See Dot Smile

The Sugar Castle

Bud's mysteriousness about his living situation has me all kinds of intrigued. And I'm certain he wouldn't have suggested I follow him home from school if he didn't really want me to. So, I'm not feeling creepy at all about stalking him out of his last period class on Friday with the intention of tailing him all the way to his house.

I know he has Calculus last period, because I make frequent trips to the bathroom during World History at that time to avoid falling asleep, and I've seen him in there. Usually staring out the window while chewing on his pencil.

I celebrate from afar as I watch him open his locker and unload a few of his heavier textbooks at the end of the day. Then I stay twenty paces behind him as he leaves the building.

My car is only one row away from his, so I have no trouble following him as he leaves the parking lot. I'm not an idiot. I'm sure he's figured out it's me behind him, but he's not trying to lose me around any sharp corners (as if he could in that monstrosity he drives). Maybe he's not so resistant to the idea of being pursued. 

He pulls into the gas station about half a mile from the coast. I don't need gas, so I park outside the convenience store and leave the engine running to keep warm. 

My passenger door opens and Bud drops into the seat beside me. 

"Are you sure you want to do this?"

"Do what?" I ask innocently. "Hang out at a gas station?"

"No." He half smiles. "You're following me home."

"You told me I could."

"I was kind of joking."

"I was kind of serious." He laughs and his cheeks turn rosy. "I want to see where you live."

"Why?" he asks.

"Because you're my friend, and I want to know where you came from."

He makes a funny growling sound and presses his palms into his eye sockets.

"Hey," I say more seriously. "I'm not a judgy person."

"I know."

"Are you embarrassed about your house?" I ask.

Because maybe I'm not being sensitive. Maybe Bud lives in a hoarder house or has a hundred feral cats living in his basement.

"No," he says into his lap. "But... you just told me you like me. And I'm worried if you see where I live, it'll change the way you see me."

"Impossible," I say.

He growls again. "You say that now." He leaves my car and I watch him walk back to his, making a promise to myself that no matter what kind of disaster Bud's home situation turns out to be, I will not let it mess with the way I see him.

Then I instantly start making assumptions.

We pass two trailer parks and I'm surprised. Because I assumed that Bud was poor and that's why he didn't want me to see his house. Then I'm surprised again when he heads north on the coast road and not south, because I assumed he lived in a crumbling condo unit on the tourist trappy end of the beach.

Then it gets really surprising. We're passing the Hamilton's, the only people I've heard of who can afford to live on this end of the beach, and we're still driving. Then we take a right at the fork that leads onto Bear's Head.

Bud is fucking with me now. Because there are only two houses on Bear's Head. One of them is owned by a real estate tycoon who owns eighty percent of the rentable properties in town. And the other one...

Oh my God. My brain starts firing. Bringing forward the backlog of clues that have been shoved under my nose for the last five months.

My brother recognizing Bud's last name like he grew up knowing (or nailing) someone with it ... Lilliana suggesting Bud's dad could write him a check and pay for any college in the country ... Bud's middle name ... Montgomery ... was his grandfather's name ... Monty3 on his license plate ... Bud's grandfather was Monty T. Beaumont ... founder of Beaumont Creamery ... makers of the ice cream I've been eating since I was two ... that the entire country has been eating ... for like ... fifty years.

Holy shit. Bud is literally the prince of frozen dairy products.

And he's lactose intolerant.

* * * * *

Oh my god, oh my god, oh my GOD! I cannot believe Bud lives here. Joshua and I used to call this house 'The Sugar Castle', because the roof shingles are coated with something that makes them reflect the sunlight like it's covered with sugar crystals. Upon closer inspection, I see it's more like a sand infused sealant, but that doesn't make my mouth water any less than when I thought it was made of candy dust. The house is brick, at least the towering portion I can see, and there are massive hedges hiding the rest of the property.

I don't know how Bud is not going to notice I'm almost wetting my pants in anticipation, as he opens my door and I step out of the car.

He looks massively bummed out. And my face is about to split in half I'm smiling so hard.

"See," he says. "I told you."

"No, I'm not ... you're ... this doesn't change anything," I twitter. "Except that ... you're like my hero now."

He presses his lips together and exhales through his nose, creating a puff of steam in the cold air that makes him look like a mildly agitated bull. "I don't make the ice cream," he says, trying not to laugh at me bouncing on my toes like a six-year-old waiting for my serving to arrive. "I can't even eat it anymore."

I pout apologetically.

"Promise you won't ask to hang out here all the time now. I'd rather take you out for pancakes or hang at your house. Or really ... anywhere but here."

"Okay," I say, starting to shiver from the cold. "But we're here now." I raise my eyebrows. "Can I at least get a tour?"

He growls again and I'm starting to find it incredibly endearing. He sticks his elbow out to me, and I link my arm through.

"I should prepare you for my mother," he says. "But I kind of want to see how you handle her ... without my help." His mouth is curled in a mischievous smile. "Just know that you're the first girl I've ever brought home. Brace yourself. That's all I'm going to say."

"I'm ready," I say, squeezing his arm against my ribcage.

"No," he says. "You're definitely not."

* * * * *