Just Shelby

by Brooklyn James

  This gets more laughs than hyperventilating from the team van. Even though I cannot relate. They’re here on their parents’ dime?

  “What’s so funny over here?” A blonde and her brunette friend push their way into the circle.

  The laughter stops. Grayson grows physically uncomfortable with the blonde’s presence, who looks at me—the newcomer—and then to Grayson, as though she expects an introduction.

  I grow uncomfortable too. She has that vibe.

  “I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure of meeting you,” she says, taking over introductions the way she has the circle.

  Yes, she is Raelynn, with finer clothes and technique. Used to dominating conversation and male attention, she gives me the same probing look that Red always does.

  “She’s…” Grayson begins, coming to my rescue.

  “I’m just visiting,” I assert, before resolutely turning my conversation and body toward the good-looking newspaper writer. “So, you’re a journalism major?”

  The writer eagerly accommodates, turning her attention and her body toward me. The two of us together successfully block out the blonde from our tête-à-tête.

  From her reaction, it is safe to assume the writer has dealt with the blonde’s kind before. Haven’t we all. Although I personally never have quite so boldly.

  An hour later, that boldness bites me in the ass.

  While in a stall—of all places—in the women’s room, I hear two pairs of heels enter. One right after the other. From my humble squat over the public potty, they come into slim view through the slit in the stall door.

  It’s the suspicious blonde and her brunette friend. They primp in front of the mirror.

  “What’s up with Grayson?” The brunette asks. “I thought y’all were a thing.”

  “He’s ‘too busy for a relationship,’” the blonde quips with air quotes in the midst of combing through her faux eyelashes.

  “We’re all busy,” the brunette contends of college life in general.

  “You know Grayson…Mr. Philanthropy. He has so many social and charitable platforms, you’d think he is running for mayor. The latest being some Operation UCAN?” the blonde says, questioning her own recollection of yet another organization to which he dedicates time.

  I do not make a peep or a move, confined to the cramped stall. My thighs begin to quiver, another reminder of the need to intensify my conditioning. I can’t stand up for fear that my head might be seen over the stall. I can’t sit down, no telling how many backsides have made contact with the seat. My ears perk, though.

  I’ve heard of Operation UCAN—Uniting Communities Against Narcotics. They came to our school and put on an assembly. A do-gooder organization aimed at educating and ridding communities overwrought by illegal drug use. Not that we couldn’t use all the help we can get in Poke County, but I’m starting to wonder about Grayson’s dropping in to Hot Brown and his interest in me. Does he know? About my mother? My father?

  “And who’s that girl he invited to the party?” The brunette continues, reapplying her lipstick.

  “Some project, I suppose.” The blonde blots her own freshly remade lips. “Some ‘big brother/little sister, help me get out of shacktown and better my circumstance’ thing.”

  “That explains why I’ve never seen her before,” the brunette pieces it together. “You think she’s even in college?”

  “Uh…no. Did you see the Dollar Store makeup, Walmart jeggings, and Payless pleather boots. That was so twenty-never.” The blonde gives herself one last glance in the mirror. “She’s probably some hillbilly from Appalachia.”

  The brunette laughs, following the blonde out of the bathroom.

  My legs, from both the physical and psychological misery, wobble to a standing position. I pull myself together, step out of the stall, and there in the mirror—in the thick of masquerading—is Shelby Lynn.

  Suppressing the urge to run, I sidestep the growing crowd in pursuit of the exit.

  “Shelby. Hey! Where are you going?” Grayson’s voice trails.

  I do not let him catch up until we are outside the building. Must the whole damn dorm know that I am a charity case! The landscape, brick, mortar, steel, and glass that awed hours ago now torment. It is too good to be true. The sun disappearing below the horizon, the campus’ palatial shadows close in on me. Even it knows that I do not belong here. Runaway, go home to Appalachia.

  “What’s the rush? You weren’t even going to say goodbye?”

  “Goodbye. Thanks! I had a great time.” My voice hits every note on the scale, unsuccessful in finding the modulation that masks hurt and humiliation. “Sorry to rush out, but I have to catch my bus.”

  “Bus? I thought you said your car was in visitor parking.”

  Apparently I do not lie as well as he does. And at this point, I do not care. According to the blonde in the bathroom, Grayson knows exactly who I am. Her demeaning conversation with the brunette festers within me, bitterness arm wrestling hurt.

  “I think we both know that I don’t have a car,” I snap.

  Blindsided by my tone and the fact, “No, I didn’t know,” he says. “But now that I do, I’m not letting you walk to the bus station. Come on, we’ll take my car.” He steps toward me.

  I step back. “Why are you being so nice to me? Why did you give me your number? Why did you invite me here?” I spew questions, shame leaving no room for gratitude.

  “What? Why are you so upset? Where is all of this coming from?” He answers my questions with questions, a clever way to avoid answering questions one does not want to answer.

  So I give it a go, too. “I’m some sort of ‘project’?” I mirror the blonde’s air quotes. “Some backwoods charity case?”

  “Uh.” Probably the first unvarnished thing he has said to me, and it is merely a sound, an utter, a breath. “No. You’re not…really.”

  Really. Really? No. You’re not—afterthought—really!

  “I just thought someone like you might need a chance, that’s all,” his truth trickles out.

  “Someone like me,” the words release like vapor from my mouth, airy and humid, suffocating with realization. “That’s what you were doing in Poke County. That’s why you were in Hot Brown to begin with.” The fairy godmother, I should have known! “Poor little mountain girl needs a handout.” My throat burns with an acerbic chuckle, numbing the mortification that I allowed myself to believe my ability had anything to do with this good fortune. That he saw something in me others don’t. That his interest in me was anything more than platonic pity.

  “This is not a handout. You are not a charity case. It’s obvious that you’re not like them,” he says so definitively, so innocently, as if there is nothing wrong with the sentiment.

  “Oh, but I am.” I smile painfully. “I am the worst of them.” It isn’t until now that I realize this is how the rest of the world sees it: us and them.

  “Shelby,” he says my name softly and drenched in sympathy, literally reaching his hand out to mine. But it’s not a handout!

  I jerk it away from his. “My mother’s an addict. My father died a bootlegger, shot down over a deal gone wrong.” I cannot believe the words as they burst out of my mouth with the deflating reality. I do everything I can to avoid airing my dirty laundry. Yet here I am fanning my unmentionables in the wind of a pampered college boy.

  “None of that matters. None of that defines you. You are capable of so much more.” He says too fast and without an ounce of surprise. No bolt out of the blue, he already knew. His words are sincere, but he can’t even imagine the naivety in them.

  “Says the boy born with a silver spoon.” As the idiom spars from my tongue, a part of me recognizes it as cliché, unfair and unnecessary. But I speak the truth. “It does matter. It has defined me in a way that will take a lifetime to redefine. Don’t you get that.” I am sure he doesn’t. How could he? Having known nothing but advantage and security.

  “Well, here’s your opportunit
y,” he half scolds, half pleads. “I just want to help you, Shelby. Really, I do.”

  “And you think inviting me to this party where everyone in the room…except me…knows that I am a charity case is helping? It was real helpful,” my voice tears, “standing in a bathroom stall, overhearing that blonde tell her friend that I’m your next project.”

  Grayson’s next inhale is audible, a drawing in of ire. Good! Maybe he finally understands how I feel. The slow burn even visible, the contours of his chiseled-like-a-model jaw sharpen.

  “I stood in that room. You let me stand in that room talking with your friends, believing they were actually interested, that they genuinely liked me.” Don’t cry! I’m not going to cry! Certainly not over some bleeding-heart preppy.

  “They do like you, Shelby. Even they can see that you’re not like…” his voice trails off and I see the panic in his eyes.

  “Say it!” I shout. “Them!” Tears thwarted, if only I had such restraint with my tongue. “You want to help? You want to do great things? Try getting it through your self-righteous head that the only thing separating you from them is the privileged womb from which you were born. And for the first time in my life, I would rather be one of them than one of you.”

  On cue, I do what I wanted to do to begin with—run.

  “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you snuck out.” My eyes skim her clothes, hair, and made-up face—an unusual look for Shelby altogether.

  Unusual is the word of the night. What is Shelby doing walking the holler at this hour? After midnight. And what am I doing riding around with Raelynn at any hour.

  “Hop in,” I say, the second thing I’ve said to Shelby in over a month, ever since the non-kiss that still burns my lips.

  She shrugs—maybe there are worse ways to get home—before finally stepping closer to the Jeep.

  “Hey, Shelby Lynn,” Raelynn gloats from the passenger seat, waving her usually made-up nails in Shelby’s face.

  What took me years after my parents’ split takes Shelby a few blinks. I watch her turquoise eyes transition from surprise to unfeeling. “I’ll walk,” she says, cool as the night air.

  “Climb in the back,” I give direction to Raelynn as Shelby continues in hers, walking the berm.

  “Why do I have to get in the back? She can ride in the back,” Raelynn protests.

  “Just do it, would ya.” I make it real easy, hopping out and opening her door.

  “Fine,” Raelynn snaps. “But this is the last time I ever go out with you.” She does both of us a favor, squashing any expectations of a future date.

  “Shelby Lynn, come on. You drive. Log another hour,” I call out, having felt guilty for dodging my offer over the past month.

  “No thanks. And for the thousandth time, it’s just ‘Shelby,’” she growls, picking up her pace.

  “Just get in the darn Jeep,” I growl back, boots growling into the gravel behind her, wondering when I grew conscious of my language.

  This only inspires her to power walk faster.

  “So help me God, if you don’t get your butt in that Jeep right now, I’m gonna throw you over my shoulder and put you in there myself.” I catch up to her, arms prepped for some sandbag hoisting.

  She gives me a death stare, like don’t bite off more than you can chew, before making a U-turn.

  Raelynn sits uncomfortably in the cramped back seat, glowering at the both of us. Something tells me that I’ve already bitten off more than I can chew.

  “Don’t go getting any bright ideas that he’s actually into you,” Raelynn throws out the bait in a bratty tone worth biting at. “He’s only doing this because he feels sorry for you.”

  Grayson’s look of pity that he gave me outside the dorm deluges my senses.

  As fed up with sympathy as I am antipathy, I wrestle with the passenger seat until it gives and tips forward, giving me a clear shot of Raelynn in the back seat.

  “You wanna go, Red!” I shout. My upper body contorting and reaching. One foot in the gravel and one foot in the Jeep, I aim to drag her out of it. Too mad to have the sense to be embarrassed, all I can think about is how she instigated her date to shove that Mason jar in my chest at the river. “There’s no one here to do your bidding. Just you and me. Come on!”

  Behavior as such at the dorm party would imply that I am ill-bred. We don’t give much thought to breeding in Poke County. If you don’t stand up for yourself eventually, folks around here will simply consider you a weakling. I’m done bowing to Queen Red.

  “A-a-ace!” she screams, slapping and digging her acrylic nails into my bound-up fists that are jerking at her collar.

  “Shelby,” he says—just Shelby— “control it. She asked for it, but she can’t handle it.” His arms circle around my waist from behind, pulling me away from Raelynn and from the Jeep altogether.

  I struggle against him—swinging, kicking, and gripping onto the Jeep’s door frame. Only wanting to make Red come with me! With coach’s direction, we “run through the pain,” mentally overcoming the physical. I’m convinced I can handle the physical. But, my God, the words. All of the snide little remarks she makes, they sit in my head and percolate—bitter as Grandpa’s coffee—grinding down my confidence.

  “I’m fed up with her mouth,” I snarl, unable to break free of Ace’s arms. “If you hate me so much, get out! Take your best shot!”

  “You’re crazy!” Raelynn shouts, having moved herself to the farthest corner of the back seat. “Like mother, like daughter.”

  “Raelynn,” Ace warns, tightening his grip on me as I struggle harder, blindly nipping at her provocation. “You’re not helping. Just shut it,” he directs to what she should do with her mouth. Then he turns me in to him, his bear-hugging arms locking mine at my sides.

  Our entwined bodies smell of fear and aggression—cold sweat, pheromone-producing machines. Nearly nose-to-nose and mouth-to-mouth, how can almost fighting and almost making out feel nearly identical?

  His expression softens, along with his grip. “She’s not gonna fight you. You win.”

  I don’t feel like I’ve won anything. I want her to get out of that Jeep and hit me. I want to hit her back, right in her spiteful mouth. Shut her up, once and for all.

  Similar to the day in my front yard, we breathe: Long, slow, and deep, every breath counts. Perfectly in tandem, as if we had learned breathing somewhere, practiced it like double trapeze. Hungry hearts and lungs on a pendulum—born deprived of beats and breath—together they find equilibrium. Together they find something worth more than fighting.

  “Get in, Shelby. She’s not even there. Just you and me, logging miles.”

  “‘Convert it into power,’” I whisper his anger management advice.

  His gray eyes glow, impressed with my gumption. One thing Ace Cooper understands is the urge to knock someone’s lights out.

  I get in under the steering wheel. He hurries around to the passenger seat, to referee. Converting anger into driving, I accelerate before he even gets the door closed. The Jeep is headed out of the hollow, although Grandpa’s house is in the hollow. I consider a three-point turn, successfully negotiating one: a pivotal step in any driving test.

  “You think you’re so tough? Wait ’til you find out about…” Raelynn begins.

  To hell with a three-point turn. I crank the wheel, pull the handbrake, and mash the clutch—startling myself with the complete one-eighty. It worked? It worked! And it finally shut Red up, her face hidden in cowering hands in the back seat.

  “Oh shit!” Ace grips the handle above his door. “A bootlegger’s turn. Now we’re really drivin’!”

  I release the handbrake and peel out.

  “Wait a minute…bootlegger’s turn? Where’d you learn that?” he says with an accusatory glance. Does he think I’ve been logging miles with someone else?

  I shoot him a dagger of my own. Didn’t he just get caught logging more than miles with Raelynn?

  And I don’t bother telling
him that I have only read about the handbrake turn—the colloquial and infamous “bootlegger’s turn”—used by bootleggers while escaping the IRS.

  Another rare find on Grandpa’s bookshelf, most likely a leftover from my father, I figured it couldn’t hurt to read the Manual of Outlawed Driving Maneuvers. Understanding maneuvers disqualifying me from a license seem as pertinent as understanding those required in attaining a license.

  And in that very moment, being born the daughter of a bootlegger seemed rather illustrious.

  With the exception of that bootlegger’s turn, it’s a pin-drop ride to Raelynn’s house. Fortunately.

  Shelby idles the Jeep. I let Raelynn out. She stomps off.

  Now the silence is just awkward.

  “Raelynn caught me at a weak moment,” I explain, as Shelby pulls out onto the road.

  No response.

  Maybe it doesn’t surprise her. Or maybe she doesn’t care. I would care. If she were out riding around with some other guy after midnight or at any hour for that matter—what’s it to me, really? But I would care.

  “How was the tour?” I try a different subject.

  The little spot between her brows dimples. Like either how did you know or what business is it of yours.

  Any response is better than none. “Destiny,” I give up my source, everybody’s source. Telegraph, telegram, telephone, tell Destiny. “So…how was it?”

  “Good. Great.” She continues looking straight ahead, as if Raelynn still rides with us. She cares.

  “You look really…nice.”

  “Thanks,” she mutters.

  “You’re beautiful, alright.”

  Coaxing her hair over the profile of her face, she whispers a sincere “Thanks” into it.

  “Pretty. Hot.” Yes, I have to ruin the moment. It’s too uncomfortable otherwise. “Sexy. Smokin’.”

  “Okay, okay.” Finally I get a smile.

  Now we can move on. “What are you doing walking home?”