Beach Trip by Cathy Holton Page A

with his eyes open, the Doors or Jimi Hendrix blasting on the stereo.
    Sara liked going out to Mel’s house. There was always something to do, with the boot-shaped swimming pool and the playroom crammed with every toy imaginable, and the mini-bikes out in the barn. Mel’s mother was a small shy woman with a Guatemalan accent who stayed mostly in her room, scurrying down the back stairs to fix meals and then scurrying back up them before Leland Barclay came in to eat. Mel’s daddy, Leland, was loud and brash, and he had a big red nose and a belly that hung overhis belt like a feed sack. He wore cowboy boots and a belt buckle with his initials on the front, and he liked to brag that he’d been born in West Texas,
out where the men were tough as the calluses on a barfly’s elbows
(“He should know,” Mel liked to say).
    Sara also liked driving out to the country club in Leland’s big Cadillac Coupe de Ville with Leland at the wheel and her and Mel jumping around in the backseat to “Itchycoo Park” or “Take the Last Train to Clarkesville.” The Howard’s Mill Country Club was nothing more than a small brick building with a nine-hole golf course and a concrete swimming pool surrounded by a chain-link fence. There were probably only a thousand members (who didn’t include Sara’s parents), but it was the closest thing to upscale that Howard’s Mill had to offer.
    Everyone in town gossiped about the Barclays; long before spoiled blonde heiresses and bad blond rock stars became the norm, the Barclays were local celebrities whose every move was noted and commented on. Sara liked being part of the Barclay inner circle. She liked ordering Cokes at the bar and signing Leland’s name. She liked that all the staff knew to put her chili cheese fries on the Barclay tab. It was magical the way anything you could possibly want would suddenly appear and all you had to do was sign for it. Being rich was like finding a genie in a bottle. The older she got, the more time Sara spent with Mel’s family. Her secret wish was that the Barclays would offer to adopt her and then she and Mel could truly be sisters.
    She especially loved to eat dinner at Mel’s house. Eating dinner at Mel’s house was like waiting for a fight to break out in the stands of a Friday night football game between Howard’s Mill and Suck Creek. You never knew who was going to throw the first punch but you knew it was just a matter of time before everyone joined in. It wasn’t that way at Sara’s house. At Sara’s house everyone waited their turn to speak. They didn’t scream or shout or talk over one another or start eating before grace was said. That was considered bad manners, and Sara’s mother wouldn’t have tolerated it. If there was one biscuit left on the plate, and you wanted it, you’d ask politely if you could have it and if no one else did, it was yours. At Mel’s house, if there was one biscuit left on the plate, there was sure to be a fight to the death between Leland and Junior. She’d actually witnessed Junior throw a fork at his father one night over a lone biscuit and Leland had counterattacked by hoisting his glass of Old Crow at his son’s head. Sometimes, just for family solidarity, Mel would join in, too.
    One rainy Friday evening not long after the start of eighth grade, Saracame home with Mel to spend the night. They’d been friends since first grade and by now Sara was accustomed to the mayhem of the Barclay household. On this particular evening Juanita had made fried chicken, squash casserole, mashed potatoes, and biscuits, and not long after setting the steaming food on the table, she had disappeared up the back stairs. Mel and Sara washed their hands and sat down at the table. There was never any evening prayer given at the Barclay table; you just started in helping your plate. A few minutes later Leland came in, followed shortly thereafter by Junior, who looked like a younger, longer-haired version of Leland only