Free South of Sunshine by Dana Elmendorf Page A

Lodge.’”
    “Tell her that if Hot Flix decides to change businesses, we would be a five-star resort, not some cheap-ass motel.”
    “Yeah, let me get right on that.” I text her back, telling her I’m stopping by Sonic before I head home. “Because that’ll make her love you more.”
    “Well, she can’t love me any less.”
    “True. But I better go. So, Sunday works for you? Or do you have another hot date?”
    Van walks me to the door. “Sunday … you, me, and Long and Tall.”
    I smile. Bren does have some great legs. I just hope I can keep my nerves in check long enough not to look like an ass.

Chapter 9
    “I don’t get why you’re always hanging out with that boy,” is the first thing out of my mother’s mouth when I get home. I don’t go for the bait. “Why didn’t you do something with Sarabeth tonight?”
    I let out a big sigh. I put my keys on the entry table by the giant Holy Bible. It’s always laid open to Psalms. “Friday night. Football season. She cheers.” I’ve explained this to my mother a thousand times the last few years.
    “You could have gone to the game.”
    “I don’t want to be the lone dork, sitting all by myself in the stands.” I toss my Sonic sack on the oak table and fix myself some iced tea.
    “What about Misty or Melissa? Can’t you sit with them? They seem like good girls.”
    If she had any idea how many boys they were macking on at the party, she wouldn’t be saying that. But their family owns the local dry cleaners, so they’re obviously “good girls.”
    I really don’t want to have this conversation again. I sit and smooth the nonexistent wrinkles on our checkerboard tablecloth. “Mother, I don’t know why you have such a problem with Van,” I say, but I really do know. But if she’s not willing to call a spade a spade, then I’m going to make her dance around it. “He’s a good kid. His parents are nice as can be. His mother runs the Ladies Ministry group over at their church.” I bite into my cheeseburger.
    “I didn’t say I had a problem with Van. I’m just saying if you keep hanging out with him, you might start acting—”
    My deer-in-the-headlights expression cuts her off. Just how is she going to finish this? I know she knows about me and Charlotte’s soap opera reenactments. Ms. Veda’s good Christian self had to tell her. And I got a serious talking-to from it, all about what the Bible had to say on the matter, but I always assumed Mother wrote it off as experimenting kids being silly. Now I’m not so sure.
    “—Tomboyish,” she finishes. It’s a political answer, dodging.
    I don’t comment because she and I both know that I do not act like a tomboy. Maybe my favorite color isn’t pink and I can’t stand shopping and high heels, but I love other girly stuff. Like collecting butterflies and watching the babies at the church nursery.
    Mother busies herself cleaning the kitchen while I finish my burger and fries in silence. “Oh,” Mother says as an afterthought, “some girl named”—she squints to read the paper—“Bren called. Why didn’t she call your cell?”
    My entire being freezes. Why is Bren calling me? Is she home from the football game already? While I’m trying to control the panic/freak-out building inside my body, I gulp, gulp, gulp down the rest of my tea. Mother waits for me to finish. Calmly I put the glass in our dishwasher, thankful we are the only McCoys in Sunshine’s tiny phonebook. “She’s new. The Dawsons’ daughter. She doesn’t have my cell number,” I say, snapping the dishwasher shut.
    Casually, I grab the slip of paper from Mother’s hand with Bren’s number on it.
    “Yes, yes, yes. The Dawsons. That’s right, her mother came into the store the other day—she looks a little Hispanic or something but really put together. I hear her husband is right handsome. Larry Beaudroux is paying him a lot of money to replace Rally Tools. If he can keep the factory jobs here, all of us shop