Shine

by Lauren Myracle

  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-A
nn’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, “Uncool, 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.”

  Beef snorted. His breathing had grown more regular, and I felt like it was maybe safe to go on.

  I set down my folded-up napkin. To Dupree, I said, “You ran out of beer, so you went to the Come ’n’ Go?”

  “That is correct,” Dupree said stiffly. He sounded like a schoolmarm, but his primness was so deliberate that it crossed over into being a joke. “Patrick’s shift was almost over. We sweet-talked him into leaving early.”

  Beef rolled his eyes. I could see that Dupree was pleased, and I was, too. We were one more step back toward normal.

  “Then what?” I said. “Did y’all head back to the Frostee Top?”

  “Nah, we decided to take the party on the road.” He appraised me from the waist up. “You are looking mighty fine, by the way. Why don’t you party with us no more? What possible reason could a lady as fine as you have for breaking the hearts of two handsome bucks”—he thumped his chest—“like us?”

  The thumping stirred up some indigestion, or possibly smoker’s phlegm, and Dupree fell into a coughing fit. He tugged a napkin from the dispenser, spit into it, and examined the contents.

  “It’s baffling,” I said.

  “We picked up Patrick, and we went to Suicide Rock,” Beef told me as if he just wanted to get this over with. Suicide Rock was a clearing deep in Pisgah Forest, where the river widened and created an awesome swimming hole. It was good for partying when people were sick of the Frostee Top, because it was far enough off Route 34 that only locals knew of it.

  “What’d you do up there?”

  “Nothing,” he said. “We drank some more and then we went home. Same as I told the cops. All right, Cat?”

  “Fine,” I said. I’d hoped we’d gotten past the angry spell, but his jaw was sharp. These new moods of his made me miss my chick-fuzz Beef. “I’m not accusing you of anything, you know.”

  “Feels like you are.”

  “Well, I’m not. I just want to find the bastard who went after Patrick.”

  “I hear that,” Dupree said. There was something false in his tone, and I turned toward him. He was staring straight at me, his stoner’s glaze replaced by a sly intelligence I’d hadn’t known he possessed.

  “Why?” Beef said.

  I was startled. “Huh?”

  “Why do you care? You haven’t hung out with Patrick in years.”

  “Yeah, but he’s still my friend.”

  “Oh, really? Since when?” He radiated hostility, and this time it was aimed squarely at me. “When’s the last time you hung out with your good friend Patrick, huh?”

  My body grew hot, and I hated him. I’d never in my life hated Beef, but I did then. A lump lodged in my throat, and I knew what would come next if I didn’t watch out. So I used a trick I taught myself years ago, which was to turn myself off on the inside. There was a girl sitting at a table, and that girl was me, but the switch had been flipped and I didn’t feel anything anymore. I could put on a show of being a real girl, but I was somewhere else.

  “So you partied at Suicide Rock,” I said, as if reading the words off an index card. I looked at Beef, but at the same time not. “You, Patrick, Dupree, and Tommy. My brother. Bailee Ann and Robert.” I paused. “Who drove? How’d everyone fit?”

  “Now, Robert didn’t come with us up into the forest,” Dupree clarified. “Patrick made him go home.”

  Good for Patrick. Of course he’d be the one to show a lick of sense.

  “But Bailee-Ann had her pickup, so we had plenty of room,” he continued. “Tommy rode up front with Bailee-Ann, and the rest of us piled into the back. Good times, man. Good times.”

  A shadow crossed his face. I couldn’t tell if it was genuine or for show. “And then . . .” He splayed his fingers and made a sound to represent it all blowing up in their faces.

  Uh-huh, I thought. It’s all fun and games till someone gets a gas pump nozzle jammed down their throat.

  The phone rang. Beef stood, but Dupree waved him off, saying, “I got it.” He went to the counter and fished for an order pad. Sliding easily into his laid-back persona, he said, “Huskers, tastiest subs in town. What can I do ya for?”

  I expected Beef to sit back down, but he didn’t. He stood by the table, his hand on the top of his chair, looking lost.

  I felt myself letting go of my anger, because this was Beef, and he was hurting, too. We were upset with ourselves for not protecting Patrick, but we were taking it out on each other.

  “I’m not attacking you, Beef,” I said. “I swear to God. I just want to know what happened.”

  Beef glanced at Dupree, then gestured with his head, a silent request that I follow him. I did, noting how slim his hips and torso were. He wasn’t a man yet, no matter how much he probably wanted to be. He was just a redneck in a ball cap and a T-shirt so threadbare it belonged in the rag pile.

  He led me to the back of the store, near the small and filthy restroom/supply closet. He leaned against the cement wall, and I did the same. My eyes drifted to the graffiti scrawled on the supply closet’s door. Much of it had been there for ages. Bailee-Ann luvs Beef. Willow +
Darren. Destiny sux cock.

  Out of habit, I lifted my gaze higher, and yep, there it was: Cat and Patrick, BFFs 4-ever. Patrick had written the words, because his handwriting was better. I’d used a purple Sharpie to draw a heart around them. A heart-shaped fence that protected neither one of us.

  “We hung out, like I said, and then we went home,” Beef said. “I’m the one who drove us back into town, because Bailee-Ann was near passed-out. I think Dupree gave her something.”

  My heart rate spiked. “What do you mean, ‘something’?” I said, my brain going straight to meth-crank-ice-crystal. “Something bad?”

  “Nah, not bad, just something that made her loopy. She was, like, talking to the trees and petting them and stuff.”

  “Petting the trees?”

  The look he gave me said, Yes, petting the trees. As I said.

  “And then you drove everyone home,” I said stupidly. I was going to lose him if all I could do was to repeat everything he’d already told me. I gulped. “Um, who’d you drop off first?”

  “Tommy and Dupree. Dupree crashed at Tommy’s.”

  All right, I thought. If Tommy and Dupree were dropped off first, that meant they had the most time to go back out. Hypothetically. “What time was that?”

  “Hell, Cat, I don’t know. One fifteen, one twenty?”

  I wasn’t going to let him rattle me again. I focused on the purple heart—that was why I was here, after all—and said, “So you dropped Tommy and Dupree off first. Then who?”

  “Then Bailee-Ann, and last of all your brother. Why do you care?”

  “What about Patrick?” I said.

  He didn’t answer immediately. Several seconds passed before he said, with almost no inflection, “I took him back to the gas station after dropping Christian off.”

  “So he could get his car?” Patrick had inherited Mama Sweetie’s ancient Pontiac when she died.

  “And so he could finish his closing duties. I was like, ‘Dude, it’s one thirty. Restocking the napkins can wait.’” His eyes found mine. “But you know Patrick.”