Shine (13 page)

“But there are also people who are nice,” I ventured, surprised to hear myself saying it.

“Yes, there are,” Missus Marietta conceded. She gave me her toothless smile. “And all three of us are right here in this room.”

On the drive back, Aunt Tildy and I were silent. Just before we reached our house, her hand slid from the wheel, hovered over my leg, and patted me: two quick pats, and then right back to the steering wheel.

“You’re doing real good,” she said, keeping her eyes on the road.

“I am?” I said.

“At . . . at finally . . .” She frowned. “At growing into a fine young lady.” She cut her eyes at me, and if you didn’t know her, you’d think she was being sharp. But that was just her way. “I’m real glad you’re getting out again.”

I felt exposed. But warm, too. “Um, thanks.”

Back home, I took a plate of rhubarb crumble out to Daddy, rationalizing that yes, it was dessert, which he wasn’t supposed to have because of his heart and being so fat. But at least it involved fruit. It had to be better than fried pork skins and Wally’s moonshine.

Then I biked to Huskers, the sandwich shop where Beef worked. Dupree worked there, too. I had yet to find out what
happened the night Patrick was attacked, during the before-time when Patrick was hanging with the redneck posse. I wanted Beef to fill me in.

Maybe too, I wanted to see if what Destiny said was true.

I parked my bike on the dying grass between the sidewalk and the sandwich shop. The glass door was smudged, and when I pushed it open, the little bell on the top didn’t jingle like it used to. It made one sad
ding
, that’s all.

At the narrow counter, I ordered a cherry Coke and paid for it with money earned from our family garden. Every so often I loaded up a wagon with cucumbers and kale and whatever looked good and hauled it to Ridings McAllister, who ran a roadside produce stand. Other folks brought their fruit and vegetables to Ridings as well, and when the mood struck him, he doled out everyone’s share of the meager profits.

After ringing me up, Beef reached across the counter and tousled my hair. “Wassup, girl? Looked for you at church on Sunday, but didn’t find you.”

“Yeah, ’cause you didn’t come in the dang building,” I scolded him. “You stayed outside where the cars were.”

He laughed.

“Come talk to me while I drink my Coke,” I said.

“Best offer I’ve had all day,” he said.

Dupree was slapping wax paper between slices of lunch meat, and Beef whistled to get his attention. “Holler if things get busy, all right, homes?”

“Sure thing, hoss,” Dupree said, bobbing his head to
whatever tune was running through his brain. Dupree was a stoner, and he was always bobbing his head. Anyway, Huskers was empty except for me, so Beef’s services weren’t exactly needed.

Beef sat across from me, and we did a brief hey-how-are-ya catch-up. It did my heart good to see him. I told him he had a stain on his T-shirt, and when he ducked his head to check, I reached over and flicked him, just like he used to do to me. We both grinned.

“You better watch it, girl,” he said. “You know I always get you back.”

“Ooo, I’m so scared,” I said.

He slung both arms over the back of his chair, and it reminded me how different girls and guys were. Girls kept their bodies tucked in tight, while boys took up every inch of room they could. Beef especially tried to take up room, because he was on the skinny side. He had muscles, but they were ropy farm boy muscles, and when his jeans hung low, it wasn’t for fashion.

I knew he wished he was bigger. That just wasn’t the way God made him. And, boys being boys, he got stuck with a nickname that drove the point home.

But, Beef was fine with it. He liked the tough way it made him sound.

“So, about Patrick,” I finally got around to saying.

Beef closed his eyes in pain. “Sucks.” He winced, because of the nozzle. “Wrong word. But you know.”

I did. It was complicated, the way the redneck posse danced
around Patrick, but Beef was the guy who stood up for him when the others took things too far—which they did, especially Tommy.

Like, sure, Tommy escorted Mario Mario out of the Come ’n’ Go when he called Patrick a fag. But in real life, when it wasn’t an “us versus them” sort of situation, Tommy called Patrick fag names himself. Supposedly, Tommy was teasing, but when pushed too hard, Beef called him on it. He’d get up in Tommy’s face and say, “What is that, man? I’m serious. What
is
that?”

Beef was like that. He was protective of anyone smaller or weaker.

“Tell me about that night,” I said. “The night it happened.”

Beef studied me. I took the time to study him right back. He’d dropped some pounds, and it changed the shape of his face. Made his cheekbones stick out and his eyes look haunted. It also made his scar more prominent, a white crescent cut by his daddy’s class ring.

He got the scar in the fifth grade. Back then he had a dog named Daisy, and one time he let Daisy out and forgot to call her back in. He fell asleep on the couch, that’s why. Daisy got hit by a pickup truck, and when Roy found out, he punched Beef in the face, leaving a moon-shaped mark that never went away. Then he made Beef dig a hole to bury Daisy in, saying a man has to clean up his own messes.

Beef cried like a baby. Not where his dad could see, but at our house, after it was done.

Beef exhaled, and the sound of it pulled me back to Huskers.

“I don’t see the point of talking about it,” Beef said. “Why are you so interested? I hear you’ve been sniffing around, and I don’t like it.”

I was offended. More than that, I hated the thought of people discussing me, wondering out loud what I was up to. He must have seen it on my face, because he took it down a notch.

“I don’t want you getting hurt, that’s all,” he said. “Why can’t you just stay out of it?”

“’Cause I don’t want to. ’Cause I want to know what happened.” I wrapped my hands around my cup. “Heck, Beef, you know Sheriff Doyle isn’t going to do squat.”

“Hey. He’s doing what he can.”

I rolled my eyes. Sheriff Doyle wouldn’t know it if his butt was on fire.

“Either way, I’ve told him everything I know,” Beef said.

“But you haven’t told me, and Christian won’t, either. Come on, Beef.”

He tugged at the brim of his baseball cap, which was emblazoned with the logo for the Asheville Tourists. His dark hair curled up from below. He’d always worn his hair buzz-cut short, but now, apparently, he was letting it go—along with everything else. His lips were chapped, and his face was haggard, like he hadn’t gotten a good night’s sleep in forever. I thought about everything Destiny had told me, knowing her information might or might not have been true. Only one way to find out.

“Do you do crank?” I asked bluntly.

“What?!”

“Someone said you work for Wally. The, um, meth cooker.”

“I know who Wally is, Cat. For Christ’s sake.” He checked on Dupree and lowered his voice. “Who said that? I want you to tell me right now.”

“
Do
you?”

“
No
,” he said. “God, Cat. Jesus fucking Christ.”

But he was holding back. I could tell because he refused to meet my eyes.

“I know you’re lying,” I whispered. I didn’t, and all I wanted was to be wrong. But I threw it out there, and it stuck.

“I
used
to work for Wally,” he finally said. “A little running, a little dealing, all right? But I quit. I
quit
, dammit.”

A stone lodged in my gut, because this was my
friend
telling me this, telling me he used to sell meth. It was insane. It was . . . it was a house pet turning inside out, showing itself to be a fox.

“Are you a user?” I asked.

“Goddammit, no. Didn’t you hear a word I said?”

The pattern of the plastic table swam in front of me. “Is Christian?”

“Hey,” Beef said. “Hey. Look at me.”

Reluctantly, I lifted my gaze.

“Your brother’s clean. Dang, Cat. You think he would come within ten miles of meth?”

“I guess not.”

“But you think
I
would.”

“Like I said, I heard some things.”

“About who? About
Christian
?”

I rubbed my forehead. “No. Just you, Tommy, and Dupree.”

Dupree looked over. “Y’all talking about me? ’Bout how sexy I am?”

“That’s right, Dupree,” Beef said. “Sexiest man in a five-foot radius.”

Dupree laughed, and Beef laughed back—
ha-ha-ha
. When Dupree went back to the slices of meat, Beef made a finger gun and shot him.

“Okay,” I said, gathering my courage. I wanted the details, however ugly they were. “So you sold meth for Wally, but you didn’t smoke it or sniff it or whatever?”

“I got out, Cat. You gotta believe me.” He clasped his hands on the table. “I ain’t speaking for Tommy or Dupree. They want to ruin their lives, that’s their business. But not me.”

“How did you even fall into all that? Was it because of getting injured and losing your scholarship?”

“You know me, king of good decisions,” he said, full of bitterness. “Nothing like running meth to get your life back on track, right?”

“I wish you hadn’t,” I said softly.

“You and me both. You know who else had strong opinions about it?”

“Patrick,” I said.

“Yeah. I tried to keep it from him, but he found out, and
once he did, I was done for.
You’re ruining your life. You’re smarter than this
. Harp, harp, harp. Nag, nag, nag.”

“Good for him,” I said.

“I know,” Beef said. “I owe him my life. He’s . . .” His throat clogged up, and he looked away for a long moment.

When he turned back, he said, “I’ll tell you one thing, Cat. I
ever
catch you using, I’ll kill you.” His stare burned into me. “If someone offers you a line? You walk the fuck away.”

“Thanks for the tip,” I said.

“I ain’t playing. You start tweaking, and next thing you know, people’ll be dancing on your grave. Hell, you start tweaking, I’ll
put
you in your grave.”

“Don’t worry, Beef. I can take care of myself.”

“I’m just sayin’.”

“And I’m just saying, too.” The moment stretched out. “So, back to that night.”

He groaned.

“You were with Patrick,” I said. “Who else was with you? Christian? Tommy?”

Beef didn’t answer, so Dupree replied for him. Guess he’d been paying attention after all.

“Tommy and your brother both,” Dupree said in his lazy drawl. He hopped the counter and loped over to our table. “And don’t forget yours truly. We had all our party people with us that night, didn’t we, Beef-man?”

Dupree ticked off names on his fingers. “Me, Tommy, Beef,
and your brother. We had a shortage of ladies, unfortunately. Just Bailee-Ann.”

Well, of course, Bailee-Ann. She was Beef’s girlfriend.

“Where were y’all?” I asked.

“Chillaxing at the Frostee Top,” Dupree said. The Frostee Top belonged to Bailee-Ann’s parents. Until they went out of business, they sold chocolate dipped cones and milkshakes and stuff. But the Frostee Top went under when the economy went bad, and now it was an empty building with a giant plaster ice-cream cone on the roof. Bailee-Ann and those guys used it as a place to party.

“Oh, and Bailee-Ann’s little brother,” Dupree said with a stoner’s delight in remembering a hazy detail. “Yeah. Robert. He was there, too.”

“
Robert
?” I said. Robert was eleven, scrawny and hyper because of fetal alcohol syndrome. At least that’s what Aunt Tildy said. But that didn’t matter. What mattered was that he was a
kid
. Why would Robert be hanging out with Beef and Dupree and the others?

“He’s a trip, man,” Dupree said, chuckling. He reeked of pot. I couldn’t tell if he was stoned right then or if it was eau de weed left over from the previous night.

“Why is he a trip?” I said.

“Oh, I dunno,” Dupree said. He tilted his chair on its back legs. “He brings it back, you know? Youth. Childhood.” His gazed dreamily at a spot behind me. “Not a care in the world.”

Uh-huh, whatever. “But Patrick. He joined up with y’all eventually. Was that at the Frostee Top?”

“Nah, we didn’t see Patrick till later. We ran out of libations, so Tommy suggested a beer run.”

To the Come ’n’ Go, that would have meant. Patrick wouldn’t sell beer to Mario Mario and his college buddies, but he’d sell it to Tommy and the others. It was the small town code of honor: There were outsiders, like the college boy townies, and there were insiders, like the redneck posse. And the redneck posse
had
accepted him into their ranks, after all.

“I was against it,” Beef said. Anger simmered below his words.

“How come?” I asked.

“’Cause he’s a big ol’ party pooper,” Dupree said.

“Shut up,” Beef growled.

“Party pooper,” Dupree sang under his breath.

Beef shoved the table, driving it into Dupree’s chest and tipping over his chair. “
Shut the fuck up
. What about that don’t you understand?”

“Ow,” Dupree said from the floor. His chair lay on its side. He rubbed his butt and said, “Un
cool
, bro.”

My stomach twisted. “God, Beef.”

“Don’t you start,” he warned. “I’m sick of everybody riding me. I’m sick of people thinking I’m the jerk just because I’m not a fucking puppet, all right?” He gave Dupree, who was still on the floor, a hard look. “There are worse crimes than not always wanting to party, bro.”

Worse crimes? Oka-a-a-y, that was interesting. As Dupree got up, I pulled a napkin from the dispenser. I folded it into smaller and smaller squares as he made a big deal out of dusting himself off, righting his chair, and sitting back down. This time he planted all four legs on the floor.

“Um, y’all are freaks,” I remarked, careful with my tone. I was just a normal, everyday girl scoffing at how ridiculous boys were when they got all macho.

“Whoa,” Dupree said. “You don’t see me going around tossing people on their asses, do you?”

“I don’t usually hear guys using the term ‘party pooper,’ either,” I said. “Unless they’re five.”