren honey.” Van pats her arm. “It’s not always pretty.”

“Okay then, how does one go about building a float?”

“Well, let me show you.” Van opens his file folder with fifteen years of float pictures and designs from previous winners. We’re explaining to Bren the technical aspects of the structure, what the teachers prefer in design, and the importance of the materials, when something tickles my knee. Bren’s pinky stills when I dart my eyes in her direction. Van just keeps on talking, unaware.

Maybe it was by accident—like her pinky just twitched—and I wanted it to be something more? Then Bren reaches for my knee, and I jump, shoving the file folder up. The contents dump out into Van’s lap.

“Hey, watch it, McCoy.” Van picks up the jumbled mess. Bren holds a single photo in her hand, and I realize she was just reaching for the picture Van was handing her.

I safely tuck my knees into my chest and tell my brain to get a handle on all this wishful, fantasy touching nonsense.

“Anyway,” Van gives me a what’s-your-problem glare and continues on with his ideas.

My fetal-tight body doesn’t help. The moment I start to relax, Bren rearranges her legs. The toe of her shoe taps mine, and I flinch at the contact. Float photos and schematics go flying once more.

“Jesus, Kaycee.” Van slams down the folder. “You’re twitchy as a squirrel. What’s wrong with you? You got ants in your pants?” He jams the stuff back in the folder.

“Sorry. Leg cramp.” I rub my calf and
do not
look at Bren, but in my periphery I can see her big fat grin.

“Hey,” a harsh whisper comes from overhead. Above me, Sarabeth stares down at us. “Isn’t the float committee supposed to be meeting in the choir room?” Yes, the choir room. Space, glorious space. I jump to my feet.

“Some super-secret meeting this is,” Bren says with a smile and stands.

My eyes stay down, and I shimmy out of the tight corner. I catch up with Sarabeth just as the final bell rings.

From behind I hear Van ask Bren, “You coming?”

“Nope. Shooting hoops with the team. Later.” Ways are parted.

I need a Valium, or rather something non-pharmaceutical to calm my jittery nerves. Stupid Kaycee. How could I have let my feelings off the leash so easily? I have no idea how I’m supposed to rein them back in.

After our official homecoming parade meeting, I wait against Sarabeth’s black Jetta. It’s her turn to drive for carpool. Directly behind me on the driver’s side door, she and Andrew share a very public display of affection. A tiny piece of bitterness flakes off me, jealous I can’t have public moments like that with Bren. Not if I ever want to show my face in Sunshine again. Or at home for that matter.

The metal door to the gym crashes open, and a sweaty Bren emerges with a basketball wedged under her arm. She holds the door open with her other arm, and Chesty-freaking-Hannigan walks under it, bobbing her head all coy. Chelsea walks Bren to her car, parked two rows over from Sarabeth’s. Ridiculous cooing and giggling make me want to gag. Chesty leans forward in Bren’s line of sight. The valley between the mountains Hu and Mongous is exposed.

What a display. How sickening. I already handed her Dave, what else does she want?

Bren looks up at me. The soured look on my face gives away my disgust, and I cover it with a wobbly smile. Bren bends over and whispers something in Chelsea’s ear that makes her slap Bren’s arm flirtatiously. After another minute of “check out my boobs” from Chesty, Bren jumps in her car, which forces Chelsea to say good-bye.

As Chelsea walks away, she sees me brooding. My arms tighten around my book, and I give that skank the hairy eyeball like nobody’s business. She does a little whatcha-gonna-do-about-it shrug.

“You okay, Kaycee?” Sarabeth asks as she opens her car door. Andrew’s halfway to his truck.

I straighten. “Yeah, I was just … thinking about how much work I need to do on this stupid English lit paper I have.”

Sarabeth’s eyes glance over to Bren’s car and back to me. “Football game isn’t until later tonight. We could squeeze in a quick ride. How about we take the horses down to Nance Creek? Get out in the country for a bit. The fresh air will help you clear your head.” Sarabeth may not always know my secret thoughts, but she knows when my heart is heavy. And she knows just the trick to fix it.

“Yeah,” I agree, “Let’s go.” I put on my happy-go-lucky smile and hop in the car.

Inside, I seem to have lost my happy and my go-lucky.

The soft clip-clop of hooves echoes in the valley of the creek. This late in the year, the summer has dried up most of the water. Sarabeth rides her painted pony, a gift from her parents. My horse is an old gelding named Rambo. He would have been off to the glue factory years ago if such a thing still existed.

“Is everything okay with you?” Sarabeth glances my way.

“Of course. Why wouldn’t it be?” I keep my eyes focused on the rocky creek bed in front of us.

“Well, it’s just … lately you’ve been acting different.” She keeps slipping small glances my way, making me as nervous as a cat in a room full of rocking chairs.

“Different? Different like how?” I’m trying my best to sound surprised by her comment. All the while, my raging heartbeat clogs my throat.

“I don’t know. You seem jumpy lately. Distracted even.”

A shaky laugh escapes my lips. “Oh, you know me, I’ve always been antsy.”

“I guess. But you’d tell me if something was bothering you, right?” Without looking, I can feel her staring at me. It’s like she’s waiting for me to tell her something.

I push down the fear rising in me. “Yeah. It’s cool. I’m fine.”

“I worry about you. And I just don’t want you to lose focus and get any silly ideas or anything.”

I put on my best happy smile. “Oh please. Don’t worry about me. I leave all the silliness to Chuck the Buck. I’m fine. Swear. Nothing different here. Same ole me I’ve always been.” It’s the truth. I’ve been who I am since the day I was born. I’m just not sure how much of who I am she’s aware of, but I suspect it’s more than I give her credit for.

She pats the thick muscular neck of her horse. “Yeah. I know.”

Does she know? She’s not saying anything directly, but I think she has a good idea of why I’m acting so “distracted.” I don’t know how she’d handle it if I told her the truth about me. A part of me wants to trust her. Talk to her. But how am I even supposed to talk openly to her when I’m just starting to be honest with myself?

I have to find some way to work this out. Find someone I can talk to, someone I can trust. Someone who gets it. Because this freaking back-and-forth pull of denial is killing me. If I don’t figure this out soon, my Bren opportunities are going to be gobbled up by Chelsea Hannigan. I am not going to hand Bren over so easily.

Chapter 8

As you drive down Main Street, it’s hard not to notice the two-story painted brick wall on the backside of Hauser’s Pawn Shop. A giant Sunshine High Wildcat rips through the wall like it’s shredded paper. Painted below is the high school’s current football schedule and scores. We creamed the Vikings last week. The Wildcat’s colors have faded over the years, but the image still screams
Friday Night Lights
. I park my car at the base of the wall and walk up to Hot Flix, Van’s family-owned video store. I plan on spending my Friday night with him instead of going to the football game with the rest of the town—and, probably, Bren with Chelsea. Ugh.

Hot Flix smells like fresh popcorn from the vintage style popper in the front window. The theater carpet is bright blue with colorful confetti sprinkled all over it. Behind the counter, a giant flat screen hangs, playing mostly—if not always—Johnny Depp. It’s probably the only video store still open within a hundred-mile radius. Those DVD vending machines just haven’t taken over Sunshine like people expected. I think folks around here still like the old-fashioned way of doing things, preferring human contact to a hunk of metal and plastic.

In the back are two doorways curtained in black. Curtain number one leads to the office and bathrooms. Curtain number two hides the porn closet. It’s the shame of Sunshine. You have to be eighteen to enter the closet, and a number-coded system keeps video covers from ever seeing the light of day. It also happens to be—at ten bucks a rental—Hot Flix’s bread and butter.

So much for shame.

“Hello, sweet pea,” Van’s mom says to me as she emerges from curtain number one.

“Hello, Mrs. Betty.”

Van’s mother has the face of Mrs. Claus. Thin silver spectacles perch on top of her nose. Gray and blond blend together in Mrs. Betty’s beauty-shop styled hair. I have never seen her in anything but a dress, vintage style with a slim waist and buttons down the front. Mrs. Betty gives the biggest hugs, as if you’re about to go off to war and she’ll probably never see you again.

After she releases me, I flop down on the plush sofa. Worn stretched-out fabric covers the most comfy couch I’ve ever lain on. Van’s mother moved it in here so his lazy friends could hang out with him at work. I suggested Mother put one in at Merle Norman—the suggestion went over like a lead balloon.

“You kids going to watch Captain Jack tonight?” she asks all giddy.

Lord, I hope not.
“Not sure what the big guy has planned for us.” I cut Van a look. He sees me, but he’s helping a customer. “You and Mr. Lovelace got a hot date?” I ask, forcing myself to be social, though all I really want to do is mope.

She giggles. “Oh no. He wouldn’t know ‘hot’ if he touched an oven. I’m going over to Craft World to buy a whole bunch of paints. After seeing your pedicured toenails the other day, I got an inspiration for a
big
project.” She winks.

The last time Mrs. Betty got an idea for a big craft project, she knitted thirty-two dog sweaters for the local pound. Homeless pups never looked so posh in their vibrantly colored chenille sweaters.

“Be good, kids. See you later, hon.” She waves bye to Van.

“Well, Mr. Perkipsky,” says Van, “if you liked
Little Shop of Horrors
, you’ll love
High School Musical
.”
What?
I do my best not to snicker.

Van is the guru of movies. You can tell him a few movies you love, and he can name off ten more that you’ll like equally as much. He’s got a ninety-nine percent accuracy rate—pretty impressive. The old man thanks him for the rental and leaves.

I bury my face in the crook of my elbow. “
High School Musical
, really?”

“Hey, the old man has a musical fetish. He doesn’t care what they’re about.” I hear Van pecking away on the computer. “Are you going to the football game tonight?”

I shake my head.

“You didn’t go last week either.”

“Neither did you,” I growl, though he actually has a social life. I was avoiding certain people.

“Huh.” He works quietly while I wallow in my misery. “What do you think about our float idea? Picking several iconic treasures of Tennessee to feature on our float instead of one will be pretty epic. I just hope we can pull it off.”

“Yeah.”

“Did you hear that the freshmen are building a giant-sized ball of cotton? It’s supposed to be something grand like what you’d see in the Rose Bowl Parade. Sounds cool.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Sophomores have some big secret. The juniors are doing a giant songbook with sheets of music for the song ‘I Wish I Was in Dixie.’” He sings the last part. “Bo-ring.”

I grunt.

More pecking. “You’re going to work on the float next weekend, right? Bren said she’d be there.”

The sound of my sigh is a cross between a dying moose and a deflating balloon.

“What’s wrong with you? You sound pathetic.”

A week of watching Chelsea mauling Bren will do that to a girl. At first Bren seemed to encourage her advances, but by Wednesday, Bren seemed … annoyed? Or maybe that was wishful thinking on my part. In sixth period today, Bren tried to talk to me, but Dewey Decimal won out.

“Do you think Chelsea Hannigan is a lesbian?” I vomit the question.

“Wow. Okay. We’re going there today. Um, I’d guess she’s bisexual, and please, God, don’t tell me you’re in love with her.”

I peek out from under my arm. “Chesty? Please, Van, give me more credit than that. Not her.”

“Phew,” he blows out a breath. “Oh …”

“‘Oh,’ what?” I scowl at him.

“I didn’t say anything.”

“Yes you did. You said ‘oh.’” I sit up and narrow my eyes at him. “What does ‘oh’ mean?”

“You know what it means.”

And I do. I can’t pretend I don’t because he’s right. This isn’t about Chelsea. It’s about Bren. The thing with Van and me is, we have an unwritten don’t ask, don’t talk about
it
policy. He’s comfortable with his
it
. His parents know about
it
, but no one talks about
it
… or me being
it
, for that matter.

Van’s parents have always been a touch on the squirrelly side, especially Mrs. Betty, so it’s like everyone expects him to be different. Also, he’s never hidden his flair for fashion or downplayed his love for theater or art. He’s never had to hide who he was because everyone just knows. It’s like as long as he doesn’t dip into Sunshine’s pool, no one cares where he swims.

Me, on the other hand, an ordinary girl with good conservative upbringing—why, if I came out, it might threaten their logic that gays aren’t well-bred people. Pair me up with another well-bred person, and we might get the crazy idea to marry like regular folk now that the Supreme Court has made it so easy. Oh no, we wouldn’t want to disrupt their conformed lives.

Another customer comes in and halts our conversation. I lay back on the couch. For me, the first time I realized
it
was the day Charlotte Wozniak kissed me. Now, the thought of that happening brings bile to my throat. At the time, we were nine going on ten. I blame an inattentive Ms. Veda and an overdose of
Days of Our Lives.

Ms. Veda took care of Charlotte and me over the summer. After
Dora the Explorer
went off, the five hours of soap operas began. Cat fights, scandals, and make-out scenes got the better of us. Now, I’m not blaming TV for being
it
. I’m just saying it was the first time I suspected …
it
.

Under a tented sheet draped over the couch, Charlotte laid one on me. Sparks flew. It was only our lips smashed together, and our heads twisting side to side, but it was still a kiss. When we came up for air, the first words out of my mouth were, “Let’s do it again.” We didn’t get more than three or four kisses in before the sheet was ripped off of us—Ms. Veda’s expression of horror scarred me for life.

“Are we going to talk about this, or are you going to do your usual
not
talking about it?” Van asks once the store is empty again.

I exhale a huge breath, like the fizz of a soda bottle that’s been shaken up. “How do you deal … with being, you know …”

Van just sits there. He chews on his bottom lip as if he’s trying to figure out how to tell me the circus has denied my application for employment. “Do you remember that episode on
SpongeBob SquarePants
when SpongeBob gets really rancid breath from eating a ketchup-onion-and-peanut-plant sundae, and everybody in town avoids him, so Patrick thinks it’s because he’s ugly and teaches SpongeBob how to be proud of his ugliness?” Van asks in one long breath.

I stare blankly. “I … don’t watch
SpongeBob
.”

“Gawd, Kaycee.” Van hangs his head down and flops against the counter, exasperated.

I jump to my feet and flail my hands wildly. “I don’t know what you’re saying. You think I’m ugly?”

Van lifts his head. “SpongeBob says, ‘I’m ugly, and I’m proud.’”

“What?”

Van slaps the counter and straightens his spine. “You want to talk about
it
?” he says through gritted teeth, making phantom quotes in the air. “You’re going to have to say the word, Kaycee. Say … ‘lesbian.’”

“I did.” But I know he’s not talking about my Chelsea question.

“How do you expect anyone to accept you if you can’t accept yourself? I know what you are. You know what you are. Not saying it doesn’t keep you from being one. So just admit what you are. Say, ‘I’m a lesbian.’”

If looks could kill, I would turn Van into a bloody pulp, pooling on the floor. We have an unwritten rule for Christ’s sake! How dare he break the rule? I don’t ask him about the guys he sees when he disappears over to Midland City or Lawrence on a random Saturday night.

Survival instincts tell me to walk out that door and leave. Just go.

But it’s like imaginary glue has adhered my feet to the floor. I crash back down on the couch. “You don’t talk about your ‘friends’ in Lawrence.” I cross my arms over my chest and glare out the front window.

“You don’t ask.” He simply shrugs, but his point stabs.

Minutes of long, anguished silence pass. More customers come and go. Van checks a few DVDs into the computer, dusts the shelves, and opens up the mail. Not once does he look at me or acknowledge that I’m still sitting here.

“Lesbian,” I mumble.

“Huh? What was that?” Van cups his ear and strains his neck.

“Lesbian.” It’s not much louder, but I know he hears me.

“Say, ‘I’m ugly, and I’m proud.’”

I can’t help but laugh. “I’m ugly, and I’m proud.” I shake my head at him.

“Say, ‘I’m gay, and I’m proud.’” His eyes plead.

It’s just five words. They won’t kill me. But they will make things different. Heck, I’m already different. I can’t make these feelings stop. Lord knows I let many a boy put his tongue in my mouth to make these feelings stop. I don’t want another boy’s tongue in my mouth for the rest of my life. Ew.

I bury my face in my hands. “It’s just easier to keep doing what I’m doing.”

Van sighs and comes over to sit beside me. “But wouldn’t you rather do what makes
you
happy and not everybody else?” Van rubs my back.

“I don’t want people to hate me.”

“People are going to hate you, gay or not. There’s no stopping it. Trust me, I know. But it also opens the door for people to love you. People like Bren.”

My heart sticks in my throat. This constant battle to keep myself in check gets harder and harder. Always trying to rein in my urges—and puberty sure as hell isn’t helping with that. Tears well up in my eyes. I take in a breath and hold it.

I look up at Van with my red-rimmed eyes. He wipes the moisture off my cheeks. “I’m gay, and I’m proud.” I sniff.

Van sweeps me into his arms. He’s telling me things like how proud he is of me and wasn’t that easy and we’ll figure this out. And I wonder if my mother will say these things to me one day. Will she hug her arms around me tight like Van is doing now?

I clear the snot from under my nose with my sleeve.

“That’s disgusting.” Van hops up. “Let me get you a tissue.”

I chuckle and accept his tissue. “I don’t know what to do.”

“Just be you.”

“But what about my mother?” I dab a stray tear.

“Baby steps. We’re not there yet. Let’s get you comfortable with the idea first, then we’ll figure out our next move.”

“How’d you tell your parents?”

He shrugs apologetically. “I didn’t ever really have to. They just kind of … always knew.”

“And they’re okay with it?”

“Mom couldn’t care less either way. Dad, on the other hand, he’s still processing it. I think he’s holding out, hoping I’ll grow out of this like I did my unicorn collecting days.”

“I can’t believe you used to collect unicorns. That’s, like, so … gay.” I exaggerate rolling my eyes.

“I know.” He yanks me up off the couch. “Now that that’s over with,” he wipes my cheeks one last time, “let’s figure out how we can get Chesty Hannigan’s paws off Bren.”

“Oh my God, you see it too. It’s ridiculous how she just
throws
herself on Bren.” I hurl myself onto Van and make a gagging sound.

“Sickening.” Van detaches me from his chest with two fingers. “Let’s start with letting Bren know you like her without shouting it to the world. And when you’re ready to be more vocal, I’ll teach you how to sing.”

Van nestles down on the couch with me and schools me in the art of flirting on the sly. It sounds like a plan I can live with. When I start to freak out about what could happen if somebody sees me, or what might happen if people at school find out, or how I‘m going to ever tell my mother, Van reminds me that we’ll deal with today, today. Tomorrow we will deal with when it gets here. One day at a time.

“Like alcoholism?” I ask.

Van pats me on the head. “No, honey. Gay is not a disease, despite what some bigots around here might think. All I want you to focus on is letting Bren see the most beautiful side of you. Everything else will just follow.”

The thought of opening that door for her makes the pit of my stomach all warm and fuzzy. “I don’t know if I can do this by myself. Will you go with me?”