Just Shelby

by Brooklyn James

  Her knees give. Her back molds to my chest the way carbide binds to cobalt—increasing its resistance. “She’s going…to end up…like my father,” her words compete with whimpers.

  “All the more reason for you not to.” Crying and hugging? I make an attempt, tightening my hold. “Breathe, Shelby.”

  Just Shelby. The subtle concession is enough to stall her tears. “If I could, I would,” she jabs at my death grip.

  “This isn’t running.” Short, fast, and light, every step counts. This is breathing. This is surviving. “Long, slow, and deep, every breath counts.”

  Funny how water can suffocate lungs even though breathing is reminiscent of ocean waves. Inhale and exhale—crest and trough. My abdomen, nestled in the curve of her lower back, drives the swell and crash of our bodies. Occasionally her running partner, for once I set the pace.

  “This is good,” she says.

  Too good.

  The feeling is strangely familiar, an unsettling sensation that I’ve been here before with her, in this position—clinging to breath, clinging to life.

  Wearing running shoes on my feet so worn they’re treading on thin grease, I balance plates stacked up my arms that defy Newton’s Laws by not tumbling to the black-and-white checkered floor.

  I work the lunch shift at Hot Brown, named such for serving one of Kentucky’s most notable sandwiches: an open-faced turkey sandwich covered with bacon, smothered in Mornay sauce.

  The brainchild of Miss Patterson, Hot Brown is the only restaurant for miles. Operating out of a now-defunct feed mill, it still feeds. A restaurant in the front and a soup kitchen in the back, it’s hard to say which stays busier.

  For two dollars and thirteen cents an hour plus tips, I spend my weekends waiting tables alongside my classmate Destiny Tate.

  Aspiration surely present when her parents named her, Destiny may be the most popular name in Poke County.

  Jingling bells, mounted on a strap of leather hanging from the entrance door, sound as three unlikely customers enter Hot Brown. Well-groomed and well-dressed, they look awful splashy in this little pond.

  “They’re mine!” Destiny calls.

  Get your head out of your behind, Shelby Lynn. Personal scolding is the only cause for acknowledging my double name. The events of this morning seizing my consciousness, I just missed out on a genuine tip this afternoon.

  The statuesque man leads his statuesque wife by the elbow, as she clutches her designer handbag to her chest. Destiny escorts them to an open table. The man glances about and nods at local patrons’ curious gapes, a tense smile surfacing.

  The couple’s college-age statuesque son lags behind, surveying the humble diner. Not the way in which one casually takes in their surroundings, but the way in which one aims to precisely identify something or someone in their surroundings.

  Striking amber eyes as golden as his sun-kissed hair and complexion, enhanced by modeling a honey-gold sweater, he is the golden boy incarnate.

  What? Whom? Is the golden boy looking for in this place. Doesn’t he know that everything here is gray?

  I stand behind the counter still a deer…in the headlights of his glorious golden gaze. Did he smile? At me?

  My fingers fumble the pen twirling between them. Plunk! The sound of the pen meeting linoleum interrupts my stare. Blink! A convenient disappearing act, I duck out of sight to retrieve it.

  “What can I get y’all to drink?” Destiny’s cheery drawl carries.

  “I’ll have a San Pellegrino with a slice of lemon,” golden boy’s mother says in a plummy voice, as posh as her handbag.

  I soon cringe as Destiny innocently replies, “We ain’t got none of that, ma’am.”

  “You ‘ain’t got none,’” the woman repeats, her tone rich with derision. “So, then, you do have some?”

  That settles that. The deer returns to the woods—and to her feet—home humble home.

  “Destiny, order up!” the cook calls from the kitchen, ringing her signature bell and slinging plates of food upon the line.

  “Uppity bitch,” Destiny mutters under her breath, retreating behind the counter and hastily loading a tray with plates of food.

  Perhaps now is not the time to mention that I have some grammar books I could loan to her. Also not the time to mention that if she didn’t want to be rushed, she shouldn’t have claimed a table out of turn.

  “Here, let me get those.” I offer a hand instead.

  “I’ll get them. You get their waters.” She rolls her eyes in the direction of golden boy’s table. “No ice. Slice of lemon. Room temperature.”

  “I can’t.” My voice, along with my posture, buckles.

  “They’re just people, Shelby. Try telling her that,” Destiny mumbles, hoisting the tray upon her shoulder and leaving me to water girl duty.

  I avoid eye contact while laser-focused on my hands delivering three waters. Clunk! Clunk! Clunk! The sound intensifies with the setting of each red plastic tumbler. Proof that overfocusing can be as unproductive as not focusing at all.

  “Thank you,” golden boy and his father speak in unison.

  You’re welcome would be the appropriate response. But all I can manage is a nod.

  “Shelby, like the Mustang?” this question, spoken from golden boy’s golden voice, is too much to look away from.

  My eyes squint, guardedly, not the way I would envision making close-up eye contact with him. How does he know my name? Surely he doesn’t know how I got my name, that I was conceived in the back seat of a car.

  He points to the name tag pinned to the lapel of my apron. Duh! “I’m into cars. Fast ones,” he says. “That’s a really cool name.”

  “Thank you,” my lips finally able to form an appropriate response.

  “Toast. Wheat. Dry,” his mother interrupts, shoving the menu in my direction. It is hard to tell if her curtness stems more from discontent with the menu offerings or with her son’s polite chitchat with the likes of me.

  “I don’t believe she is our server, dear,” her husband says.

  “I don’t believe it matters, dear.” She gestures with her arms, as if to say take a look around. As if we are all interchangeable. “That is, of course, unless you ‘ain’t got none’ of that either.”

  Fed up with people around here looking at me as though I don’t fit in and equally tired of outsiders looking at me as though I do, I find my nerve and my vocabulary.

  “What my coworker meant to say is we ‘do not have any’ San Pellegrino. Likewise, we ‘do not have any’ wheat toast. We do, however, have homemade bread, which can be toasted ‘of course.’ ‘Unless’ that would be utterly unsuitable for your discriminating palate. If such is the case, I would be happy to accommodate you with a crunchy confection, such as whole wheat crackers. Curiously enough, we do have those.”

  Golden boy chokes on his water before it shoots from his nose. Slapping a napkin over his mouth, he disguises a coughing chortle. His honeyed eyes gleam over the white paper napkin, as enigmatic as a veiled belly dancer.

  “Homemade toast…dry. And two Hot Browns, please,” his father mediates.

  “On second thought,” his mother asserts, “make that three Hot Browns.” She shrugs, as though there is a chance she could enjoy it. “Books cannot be judged by their covers, now can they…Shelby.” The way she says my name is purposeful, ultimately acknowledging my identity and individuality.

  “For our sake, ma’am…let us hope not.” I scurry behind the counter to turn in their order, and to keep my back turned until I can rein in my Cheshire cat grin. The thought that I have won them—her—over is both exhilarating and disturbing. What does it matter?

  “‘Crunchy confection?’” Destiny pooh-poohs.

  “I read it in a cooking magazine in the library at school.” I have no interest in cooking. I’ve read about a lot of things I have no interest in.

  “No matter how you say it, it’s still just a cracker.” As a demonstration, and a flashback to my earlier
hammer fists, Destiny thumps her fist onto the counter. The crunchy confection beneath it crumbles, no greater than the cracker.

  “Yeah, I get it, ‘they’re just people,’” I mutter, irritated by the fact that the girl never willingly picks up a book, yet she is wiser than I.

  In walk two girls who are no fans of the written word either. Their study is popularity, in which they do excel. It seems peculiar that “cool kids” can exist in an uncool place, but apparently they can.

  “Party tonight at the river,” the redhead announces the back-to-school bash.

  “I’m gonna get crunk,” Destiny whispers, huddling over the counter they’re plopped down in front of.

  “That’s for beginners,” the blonde says. “Imma be robotripping on C-C-C.”

  There they go outsmarting me again. I don’t know how to interpret all of it, but I’m pretty sure college will require every single brain cell I have. Thus, I am certain I want no part of it.

  That suits them just fine.

  “Word is Ace Cooper’s coming,” the redhead says, “after the fights.”

  Backwoods bare-knuckle boxing matches—they happen around here occasionally. Some refer to them as “fight clubs.” They may be exclusive, but there is nothing secretive about them, obviously. I want no part of them either.

  “A bunch of cocks fighting,” the blonde likens it to the cruel blood sport of cockfighting—another of Poke County’s finest traditions. “I’d give anything to see Ace Cooper’s co…”

  “Shhh!” Destiny cuts her off.

  The girls erupt with laughter. And they do it all without making eye contact. That would require them to look up from their phones, fingers flying furiously now that they are out of the hollow—aka holler—and in service.

  “I got it,” I say to the cook, saving her the motion of dinging the bell and saving myself from the gabfest. Not that they were talking to me anyway.

  The smell of broiled turkey and bacon burns at my nose the way I imagine formaldehyde does a mortician’s. I am so over Hot Browns. This book may well be judged by its cover.

  Fingers crossed, I deliver them to golden boy’s table and tend to the few other customers before circling back to the counter. They’re still talking about Ace?

  “Shelby hangs out with him,” Destiny casually and kindly attempts to bring me into the conversation.

  “Really?” the redhead doubts.

  Would it be rude to kindly and casually opt out? “He’s my neighbor, that’s all,” I say, hands fumbling with my order pad, assuming that talking to golden boy’s mother would have been more nerve-racking than talking to these girls.

  “And running mate,” Destiny adds, determined to help me seem relevant among our peers.

  “Shut the front door!” The blonde actually looks up from her phone. “You run with Ace Cooper? Coal black hair I wanna rake my fingers through. Gray eyes. OMG…his eyes. Tight body. Oh, the things I would do to that body. That Ace Cooper?”

  “Sometimes.” I shrug. Jeez, what would she do if I told her that he runs shirtless, his chiseled pecs flexing up and down with each stride.

  “Is he a good kisser?” The redhead probes. Because hanging out with someone translates to kissing them?

  My cheeks blush even though attempting to will them not to.

  “Don’t answer that, Shelby,” Destiny comes to my rescue again. “If she really wants to know, good luck running him down to find out for herself!”

  “Have you ever seen her run? She’ll need more than luck to catch Ace Cooper.” The blonde joins forces with Destiny.

  The redhead doesn’t find either of them funny. “Why would I chase high school boys when men chase me,” she says.

  “But does your man have a job?” Destiny goads.

  “Ace Cooper has a job,” the blonde says. “He’s a miner.” Near millionaire money in these parts, her eyes are full of stars…or dollar signs.

  “And he thinks he’s better than everyone because of it,” the redhead adds.

  Ace thinks he is better than everyone? Have we met the same Ace Cooper.

  Out of my periphery, I note that confidence wears gold. Sweater, complexion, hair, eyes—confidence saunters in my direction. Now there is someone who may be better than everyone. He has the world on a string. If it is true that there is a direct correlation between what we wear and what we think, his thoughts must be gilded. Maybe I should start wearing gold.

  I make my way down the counter and away from eavesdropping ears. He follows.

  “My mother said to tell you the Hot Brown wasn’t half bad.” He half smiles, proffering a twenty dollar bill.

  I glance at their vacant table, plates half full. It could have been better. Two twenty dollar bills remain at the edge of the table, enough to cover their tab and a generous tip for Destiny.

  I slide the twenty back across the counter to him. “You have more than covered it.”

  “For you. My mother insists.” He slides the twenty back to me.

  “That is very considerate of her, but…”

  The touch of his hand, gently yet assertively, atop mine is more than enough to take away my breath and next rebuttal. It’s too much, too generous. I don’t want him to think I need the money. His Midas touch does not turn me to gold, but wouldn’t it be great if it did, to taste how the other half lives.

  Ending our puck-less game of shuffleboard once and for all, he slides the twenty beneath my hand—beneath his hand—back to my side of the counter.

  “The Pocket Book of Big Words: And How To Use Them,” he reads the title and subtitle of the wee book propped up by the cash register.

  I do not divulge that it is mine. I don’t have to. He knows. Everything I know that is worth knowing comes from a book.

  “May I?” he asks.

  I nod.

  Leafing through alphabetized pages, he goes directly to the C’s. “No ‘crunchy confection’? It would make for a fine addition to such a book.” He chuckles. “That’s great, Shelby. Exactly what a recruiter likes to see.” He lays the book down on the counter, placing atop it his business card.

  College students have business cards?

  My eyes quickly decipher the information. Outreach. He already knows that I’ve had my fair share of handouts.

  However, if he is who I think he is—a Keene of Keeneland, Lexington—everyone to his family is a charity case. Louisville may have the Kentucky Derby and Churchill Downs, but Lexington has Keeneland. And I served his mother Poke County’s watered-down version of the Hot Brown.

  “If you ever want a VIP campus tour from a bona fide Wildcat,” he says proudly and playfully of the university mascot, “give me a call, ‘I would be happy to accommodate you.’”

  Still reeking of broiled turkey and bacon, my hand does my nose no favors in swiftly covering a mortified gasp, reminded not only of what I served his mother but what I said to her.

  His smile as polished as the luxury car awaiting him in the unpolished parking lot, the courtesy honk the car emits garners inquisitive stares. It is sleek and black and aerodynamic with a silver-winged emblem. Does it fly? We all would like to know.

  “Shelby, like the car, it was indeed a pleasure.”

  I would jest with something like ‘the delectation was all mine,’ but apparently even The Pocket Book of Big Words cannot prepare a girl for meeting an out-of-her-league boy.

  “Call me,” he mouths, his thumb and pinkie making a phone gesture, as he backs out the door.

  “Did…that…just…happen!” Destiny squeals from the other end of the counter.

  “Surely not,” I whisper, literally pinching myself.

  “Brains do do it for some boys?” the blonde says, disgruntled and surprised.

  “Kudos for her,” the redhead says, definitely disgruntled. “She ain’t got nothing else.”

  “She does not have anything else,” Destiny corrects, a quick study. If the girl took an interest, picked up a book, she’d be dangerous. “You’re gonna te
xt him…right?”

  Text him. With my imaginary phone? And excused is the fact that I wouldn’t have mustered the courage to contact him anyway.

  Alongside coffee grounds and remnants of watered-down Hot Browns, into the trash goes Grayson Keene’s business card.

  Straight from the mine, I prop up on the couch in my soiled dungarees. Living a bachelor’s life with Pop for so long now, it doesn’t dawn on me to remove them. My steel-toed boots occupy the Ottoman, while the guitar in my hands occupies the time.

  Within arm’s reach is a vintage stereo console with a built-in bar and faux fireplace. It offers radio, 8-track, vinyl, and enough Kentucky bourbon to lose yourself in all of them. Not to be left out, on its ledge sits a boombox capable of playing cassettes and CDs.

  Romantic about conserving art, Mom insisted I be exposed to various music and its mediums. Guess I should thank her; vinyl is warmer than digital.

  If only she had been as nostalgic about Appalachia.

  I can still see her and Pop. After six ten-hour shifts, she’d welcome him home with a feast and some culture. Most women pair shoes with clothes. Mom paired “hors d’oeuvres” and “aperitifs” with music. Classical was paired with red wine and hearty cheese. Bluegrass was paired with bourbon and dark chocolate.

  They both played. Well, Pop plunked around on the guitar. Mom played by ear the guitar and fiddle, which miraculously became a violin for classical and jazz pieces. I never understood that. But I wasted no time playing along, honing my ear, as Mom called it. Thank God I got her ear and not Pop’s.

  Cocktail hour was for playing. After dinner was for dancing. Sent to bed, I would drift off to the sounds of Fanny Mendelssohn, Hazel Dickens, Nina Simone, Emmylou Harris, maybe Stevie Nicks if Mom felt like bending genres. Female-heavy, some unknown, and many long-forgotten—Mom called them “trailblazers.” Her playlist may not have been popular, but it had substance, she said.

  Pop followed, anything she wanted…except leaving Appalachia.

  Her playlist couldn’t have been that impressive, or she would’ve taken it with her. Wonder what kind of music she’s listening to now, in the city.