Meant to Be Broken Read online

  Meant to be Broken

  A Carolina Clay Novel

  Brandy Woods Snow

  Filles Vertes Publishing LLC

  Coeur d’Alene, ID

  Copyright © 2018 by Brandy Woods Snow

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, without prior written permission.

  Filles Vertes Publishing, LLC

  PO Box 1075

  Coeur d’Alene, ID 83815

  www.fillesvertespublishing.com

  Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.

  Book Layout © 2018 Filles Vertes Publishing, LLC

  Meant to be Broken/ Brandy Woods Snow. -- 1st ed.

  ISBN 978-1-946802-26-2

  To Gene

  who saw me when I could not.

  Chapter 1

  Rayne

  A

  t 9:30 Saturday morning, I find out Preston Howard wants to date me. At 11:30, my mama hears it from old lady McAlister and has a “spell” in aisle three of the Piggly Wiggly. It’s taken seventeen years, but I finally understand the two things my social life and Mama have in common. They’re both erratic and one usually suffers because of the other.

  The store manager calls me on my cell and asks me to come get her. He has my number because he’s Daddy’s best friend’s brother and used me to babysit his kids a few times last year. I answer, expecting another job offer.

  “Rayne? This is Dave Sullivan, you know, the manager down at the Piggly Wiggly? There’s been an incident with your mama.”

  Apparently it’d happened in front of the Luzianne tea bags. She was comparing the family size to smaller ones when Mrs. McAlister offered her a coupon… and a piece of news.

  The details get a little sketchy from there—something about her sinking to the floor and gasping for air. That’s when the manager came over with one of those small brown paper sacks they use to bag up ice cream and had her breathe in it. A nurse and a vet, both in the crowd assembled around her, agreed from their varied medical expertise it didn’t appear to be life-threatening. When the paper bag seemed to work, he decided to call me instead of the ambulance.

  I pull into the parking lot ten minutes later. She’s sitting on the front bench beside the automatic doors where the employees go to smoke, under the “I’m Big on the Pig!” sign. Mrs. McAlister sits beside her, a little too close, waving a folded-up circular in her face. I wonder what the store employees and shoppers think of me, casually parking the car, walking-not-running, and looking both ways before crossing the main traffic flow. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out they’re all watching from between the weekly specials scribbled on the plate-glass windows.

  I don’t feel the need to rush. It isn’t a heart attack or stroke. I call it her bipolar though Daddy gets mad when I refer to it like that. The diagnosis is anxiety, better known as my evil little sister—always around, always a pain, and always ruining my life.

  This sort of episode has happened before, just not too often in public. In most societies that’s considered good news—but not in the South. They say we don’t hide our crazy, we dress it up and parade it on the front porch. And even if we don’t, someone else will do the parading for us—telegraph, telephone, tell-a-Southern woman. We know how to reach out and touch some people.

  Mrs. McAlister jumps up from the bench and grabs my arm as I step up on the curb. “I suwannee, child. She liked to turned over her buggy and spilt them groceries everywhere.”

  Talking to some of the older ladies in town always feels like walking out of real life and into some part of Steel Magnolias. She gives me her version of the sordid details. Mama created quite a scene, not just with her episode but also by her scandalous choice of groceries. The mayonnaise was the only casualty, rolling out the leg hole of the kiddie seat portion of the cart when Mama accidentally gave it a rough shove while collapsing on the linoleum.

  Mrs. McAlister hadn’t bothered to pick that up and put it back in the buggy, which was now waiting by the customer service desk. It wasn’t Dukes Mayonnaise. She leans in close to whisper because how embarrassing would that be for Mama. To her, it’s further proof Mama hadn’t been feeling well long before their conversation. What Southern woman in her right mind buys off-brand mayonnaise?

  I nod my way through the conversation and thank her again for being there. She pats me on the hand, telling me that’s what good neighbors do, but by the time she’s halfway to her Cadillac, the cell phone is already glued to her pink-tinted bottle-blond head.

  Good neighbors, my butt. She just scored the juiciest scoop of the summer, and best believe she’s capitalizing on it. Good gossip’s better than credit in this town.

  I squat down in front of Mama, patting her knee. “You okay now, Mama?” She doesn’t speak, just stares past me with pupils dilated into miniature tar pits. I grab her purse from the bench and give it a shake. “I’m getting your card and going to pay for the groceries. You hang on to this.” I slip the debit card from her wallet then plop the purse in her lap. “I’ll be right back.”

  Inside it’s uncomfortable, everyone pretending to go about their business but sneaking peeks at me when they think I’m not looking. There’s that crazy woman’s girl. I bet she has a hard time at home. Part of me can’t blame them. Part of me wants to punch them.

  She’s still sitting on the bench, staring out across the asphalt, when I get back.

  “Come on, Mama.” I take her elbow, helping her stand. A slight tremble still courses through her sporadically. “Let’s go home.”

  “My car.” She points to her old brown sedan as we walk to my Civic. “I have to…”

  “Daddy’ll come get it when he’s back from fishing. You don’t need to drive right now, Mama,” I say, opening the passenger door and pulling the seatbelt around her.

  “I can get it myself,” she snaps, yanking the clip from my hand and clicking it in place. “I’m not a baby.” The inevitable next phase in her anxiety cycle. Yay! Bat-shit crazy is always followed by undue anger, guilt, and then some sort of weird, forced happiness where she tries to convince us she’s fine, it was just a freak episode.

  “I’ll be right there.” I slam the door before she can utter another word she’ll regret later.

  My phone rings just as I pop the trunk. “Hello?”

  “What’s going on at The Pig? My mom talked to Ainsley’s mom who heard from Mrs. Pressley that your mama had some kind of meltdown in Aisle Four.” It’s my best friend, Jaycee Tucker.

  “Aisle Three,” I correct her, loading in groceries. “It’s nothing. She’s fine.”

  “Ri-ight.” She takes a deep breath and moves on. “Anyway, you did read the text I forwarded you after we talked earlier? The one Trevor sent Ainsley about Preston?”

  Sure, I’d read it—a million times, the words playing on repeat in my head. Preston thinks Rayne Davidson’s pretty, smart and he wouldn’t mind going out with her.

  Of course I’ve fantasized about dating him, kissing him, just talking to him, but so does every other girl at Hillcrest High. That’s why I don’t get it. Preston dates the hot girls—tall, leggy ones with gi-normous chests and barely-there skirts; the whole “big boobs, no brains” syndrome. So how on God’s green Earth does my 5’3” slim build, b-cups, and mop of curly brown hair catch his eye?

  “And you’re sure he told Trevor ‘Rayne Davidson’? He didn’t m
ean someone else and Trevor got it mixed up?”

  The Howard family was Fountain Inn royalty, far outside my own realm. I’d never even talked to Preston… at least, not really. He nodded at me once, just slightly, with a grin. And then there was this one time he actually said, “here you go,” and handed me the pen I’d dropped in the school hallway. But other than that, nada.

  “Do you know another Rayne at our school?”

  “Well, no, but you know the town is gossiping about this already.”

  “Of course they are. They have nothing better to do.”

  She proceeds to fill me in. Apparently, I’m not the only one questioning his sanity. It seems people all around town have me on their lips, using phrases like “unbelievable,” “never saw that coming,” and “she’s so lucky.” And the occasional “Who? Never heard of her.” It’s a shot in the arm of ol’ self-confidence when you find out the entire town considers you sub-par for their favorite son.

  “So everyone thinks he’s gone loco?”

  “No, everyone thinks you’re damn lucky to land someone like Preston. They think you should take advantage of the situation. And so do I, so quit it with the ‘Doubty-McDoubterson’ crap. We’ll figure it all out later.”

  “I don’t know…”

  “Well, here are two things you need to know. One, we’re going to the bonfire tonight, so you better prepare your mama. And two—are you still at The Pig? Cause I talked to Ainsley a minute ago. She’d talked to Trevor who was with the Howard boys—as in PRESTON HOWARD—and they’re on the way there to get hot dogs and drinks or something for later.”

  While she’s talking, a familiar black Mustang GT peels into the lot. Oh dear Lord. Fate yet again conspires to give me the proverbial finger. The guy who wants to date me is pulling into the space directly in front of my car— the hot guy… the unattainable guy. And here I am loading in a bag of hemorrhoid cream and Tampax with my crazy-ass mama waiting in the front seat post-meltdown.

  Kill. Me. Now.

  “Rayne? Rayne!” Jaycee yells through the phone.

  “Shhh!” I slink behind the still-opened trunk lid, my hand cupped around the speaker just in case Preston has super-sonic hearing. “Call you later.” I shove it in my pocket.

  Meanwhile, the boys get out of the car, Preston from the driver’s seat, his younger brother Gage from the passenger seat, and Trevor from the back. Gage and Trevor are seniors like me. Preston graduated in June.

  The sun glints off Preston’s sunglasses, and my eyes travel from there down his body. Dirty blond hair with lemony streaks in a crew cut, bronzed skin, and abs you can bounce a quarter on. Pair that with the fact he’s Mr. Sports All-American, football MVP, voted Best All Around, and the boy’s a godhead in the high school hierarchy.

  Honk! Hoooooooonk!

  Suddenly, my car’s horn is blaring, and the boys jerk their heads around, sweeping their eyes over the parking lot. My stomach knots in on itself, and I drop to my knees, crouching down behind the buggy on the opposite side of the car to peer around the side. Once the three of them disappear behind the large Mountain Dew display at the side entrance, I get up, slam the trunk lid and shove the buggy into the rack.

  When I slide in behind the steering wheel, Mama looks at me, her brown eyes hard and angry. “Took you long enough. What’s the matter? You’re all sweaty.”

  I push my sunglasses onto my nose and flip the visor down. “It’s August in South Carolina, Mama. Even Hell isn’t this hot.” I stick the key in the ignition and turn it. My ‘80s hair band rock blasts through the speakers, and she winces like I’ve poured acid in her ear canals. Now “the devil’s music” is playing in her daughter’s car on top of everything else. I throw the car in reverse, shift to drive and speed away from The Pig and my hot new admirer, who’ll surely reconsider this whole thing once he gets to know me.

  By the time we get home, Mama enters the third phase of her attack—crying uncontrollably and begging me to forgive her for the embarrassing display. I put away the groceries, give her a glass of room-temperature water with passionflower, and walk her upstairs to bed. Sleep’s always best after such an episode. I fluff her pillow and when her eyelids begin to droop, I tell her I’m going with Jaycee to a bonfire.

  Suddenly she’s wide awake and eager to discuss my need to stay away from boys, get my education and get out of this town for the nine millionth time. I don’t know whether to be honored or insulted. She obviously either feels I have more potential than this place, or she wants me to go away.

  “Will there be boys at this bonfire tonight?” She sits up against her pillow, eyes wide.

  “Of course, Mama, but considering most of the junior and senior classes are going, that’s kind of unavoidable. Besides, Jaycee and I are looking forward to some girl time.” I make sure to nod. I read an article in Cosmo that our body language never lies so every time I talk to Mama about boys, I keep reminding my head to bob up and down to affirm that, yes indeed, I’m being truthful. And technically, I don’t outright lie to Mama. It’s more avoidance.

  “What about those Howards? Mrs. McAlister said…” Her breathing quickens and gets harder. She has to take a break.

  “That rumor? I heard it. It’s whatever.” Indifference is the key to communicating with Mama. Not too hot, not too cold. “Besides, he’s a respectable guy. If someone asked me out on a date, I’m thinking you’d approve of him before anyone else, right?” Making it sound like her preference is usually a solid approach.

  “I don’t know,” she mutters, scooting back down under the covers, eyes wide as if the boogeyman’s dancing on my head. “Be home at eleven.”

  “Eleven? But Mama all the other kids…”

  “Eleven. Sharp.”

  Check and mate. She’s won the battle, but I, Rayne Davidson, am going to the bonfire and talking to Preston Howard tonight.

  So long as he hasn’t already changed his mind.

  Chapter 2

  Gage

  T

  his is the best ending to summer a guy could ask for. A hot grill ready for some charbroiled beef, a long stretch of red Carolina clay, and my big brother riding shotgun in my 4x4 without any parental hassles—and later, a bonfire.

  “Gage! Watch this!” Preston sprints down the slatted dock, grabs the rope hanging from the massive oak and swings out above the pond. At the uppermost part, he lets go, hitting the water with a splash that shoots ripples out in every direction. After a few seconds, he resurfaces, head and shoulders bobbing above the water, blond hair wet and spiked out in every direction. He throws his head back laughing, for once, not caring about how much hair gel will be needed to correct it.

  At least he’s having fun.

  It’s a foreign concept for him, though he’ll never admit it. And no one else would believe me either. But they don’t know him like I do. They don’t see how pent up he is living inside the box everyone puts him in.

  Preston’s a pleaser. Always has been, but I hope that won’t always be true. He never totally lets go. The way he could when we were little kids. Before all that other junk mattered. The older he gets, the worse it gets.

  Everyone at school flocks to him. Girls salivate over him. Grown-ups worship him. There goes Preston. Look how he commands the room. Athletic, smart, and capable—that boy’s going places.

  Yeah, he’s going places, all right—straight to the family accounting firm for the rest of his life. I hate how Mom and Dad cookie-cut him into some new age version of themselves.

  Trevor jumps next followed by a few guys from the football team. I roll up my jeans and kick off my boots on the bank, then walk out to the edge of the dock where I sit, dangling my feet in the water.

  “What ya waitin’ for?” One of the guys yells out, slicing his hand over the surface and spraying my face with water. “You still pissed about the turtle from last summer that bit your ass?”

  I roll my eyes. One little mud turtle—on the thigh, not
the ass. And they’ll never let me live it down.

  “It’s not about the turtle.” I laugh, grabbing the hem of my muscle shirt and pulling it over my head. The guys fix their eyes on my new tattoo. “Can’t go swimming until after all the scabbin’s done.”

  A garbled chorus of voices rings out as they all swim closer for a better look—my brief moment of celebrity.

  NO RULES APPLY.

  I like everything about it. The way the needle pricked my skin, shooting little slivers of fire and ice underneath. The ways the block letters make my abs look extra firm. How it captures my attitude on life.

  And yeah, the fact it’s lying there in wait to piss off my parents is just the cherry on top. I’m the resident Howard screw-up, so might as well take it to the next level.

  “I had nothing to do with that.” Preston holds his hands up in the air like he’s being arrested. He refused to go with me, saying Mom would flip her lid when she found out. He’s probably right.

  She caught me looking at tattoo designs on the internet a couple months ago and completely lost it, wrenching my phone from my hand and slamming it on the table so hard I was sure she’d cracked the screen. That’s the day she subjected me to an hour-long bitch-fest about how tattoos are “outward expressions of internal chaos.”

  Whatever the hell that means.

  Everything that comes out of her mouth is expertly designed to make her appear as some highly intellectual, pretentious Southern queen.

  Preston says I should cut her slack if for no other reason than she’s our mom. But he doesn’t get it. He got bedtime stories, snuggles, and “Mother of the Year.”

  I got screwed. Nothing. Nada.

  Dad tried to explain it once by saying Mom was shocked when I came along so soon after Preston. She clung to him, trying to preserve his right to be the baby, but then bam! Gage came along, and all hell broke loose.