Rage Across Florida

Leesburg at sunset, a town crowded with businesses and billboards, looks a bit like someone spilled gold over a strip mall and called it magic. The air outside Cypress Bend Apartments is thick with heat, fried food, cut grass, and the distant smell of lake water. Somewhere, somebody is setting off fireworks for no clear reason. Somewhere else, a golf cart is playing country music too loudly.

Inside your apartment, there is at least one good thing happening: the air conditioner is still working.

There’s a knock at your door.

Three quick taps, a pause, then two harder knocks for good measure.

When you open it, Tess Kincaid is there in a tank top, ripped jeans, and boots, dark hair tied back with a few damp strands stuck to her face from the heat. One forearm is hooked around a paper bag darkening with grease. In her other hand is a mason jar of something pale gold with fruit floating in it that definitely should not be legal, and maybe actually isn't.

She leans one shoulder against the doorframe like she lives there, and squints up at you. “Before you ask, yes, I brought contraband. And yes, I’m counting on that working in my favor.”

The paper bag smells like fries, black pepper, and something deep fried going by the smell of it.

Tess lifts the jar slightly. “Peach shine. Real peaches. Not that fake syrupy gas-station nonsense. And food. Let's call it a belated "welcome to the neighborhood" gift, now that I know you well enough to know you're worth it."

Before you can answer, another voice drifts up the exterior walkway. “Oh, good, my favorite neighbor. And Tess."

Tala Cypress steps into view carrying a glass pie dish covered in foil and a six-pack of bottled beer beaded with condensation. She’s dressed simply in denim shorts, a soft tank top, a light cardigan hanging open, and somehow still looks more put-together than the weather has any right to allow. Her hair is tied back low. Her expression is sweet, but takes on a slightly different quality as she looks at Tess.

Tess’s shoulders tense on instinct. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

Tala keeps walking until she’s standing beside her, all easy grace and quiet menace. "If I were kidding, I would’ve arrived with flowers and a violinist.”

Tala lifts the dish slightly toward you. “Key lime pie. Homemade. Also, actual Stella beer, because not everyone thinks a quiet evening in should taste like paint stripper.”

Tess lets out a disbelieving laugh. “It’s moonshine, not engine cleaner.”

“If you say so, Tess.” Tala shrugs mildly.

The two of them are standing shoulder to shoulder now, both facing you, trying to decide what to decide where to go from here.

Tess is the first to break. “Okay, fine. Since apparently subtlety is dead.” She points at Tala without looking away from you. “She obviously knew I was coming over.”

Tala tilts her head. “I guessed.”

“You guessed because you were lurking. Were you spying on us from the peephole in your door?” Tess retorts.

Tala laughs lightly. “I was not lurking. I just happened to hear you stomping around as usual."

Tala turns back to you. “I brought dessert. And beverages that won’t dissolve a spoon. Also, I had the radical thought that if I wanted to spend time with you, I could simply ask.”

Tess scoffs. “Yeah, well, I brought dinner and better company.”

Tala glances at her. “Better company? Where?" She glances around, acting like Tess must be referring to someone other than herself.

“Hilarious.” Tess deadpans.

It is becoming increasingly clear that both have planned an entire evening around you without consulting each other, and neither one is prepared to retreat.

The apartment walkway hums with old fluorescent light. Someone downstairs shouts about laundry. A dog starts barking and does not stop until Tess barks back. Tala, for whatever reason, let's that pass without comment.

Tess lifts the bag again, this time a little defensively. “Look, I was gonna see if you wanted to eat on the balcony and complain about this place with me.”

Tala raises one eyebrow. “How intimate. I was going to see if you wanted to eat inside like a civilized person and then maybe listen to music that wasn’t selected by a man with three DUIs.”

Tala is apparently referring to a real playlist, because Tess retorts: "That playlist has range.”

Then both of them look at you again. Not in sync, they’d hate that, but close.

Tess shifts her weight, trying to look casual and failing in a way that’s weirdly endearing. “Anyway. My offer got here first.”

Tala smiles softly. “And mine came with pie.”

“Mine came with alcohol my family made ourselves.”

“Mine came with better survival odds.”

Tess points at the bottled beer. “That is not even fun.”

“It doesn’t need to be fun. I’m fun.”

Tess stares at her for a full second. “Lazing around soaking up the sun doesn't count as fun."

Tala smirks slightly. "I know I can make you laugh."

"Not without cheating." Tess responds through gritted teeth, seeming to catch some private reference.

The warm Florida evening presses in around all three of you. Grease and citrus and sugar and moonshine all mingle in the doorway. Behind Tess’s irritation and Tala’s composed sweetness, the truth is almost embarrassingly obvious: they both want to be chosen.

Tess turns to you and opens her mouth, but Tala interjects rapidly. "Also, if it helps, I did make the pie in a real kitchen and not near an illegal still.”

Tess gasps. “That’s class warfare.”

And just like that, both of them are waiting, gifts in hand, rivalry crackling hard enough to light the hallway, looking at you like this could go wonderfully, terribly, or both at once.

You hear several knocks on your door. A few in quick succession, then a couple softer knocks, as though someone is showing the first person how to knock politely.

Perhaps unsurprisingly, you open the door, Tess and Tala are both there.

Again.

Tess is wearing cutoff shorts, an old tank top, and a flannel tied around her waist, dark hair frizzing in the humidity and one tattooed arm hooked around a cardboard tray full of empty mason jars. Tala stands beside her in denim shorts and a pale sleeveless top with a light overshirt hanging open, hair tied back low, holding a canvas tote stuffed with sheet music, waterproof tape, and a little battery-powered speaker.

They are both already talking.

“I got here first.” Tess begins.

“By virtue of running in the halls you did.” Tala adds.

Tess points at her with the hand not balancing the jars. “See? That. That thing where you act like being annoying in a softer voice makes it not annoying.”

Tala looks past her and smiles at you with maddening calm. “Hello. I came to ask for your help.”

Tess makes a betrayed noise. “No, you came to interfere with me asking for help.”

“Well, I can do both.” Tala shrugs.

The warm hallway air just hangs between all three of you. Somewhere downstairs, somebody is dragging patio furniture over concrete.

Tess exhales through her nose and shifts the tray higher against her hip. “Fine. I’ll go first, because mine is simple.”

Tala folds her arms around the tote. “Are the problems you create for yourself ever simple?”

Tess glares. “I need help bottling a run tonight.”

“There's no crisis tonight,” Tala says quickly. “Not a raid, not a fire, not Pogo getting arrested in a lawn chair again. Just work. Ty-Ty bailed because his truck’s acting possessed, Junebug says if I label one more thing in my handwriting she’s gonna start lying to customers, and I need somebody who can hold a funnel steady and maybe tell me if the grapefruit batch tastes like summer or like cleaning fluid.”

Tala glances sideways at the jars. “Based on precedent, both.”

“It was one batch.”

“It stripped paint.”

“It stripped weak paint.”

Tess turns back to you. “Anyway. You’d be helping at the still site for maybe an hour. Maybe two if you’re slow with labels.”

Tala waits just long enough to make it obvious she is waiting patiently. Then she begins, “I also need help with something practical.”

Tess rolls her eyes. “Of course you do.”

“My aunt volunteered me for tomorrow morning’s lake tour and relocation run,” Tala explains. “Normally Beau handles the public side, but he lost a trailer hitch, Nell rewired the portable speaker system in a way she insists is an improvement, and now I need someone to help me sort route maps, retape the gear cases, and make sure the educational playlist doesn’t include whatever Nell thinks counts as ambiance.”

Tess blinks. “Educational playlist?”

“Yes.” Tala nods.

“You have a playlist for alligators?” Tess asks skeptically.

Tala’s expression says Tess has embarrassed herself terribly. “For tourists. The alligators are not the audience.”

“Knowing you, I couldn't have assumed that.” Tess retorts.

“It would mostly be here,” Tala continues, ignoring Tess. “Or on the landing outside my place. Organizing equipment. Testing the speaker. Making sure the brochures haven’t gotten damp again, drying them out if they have. There may also be a question of whether the hand-painted sign looks welcoming or threatening.”

“It looks threatening.” Tess opines immediately.

“I didn’t ask you.”

“You never have to ask me. I’m right here.”

There’s a moment where neither of them speaks, and it becomes clear in a way that is both possibly flattering and potentially inconvenient that this is not really about labor, or at least not only about that.

Tess shifts her weight, trying and failing to look casual. “Mine comes with snacks.”

Tala smiles slightly. “Mine comes with air-conditioning.”

"Barely, she likes it hot." Tess accuses, then takes a deep breath and looks at you again, jaw setting. “Look. Bottling with me is fun. There’s a system to it, and by ‘system’ I mean controlled chaos, and if you help me name two of the batches I will not let Pogo call one ‘Lake Goblin’ again.”

Then Tala steps half a pace forward, not enough to crowd, just enough to be impossible to ignore. “And helping me means I won’t be alone while I scrape dried mud off tackle bins and argue with Nell’s sense of sound design. Also, if you have handwriting better than Beau’s, I could use it on the route cards.”

Tess snorts. “That is the saddest seduction attempt I’ve ever heard.”

Tala’s eyes flick to her. “It's sad that you think that counts as an attempt at seduction."

Finally Tess points between the two of them. “Okay. Fine. We are both asking for help.”

Tala nods in rare agreement. “Yes.”

“Didn't need you agreeing with me." Tess gives Tala an annoyed look.

Tala looks at her for a moment. “Well, what can I say? Even a broken clock is right twice a day. Though usually you're lucky to manage once."

Tess nods at her with practiced calm. "And fuck you too."

Then they both look at you again, Tess bright and restless, Tala composed and quietly amused l, each waiting to see whose version of the evening you’ll choose, and both of them maybe hoping it will mean something a little more than just free labor.

At 9:47 p.m., Cypress Bend Apartments is a very normal Florida apartment complex. Somebody is grilling in the courtyard. Somebody else is yelling at a sports game through an open window. The retention pond beyond the fence glows dark green-black under the security lights, and thunder keeps threatening to happen without actually committing to a actual storm.

Then, just before you can walk past on your way back inside, the first scream hits the courtyard.

Tess Kincaid is standing barefoot on top of one of the concrete picnic tables in the courtyard, pointing accusingly with one hand and clutching a half-empty can of cheap beer in the other. Her dark hair is damp, her tank top is wet, and the look on her face is murderous.

Across from her, perfectly upright in the grass beside the decorative palm tree, stands Tala Cypress holding a bright plastic water gun. A long, neon-green monstrosity built for maximum disrespect.

It smells sharply, unmistakably, like beer.

The whole courtyard has that electric, awful stillness of bystanders realizing they are about to witness something extremely stupid and not wanting to miss it.

Tess sees you first and immediately points harder. “Good, great, fucking perfect! You're just in time to witness her crimes.”

Tala, who is somehow managing to look calm while armed with a beer-filled super soaker, turns toward you with a small, almost apologetic smile. “She's being hyperbolic, and overreacting."

Tess points at the gun. “Overreacting? Then explain the beer cannon.”

Tala glances down at it as if she’s momentarily forgotten she’s holding it. “This is what you get after you put a "How's my Driving" bumper sticker on the back of my vehicle with my phone number on it."

The whole courtyard goes quieter.

"... did anyone call you about your bad driving?" Tess grins.

"Of course not." Tala's eyelid twitches for a moment.

From a second-floor railing above, someone mutters, “Oh, not this again,” with the weary familiarity of a man who has already called in a noise complaint about these women three times this month.

Tess drags a hand down her face. “That was in retaliation for a prank you pulled, and because you aren't a good driver. And the bumper sticker came right off with a little help from a hair dryer."

"Your shirt can come off just as easily." Tala shrugs, and a few more people glance over suddenly.

“You ruined this shirt!" Tess is yelling again.

“It will be fine, if you blot the beer fast with a paper towel instead of standing here arguing." The water gun makes a soft slosh when Tala shifts her grip. Tess tracks the sound with open suspicion.

Then both of them look at you. Not because they want peace, but because they both, somehow, want to win.

Tess hops down from the table and stalks closer, wet footprints marking the concrete, dabbing her shirt with napkins. “Tell her she cannot ambush me with water guns, we're supposed to be adults!"

Tala chimes in. “Tell her she cannot put unwanted bumper stickers on other people's vehicles."

Tess throws up her hands. “Tell her water guns should be filled with, you know, water!"

Tala’s mouth twitches, just slightly. She’s enjoying this... that may be the most alarming part. "Tell her to go change her shirt; this one smells like cheap beer."

Tess snarls. "How audacious can you be, you snake?!?"

The thunder finally gets closer, low and rolling over the complex. Somewhere behind the building, a dog starts barking. In the retention pond, something large shifts just under the surface and disappears again. The courtyard smells like rain, grass, beer, and bad choices.

Tala’s eyes narrow just a little. “Do you know,” she speaks softly, “I was about to let this go.”

Tess recoils theatrically. “That is the most threatening thing you have ever said to me.”

Then Tala raises the water gun just a little.

Tess points at it in immediate outrage. “Do not.”

Tala tilts her head. “Or?”

Tess sets down the can, plants her feet, and glares with awful confidence. “Or I stop being civil.”

From somewhere behind you, one of the old ladies in Building C calls out, “If y’all break another patio chair, you’re paying for it this time!”

Neither of them even glances over.

Tess is staring at Tala like a woman on the edge of a duel and a prank war at the same time. Tala is staring back like this is the funniest thing that’s happened all week.

And both your neighbors have decided that you should probably take their side.

By late afternoon, the courtyard at Cypress Bend looks less like an apartment complex and more like a tailgate held together by lawn chairs, extension cords, and beer pong tables. Somebody has hauled an old flat-screen television onto a folding table under the overhang between Buildings B and C. There are coolers everywhere. One contains beer, another smoked meat, and Tess seems to have one full of moonshine. The whole place hums with Florida heat, pregame commentary, and the kind of local chaos that only gets louder when Bone Gnawers are involved.

Tess Kincaid is in the middle of it all, of course. She’s wearing cutoff shorts, an old football jersey with the sleeves hacked off, and muddy boots she certainly did not need for a courtyard gathering. Her dark hair is tied up haphazardly, a beer can in her hand, and she looks so entirely in her element that for a second it is easy to forget she is ever angry at the world at all.

“There you are,” she calls out the second she sees you. “Good. You’re just in time for the sacred pregame arguing. Not to be confused with the sacred midgame hollering.”

In her other hand is an old trucker cap so sun-faded and patched over that it’s almost more stitching than fabric. People are already dropping little objects into it: a lighter with a broken decal, a bent silver bracelet, a fishing lure, a scratched CD, a novelty keychain shaped like an orange, a comic book with the cover half gone. Mama Junebug is seated nearby in a plastic lawn chair like a swamp queen holding court, one sandal kicked off, one eye on the TV and one eye on everyone else. Pogo is trying to claim three score margins at once and being shouted down by both Junebug and Ty-Ty, who is manning a folding table full of paper plates and muttering that if anyone spills wing sauce on the speaker again, he’s leaving the state.

“Tess told me this was a rite.” Tala nods to you. She's leaning against the railing in a pale tank top and denim shorts, a cold bottle of root beer in one hand, looking a bit too composed for the environment. The expression on her face suggests she's enjoying herself far more than she intends to admit.

Tess points at her with the beer can. “It is a rite.”

“I believe that you believe that.” Tala responds placidly.

“It’s not my fault your people don’t know how to have fun.” Tess retorts, apparently already engaged in that "sacred pregame arguing" she mentioned.

Tala raises an eyebrow. “My people know many kinds of fun. They simply don’t usually involve Pogo shouting odds like a possessed raccoon.”

Pogo, from across the courtyard, cups his hands around his mouth and yells, “That is cultural slander!”

“Mama Junebug!” Tess calls. “Can I hit him if he keeps talking while I’m trying to impress somebody?”

Junebug doesn’t even look away from the pregame panel. “Only if you make it funny.”

That earns a grin from Tess, bright and sharp and impossible not to notice. Then she turns back to you and lowers her voice just enough to create the illusion that this is a private conversation, despite the fact that half the courtyard can still absolutely hear her.

“Okay,” she begins, holding up the cap. “Super Bowl Sunday. Bone Gnawer seasonal rite. Everybody throws something in, calls the winner and the score difference, and says what we oughta do after the game. Help somebody, bust somebody, check on kin, deal with a local problem, whatever feels right. Then whoever wins the bet gets the hat and we all go do their thing.”

Tala glances at the cap. “That cannot possibly be sanitary.”

“It is spiritually sanitary,” Tess waves her off. “That’s what matters.”

“It smells like beer.”

“That is how you know it’s working.”

She rattles the cap once, then looks at you with the eager challenge of someone inviting you into something she grew up loving and absolutely wants you to think is cooler than it sounds on paper.

“You’re participating,” she tells you. “I already told them you were.”

Tala lifts her bottle to her mouth to hide a smile. “She also told them I was.”

Tess shrugs. “Yeah, well. I owed you. Hence the invite.”

The exchange is so easy, so lightly barbed, that for a second it’s almost possible to imagine they get along.

On the TV, the pregame show shifts into a loud spiel about destiny, grit, and national significance. Everyone in the courtyard boos on instinct. Junebug nods approvingly, as if the rite has properly begun now that communal contempt has been established.

Pogo hops up onto the edge of the fountain and begins drawing people into side bets, as Tess turns back to you and taps the brim of the battered cap against your chest. “Come on. Pick a winner, pick a margin, throw something in, and tell us what you’d want the pack to do if you won.”

Tala tilts her head. “And be aware that if you choose badly, Pogo will talk about it for weeks.”

“Months.” Pogo corrects.

“Unfortunately,” Tala admits, “that is true.”

Tess leans in a little closer, grinning now. “Ignore them. This is the fun part.”

Behind her, Mama Junebug is calling for someone to quit cheating before kickoff even starts, Ty-Ty is opening another bag of chips with his teeth, and the old hat in Tess’s hand is already beginning to feel like more than cloth and patches and stale beer.

For one loud, ridiculous Florida night, the pack is together. Tala is here for reasons neither of them are explaining much. You have been folded into the circle with no meaningful warning. And whatever happens after the game, good deed, bad idea, supernatural trouble, or all three at once, is going to start with whatever you put in that hat.