The drugstore is probably as big as our high school with high ceilings dripping fluorescent lights and yet more Mardi Gras beads. The place is hopping for seven p.m. on a Wednesday and it takes us a solid five minutes to find what we’re after, sandwiched thematically between “Women’s Hygiene” and “Diapers & Baby Formula.”
“Okay, Sterling, the world is your oyster,” I say, stopping in front of a wall of condoms.
Sterling is a special shade of pink. On the spectrum, it probably falls somewhere between “I didn’t know he was my cousin when I kissed him” and “1985 fashion.” She blinks rapidly, eyes skating away from the display to make sure no one’s watching us.
“What kind are you getting?” she asks me.
“I—” I stop. I was going to say, I don’t need them. Which is sort of true and sort of not. “I wasn’t going to get any,” I finish.
Abigail meets my eyes and doesn’t look away. Confirming, sympathizing, but not revealing. Guilt pinches my thoughtless heart.
“What?” Sterling’s hand flies to her chest. “There’s that party this Friday! School is starting! There’s no way you aren’t making plans for this year, and who knows when we’ll have this chance again!”
She’s right of course, but something inside me shrinks and slides down the wall of that deep well. I wasn’t expecting to confront my limitations in a drugstore of all places. But standing here before a wall of condoms, I see how even these rules are different when applied to me: I’ll only ever need them to prevent STDs, not pregnancy.
Sterling misreads my hesitation. “You have to get some. I can’t buy these things by myself!”
“These things?” I ask, climbing out of my stupor. “If you can’t say the word, Saucier, you can’t have them.”
“For Pete’s sake, Candy, of course I can say it: condom.” She says that last at a whisper. “I just don’t want to be the only one buying them.”
Again, I hesitate.
Abigail snatches a pack from the wall. “C’mon, I’ll buy them.”
With a pointed look at Sterling, I say, “Really? The one of us who needs them least of all is going to buy them?”
Sterling stares at the package in Abigail’s hand, clearly searching her guts for the courage she grew this summer. “Oh God, okay, fine,” she says at last, retrieving the box.
“Good girl,” I say, reaching for my own box.
On our way to the counter, Sterling stops for a bottle of Coke, a pack of gum, and a notebook covered in superheroes. She places it all on the counter in front of a cashier old enough to be our mom with the condoms on the very bottom, as if that will make this moment any less awkward. Luckily, we are far from the most outrageous thing this woman has seen today, maybe in the last hour, and all she does is smile approvingly.
When we’re done and back in the car for the return trip home, Sterling says, “Abigail, I thought you hated bananas.”
That’s when I notice that in addition to a Coke and bag of chips, Abigail did indeed purchase a banana.
“I do,” she confirms, “but I figured if you were that twisted up about buying condoms, you probably oughta practice putting one on before it comes time for the real thing.”
For just a moment, we sit in silence. Then we shriek and laugh and collectively learn how to dress a banana.
9
ON THURSDAY, STORMS DESTROY THE sky. The rains are unrelenting and for a moment, there is a rumor—started by unreliable Rena, a sophomore with a flair for overreaching—that the King extravaganza would be canceled. But Friday morning, the sky clears and the humidity relaxes, leaving us with a much cooler summer day.
It’s our last day of preseason volleyball training and Coach squeezes us for all we’re worth. We start off by jogging a soggy mile around the football field, then it’s up and down the bleachers until our thighs burn like coals, and then practice truly begins.
Sterling, Abigail, and I hold our own against the seniors, and it feels like we’ve been working toward this kind of choreographed ruthlessness for years. No matter what comes over the net, I’m there to dig and pass neatly to Sterling, who sets up beautiful hits for Abigail. It doesn’t matter that we’re exhausted by the end; it feels like we could take on an army.
Coach lets us out a full thirty minutes early to do whatever it is people do to prepare for wearing more money than is decent. How people could need more than thirty minutes to comb their hair and pull on a dress is so far beyond me it may as well be in Florida. I shower, shave my legs, and blow my hair into obedience. In all of ten minutes I do my standard formal dance makeup, then slide into the new silvery-green gown.
When I’m done, I face the full-length mirror in my bedroom and I have to admit, I’m a sight to be seen. My hair looks soft and bright, its blond strands set off by my tan and the moss-green damask of the dress. The gown brushes the floor but won’t when I’ve strapped into my heels.
Dad comes to the door, looking smart in a three-piece suit and holding a red velvet box. He stops before opening it, eyes softening like butter.
“Oh, Possum, you look beautiful.” His voice clouds and he clears his throat. “I mean, you are beautiful.”
Engineers are notoriously bad with verbal expression and Dad’s no exception, but at this an uncontrollable smile squishes up my face. “Thanks, Daddy.”
“Ah, I thought you might like to wear these.” He snaps the box open, revealing a string of tiny, misshapen pearls, every one of them silver as the ocean. “They were your gram’s, and I think she’d want you to wear them tonight.”
He latches them around my neck, then offers his arm and together we walk to the kitchen, where Mom waits in a conservative burgundy gown with enough sparkling opals dangling from her ears to do Nanny Craven proud.
The sun’s a rainbow sherbet puddle on the horizon when we leave. We take Mom’s SUV and join the line of cars streaming down the side road toward the Kings’. If there’s one thing Sticks has in abundance, it’s cars, and all the finest are out tonight. It takes ages to reach the river, then another year before we drive beneath the oaks.
Mom gasps. Dad’s foot falters on the gas, and I lean between their seats to get a better view.
What I see is a house that’s been transported from the lustrous, romanticized past and planted right here in Sticks.
The oak canopy has been tinseled with tiny lights and shimmering silver. The whole thing looks like a glittering night sky. Along either side of the drive are posts with hanging lanterns marking where we’re meant to park. And running up and down the drive between parking cars and the house are two horse-drawn carriages. The house glows, white and grand, at the end of the tunnel.
“Oh my,” Mom says. That doesn’t even begin to cover it, but all the words I’d choose to share are too dirty for my dress.
“Ladies.” Dad offers an arm to each of us and we walk on the freshly graveled ground to where people wait for the carriages.
An elderly white man with a glowing white coat, black pants, and gold cummerbund holds the reins of a jet-black stallion. I don’t know which to look at first—the horse, the carriage, or the man who offers a gloved hand to Mrs. Gwaltney as she steps into the carriage. It’s all I can do to make certain my mouth isn’t a flytrap.
“Pet ’im, if you like, miss,” a young black man calls from the driver’s seat. He wears a top hat, a black coat with long tails, and a very warm smile. “He don’t bite. Much.”
Laughter breaks the tension building between my shoulder blades. “Same here,” I say, resting my fingers on the horse’s whiskery muzzle.
The driver gives a hearty chuckle, then checks to see that his carriage is full. I step back, and he snaps the reins over the horse’s back. The carriage is surprisingly dexterous, making a tight turn before trundling toward the house. I’ve heard of these troops before. Groups of men and women who’ll come add some vague historical flavor to any gala—within reason, of course. They have horses and carriages and costumes, and they don’t co
me cheap.
It’s our turn next. The footman assists Mom first, then me, but leaves Dad to balance on his own. I’d be nice and ticked about that if my gown didn’t demand I use one of my hands for its flowing skirt. We’ve barely settled into the red leather seats of the carriage before we’re clomp-clomp-clomping down the lane. Behind us, cars continue their slow stream into the lantern-lit parking spaces. I can just make out the river beyond, reaching for moonlight.
“Mom, Dad,” I say, leaning back to watch the lights pass, “this is how you throw a birthday party. I hope you’re taking notes.”
Dad laughs, but Mom’s response is a little more serious. She says, “Well, get moving on that celebrity career. All it takes is one moment on camera to be discovered.”
I can’t believe she’s still upset I won’t give President King an interview. Except that I can. “Never. Mind,” I say.
We pull up to the house and are assisted to the ground by another white-frocked footman. Gold banners wrap the newly restored white columns, top to bottom, pooling elegantly around the base. The door is attended by yet another footman, who raps once sharply as we approach. It swings open to gowns and suits and laughter. Nearest the door, Mr. King stands with his eldest child at his elbow. He looks Kingly, indeed, with his auburn-and-ice hair slicked back from his temples and a gracious smile at his mouth. He’s giving out more than a double-handed handshake, that’s for sure.
Beside him, Gage echoes his father’s smile gloriously. He’s at ease in this stately atmosphere, all charm and open arms.
As I get closer, I see Gage’s suit is anything but typical. Three pieces and black, and the vest is pale yellow with gold embroidery around the edges. Long jacket tails fall to the backs of his knees, and peeking out from beneath his sleeve I spot a red leather band. He may wear his suit well, but here is a hint of rebellion in the little prince.
Looking up, I find he’s caught me staring. I drop the smirk from my lips, but not before he’s mirrored the look. Between this and our first meeting, he’s going to think I’m always this awkward.
Mr. King greets my parents like old friends, patting my mom’s hand and my dad’s shoulder. He turns to me last, offering his hand.
“Good evening, Mr. King,” I say.
“Please, call me Roz,” he returns, looking from me to my parents. “I insist. ‘Mr. King’ makes me feel like we’re negotiating contracts.”
I wish I could roll my eyes at how he simultaneously lowered himself to our level while reminding us he’s a big shot who has to think about contracts.
“The house is a marvel,” my dad says, eyes roving the foyer with admiration.
“All credit for this renovation goes to Mr. Wawheece here,” Mr. King says, gesturing to the man standing on the other side of Gage. “He and his crew have worked ’round the clock to transform this house, and I swear the craftsmanship is some of the finest I’ve seen.”
The last thing I expected to find here was the sight of Mr. Wawheece in a suit, which is probably why I failed to recognize him immediately. He stands with his hands folded before him, his bulbous nose red from years in the sun, beaming in the light of Mr. King’s affections.
And beside him is none other than his own son, Riley Wawheece, who picks at the sleeves of his suit like they’re scabs.
The men are quickly falling into an endless circle of compliments, and Riley’s gaze has fallen on me like a wet blanket, which means it’s time to go. I move toward the crowd of perfume and puffed chests, but a hand catches my arm. I turn to see a hint of pink in Gage’s cheeks, which he hurries to cover by bowing over my hand to say, “Thank you for coming.”
It’s so utterly unlike anything a boy’s ever said to me that I can think of nothing to say in return except, “You’re welcome.”
But he’s not finished. “I hope you’ll save me a dance.”
“It’s not like they have a shelf life,” I say, defensive and not entirely rational, but the crowd around us—the one that includes Mr. King, Mr. Wawheece, Riley, and my parents witnessing this awkward exchange—bursts into laughter.
Gage’s fingers tighten on mine before he refreshes his smile and says, “Can I take that as a yes?”
“Yes,” I say.
His thumb brushes my knuckles briefly before our hands fall apart like petals. He and his father turn their dazzling smiles on the next guests to enter and the charm repeats itself with amusement-park precision.
With my parents close behind, we make our way through the hallway to the back of the house. All the doors and windows have been flung open. People stand inside and out, mingling on the deck before an outdoor ballroom of sorts. Instead of using the rooms of the house, the Kings have covered a portion of the backyard with hardwood flooring, and surrounded the area with hanging lanterns and more sparkling lights.
It’s with more than a small amount of relief that I spot Abigail standing in her layers of amber chiffon. With her dark brown skin and coils of smooth braids wrapped impossibly around her head, she looks like she should be surrounded by flocks of adoring fans. Beside her stands Valerie, her twin sister in structure alone. Everything about Valor is sharp. Her short hair, her short fuse, and—I’d bet—her teeth. Tonight’s no exception. She’s swathed in red that cuts in at the waist and dips low in the back. Though she’s ten times the rebel Abigail is, she gets away with more for walking a suitable life path. It’s not my business, but if I had a sister and she didn’t stand up for me, I think I’d steal her allowance, buy a stuffed bear, and call it sis. At least then I could hug it without feeling shitty.
They greet me with smiles and we do the obligatory trading of compliments, engaging in small talk until some of Valor’s friends arrive. The crowd slowly but steadily grows around us. Waiters pass by with silver trays loaded with flutes of sparkling champagne or appetizers so detailed they must’ve required an architect to build. By the dance floor, a traditional brass band sits on a raised platform, warming up. Pretty soon, I’m sure every single person I’ve ever seen in my life has passed before me.
I don’t know how I feel about the Kings having every resident of Sticks here to ogle their home. And I don’t know how I feel about the fact that all of Sticks can fit in their backyard.
“I didn’t know we had so many people in town,” Abigail muses, looking over the crowd as only she can.
“We’re full of surprises,” I say drily. “There’s our gleaming couple.”
Sterling and Heath, she in stunning blue and he in very traditional black, make their way toward us. In spite of both sets of parents being somewhere in the crowd, they let their hands swing between them. Joined with white-fingered desperation.
Sterling answers my unspoken question. “We’re taking a stand,” she says with a proud glance at Heath. “Mostly he is.”
Heath ducks his head, the picture of modesty. “What’re they gonna do to me in public?”
“Damn straight,” I say. And then specifically for Abigail, I add, “It’s always best when things are out in the open.”
Abigail is unruffled. She ignores me, but I see her eyes slide across the crowd until they find Shannon Ryals, whom she’s eye-stalked since last year. Shannon’s as dressed up as punk rock gets: short-skirted black dress with classy fishnets and tall boots, dark eye makeup and strawberry blond hair styled in a doughnut bun. She’s a very specific flavor of sex on a stick.
Their eyes meet and it’s a terrible thing to watch—Shannon’s kohl-rimmed eyes brightening with hope, Abigail’s shoulders collapsing with defeat. I can already see how this will end.
The sad thing is I think Abigail can, too.
We mill with the rest of town, admiring all the very fine work the Kings have done to restore the landmark so dear to so few people. We try the artful hors d’oeuvres, spot Nova making the rounds with little Thad at her side, and generally wonder why we’re all dressed up, until finally a bell calls our attention to the dance floor. Mr. King stands with Gage at his side, one arm draped acr
oss his son’s shoulders. When everyone has gathered on the deck, on the steps, and in a semicircle around the floor, Mr. King steps away from his son and begins.
“First, please let me say it warms my heart to see all the fine people of Sticks here tonight. I regret that due to illness my wife couldn’t join us, but she sends her gratitude as well. We are so very pleased to be here, among such generous people. I’ve traveled a lot in my years, and there’s no doubt in my mind, the South is the most welcoming place on the planet.”
Applause. People do love pandering statements about the South. The only good thing about the applause is the noise covers my snort.
He continues in this way, telling us all how good we are to have taken in his family and how much it means to him to be filming in a place like Sticks. Once he has the good will of nearly every person here, he mentions that the film crew will be here tonight filming and, yes, interviewing. At that, the crowd titters excitedly. And I have to admit, it’s brilliant. Giving anyone who wants it a chance at five seconds of fame, and spotlighting the town in its only glorious moment since President Jefferson Davis of the Confederacy passed nearby and didn’t stop. Finally, Mr. King reminds us why we’re all here. Beaming, he turns to Gage and claps him on the back.
“But tonight is really about my eldest son, Gage.” He pauses for applause. “It isn’t every day your oldest turns eighteen. Gage, I remember when you were just a small boy, holding your baby sister in your arms like she was more precious to you than your own life. I asked you, ‘Gage, what do you think of her?’ And do you remember what you said to me? You said, ‘How is she real?’” He pauses and this time the whole world of this backyard is silent as stone. “I’ve felt that way since the day you were born. It’s an amazing thing, watching your children grow up, becoming more and more real every day. You amaze me, and I’m damn proud to call you son.”
Behold the Bones Page 8
