Shine - Lauren Myracle [34]
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.