T. Johnson - Welcome to Braggsville

Candice laughed heartily. How he had missed that.

You gobbled up the Sanders’ fried chicken without complaint. This she delivered without so much humor. The Sanders were the family that had fed them at Six Flags. From the sound of it, Candice had liked the Southerners no more than Charlie had.

Louis and Charlie must have powered up his PSP because Daron heard the Grand Theft Auto IV theme song, tinny and distant, as it always sounded on those little speakers. They were occupied. Good.

I’m sorry the Ishi thing didn’t work out. He had wanted to say it for weeks. Candice had been glum ever since the performative intervention at Six Flags went haywire. He should have said nothing, apparently, because Candice stiffened then stood.

They regarded each other — warily, it felt to Daron.

It was my fault, Daron, not anyone else’s. I should have planned better. As she said this, she turned away and inspected the pictures on the mantel: reunions, school photos, Quint in his perennial Halloween costume — a policeman, D’aron and his father standing over a buck.

You shot this?

No.

Really?

That’s the last year I went hunting with him.

Bet he didn’t like that.

Nope. Not at all, he answered, pride apparent even to him. Want another beer?

No thanks. She sat down again and he followed suit. It was their first time alone together in a while. There had been a cooling-down period after Six Flags — almost like they were embarrassed for each other, a three-week stretch when everyone was studying a lot. He thought he’d follow Quint’s advice to be real. I’ve missed you.

I’ve missed hanging out, too. She said it as if she knew what he meant and wanted him to know that she meant something different.

Really, Candice. I miss you.

She stared ahead as if he hadn’t said it. He stared ahead as well, afraid to move. After about ten minutes, she fell asleep. Daron was wide awake, watching out of the corner of his eye as her chin dropped lower and lower, as she snored and sniffled, as she slumped until her head rested against his shoulder, as her arms uncrossed and one hand tumbled to his lap, and as she jerked awake thirty minutes later when a door slammed somewhere in the house, followed by clumsy footsteps and the chunky clatter of drunken discretion. They stared expectantly at the maw of the dark hall, listening to breathy giggles, hands raking the wall, hale hearty lusty hushing, until at last his Uncle Roy and Aunt Chester emerged, flat-backed and hugging the perimeter of the room like two cartoon spies, the latter’s blouse a tell-all, each button crashing at its downstairs neighbor’s place.

Uncle Roy feigned a toast as he and Aunt Chester backed out the front door, bidding their adieu to, The couple of the witching hour.

Excuse me. Candice withdrew her hand from Daron’s lap to wave good night. When they were gone: Why do they think we’re dating?

I have no idea.

She stared at him, leaning closer as if an inspection might reveal the truth. Are you sure?

He leaned forward to hide his erection. I’m sure. Ask them.

What are you pissed about?

Nothing. I’m not pissed.

She rubbed his arm. Nervous about tomorrow?

No. It’ll be fine. Probably funny. When he thought about it, though, he was nervous about tomorrow. What if Jo-Jo was there, and asked after Candice in front of everyone else?

It’s all right to be nervous.

Daron leaned farther forward. He wanted to tell her now that his father forbade him to go, wanted to stand to do it, but couldn’t stand and face her. Maybe if he told her again how much he’d missed her, maybe if she believed it, that would make it easier. He couldn’t see a way to say that again, either. When he said nothing for a few minutes, she asked, Would you mind if I stretched out and slept a little? She held up the blanket, like he needed that to aid comprehension.

Sure. Why don’t you turn on the lamp and I’ll turn off the big light. As soon as she reached for the lamp he stood and left the room, keeping his back to her the entire way.

On the way to his bedroom, he stopped in the bathroom to relieve himself. Earlier that evening he had walked in on Candice in there and froze with embarrassment, I just needed a towel. She waved him in, grunting her reassurance that it was okay. Leafing through the towels, he glanced at her as she perfunctorily wiped the toothpaste from her chin, spitting at the same time, and saw the woman in her eyes. She was fully dressed, but the proximity felt intimate nonetheless. He imagined couples doing the same, sharing small spaces while attending to separate tasks. After a time, they hardly noticed each other. But he would never grow weary of watching Candice. Each day would mean a new observation or revelation, such as how she attended to her teeth like she was angry at them, those big white teeth, bright and shiny, brushed so vigorously he imagined them smooth as marble, but warm instead of cold, inviting, even in their sharpness, one to lick them. Inviting — no — daring even, like a blade. Of course Louis liked her. Quint as well. Everyone did. Aunt Chester had called her, As soft-nosed and sweet as she can be. Daron was sure Charlie liked her, too, though he never admitted it. But Charlie had more women trying to park in his lot than Walmart on Black Friday. He couldn’t cross campus without girls waving to him, and not the shy, polishing-a-bowling-ball motion they reserved for coincidental classmates, but full-bodied hails, sometimes with two arms even.

IN THE MIDDLE OF THE NIGHT, Daron woke thirsty, stepping over Charlie and Louis, bypassing his midnight oasis in the bathroom, and stopping in the living room, where his mother had left a night light on for Candice, who snored softly on the couch, curled up like a cat, her lips parted, eyes still, chest rising and falling, his breathing, for a moment, matching hers. He had seen her passed out, often facedown, once slumped in a closet corner like a discarded snowsuit, but never sleeping so peacefully. It was hard to believe they were all in his house. He was an ambassador, the cat who dropped a thrasher or mole skink on the kitchen tile as if to say, You have no more to fear from them. It is safe. It was as if he had brokered a great peace. He watched her for a moment, listened to the humming refrigerator, the ticking clock, the creaking noises the house made only at night, the shifting of the attic beams, the settling of the floor, the sway in the walls, all slowly adjusting itself to the earth.

LATER, DARON AWOKE TO CHARLIE’S FACE only inches from his own, his friend’s breath heavy on his chin. Charlie was hyperventilating, his eyes hovering in the dark like some kind of magic trick. Daron led him outside in silence, knowing, hoping, that he would back out, too. Daron hadn’t yet told his friends that his father expressly forbade him to go.

In the backyard with the door safely shut, Charlie asked, Are you sure about this? I don’t remember ever being this frightened before. I can’t do it. I can’t. I can’t pretend… not this. I can’t pretend this. His forehead gleamed and his hands shook worse than his voice.

Was Quint right about Charlie? No. Daron recalled the sensation that had swept over him at Six Flags, the feeling that everyone was watching him, waiting for him to fuck up so they could swoop in. He’d felt under so much pressure that he’d wanted to scream, Stop staring at me. He should never have asked Charlie. Charlie shouldn’t dress as a slave and pretend to be lynched any more than Daron should dress as a Grand Dragon and pretend to burn a cross. Charlie had nothing to fear from Braggsville, but they shouldn’t have asked him anyway.

Charlie and Daron were still sitting in the backyard at five thirty, the appointed hour, when they heard Candice being quiet in the kitchen, which was clean as a chemistry lab. The canisters, spices, and condiments all put away. Everything out was labeled. There was no way they could return it to that condition before they left, so he suggested Waffle House, Right up the road a spell.