The Magnolia League

12





I know it’s lame and this night doesn’t mean anything, anyway, but by the time the girls show up to take me to the party, I’m seriously nervous. I’m sitting on the bed wearing this dumb shirt they told me to put on, looking at my dreads in the mirror, and I’m ashamed to say I’m tempted to take them out.

This hair wasn’t totally my idea, anyway. Reggie and I were hanging on the picnic tables one day watching the college kids, and he kept staring at this one girl with long blond dreads.

“She is so hot,” he said.

“She is?”

“Yeah. I really dig her hair.”

“You do?”

“Totally.”

“Because,” I lied, “I was, um, thinking of dreading my hair.”

“That’s an awesome idea,” Reggie said.

And so: dreads. Not that Reggie noticed, but then again, he’s never said much about how I look. And he thinks I’m in Florida.

Suddenly, the doorbell rings.

“Alexandria!” Josie calls. “Your friends are here!”

Friends. Suuuuure. I give myself one last look in the mirror. Hayes was right; the red shirt I bought today does look good. It manages to cover my fat and tastefully makes the most of my boobs—the only parts of my body that look sort of okay. I walk to the bottom of the stairs, where Hayes is waiting. She’s wearing jeans, too, and a halter shirt that looks like it’s made of liquid silver.

“Oh, you look darling,” Hayes says. “I knew the red would play up your tan. Here, I got you something.” She hands me a black thing that looks like a claw, carved with tiny magnolias.

“What is that?”

“It’s a mahogany hair clip. One hundred percent vintage and the answer to your hair crisis.”

“What hair crisis?” Hayes gives me a patient smile. “And harvesting mahogany is an unsustainable practice that’s destroying the rain forest.”

“Hush,” she says, and takes me by the shoulders, firmly turning me around. The gesture reminds me so much of something my mother would have done, I get tears in my eyes. I can’t even protest when she pulls my dreads back and clips them. She turns me around again and looks me over, then tucks a stray one behind my ear.

“Perfection,” she says, and she squeezes my shoulders, letting her hands linger for a minute. Suddenly, I feel a strange, electric tingle all over. It must be a new form of sadness I haven’t experienced yet.

“Oh—I almost forgot—one last touch,” she says, opening her enormous leather purse. She takes out lip gloss, glittery powder, and some kind of herbal perfume. It smells familiar, but I can’t quite place it. Finding myself at a loss for words, I just stand submissively as she adorns me. When she finally steps back and looks at me, her expression is filled with pride. “Oh, I like you much better this way!”

“I’m so glad,” I grumble.

“Okay, Madison’s in the car, and she’s not getting any happier. Let’s go.”

We walk out to the Prius. Hayes doesn’t stop talking. “I’m really into this thing,” she says. “Although I can never tell if it’s on or not, because it’s so quiet. I sort of miss the roar of the SUV.”

As I slide into the backseat, I remember Sam’s words: Show them what you know.

“Trust me, Hayes, no one cool would drive an SUV,” I say, trying to imitate Madison’s haughty tone. “Every tank of gas sinks us deeper into a pointless conflict in Iraq and puts us in greater danger of oil spills.”

“This is the South, Lady Greenpeace,” Madison says. “Down here, guzzling gas is a matter of national pride.”

“C’mon, be serious,” I say. But then, after the half-hour ride down a series of dark, oak-canopied roads, I see that she was serious. The parking lot of this party is filled with trucks—and not just any trucks, but the kind of trucks that burn a tank of gas just backing out of the driveway. Every single vehicle looks like a contestant in a redneck truck parody pageant: roll bars, gun racks, jacked-up bodies, oversize tires, fog lights, camo paint jobs, truck nuts. Their rear windows are plastered with stickers: Deadhead bears dancing, odes to hunting and fishing, and dozens of stickers of a flag that I don’t recognize. It has two big horizontal red stripes—one at the top and one at the bottom—one horizontal white stripe in the middle, and seven white stars in a blue square in the corner.

“What’s up with the Texas state flag?” I ask.

“It’s the first flag of the Confederacy,” Madison says. “In Savannah, we’re too status-conscious to put an actual rebel flag on our trucks, but not many people know what the Confederacy’s first flag looks like, so it’s a socially acceptable, slightly chickenshit way of giving the bird to all you Yankees.”

“I didn’t know people down here were still so racist.”

“Oh, don’t be stupid,” Madison snaps.

“What she means to say,” Hayes steps in, “is that not all Southerners are imbeciles. Most of them don’t even know what that flag stands for; they just think it looks cool. Trust me, as Magnolia Leaguers, we’re quite embarrassed that our state is most famous for slavery, peanuts, and the Allman Brothers.”

“Oh, but the Allmans rock,” I say.

“If you’re seventy.” Madison has clearly had enough of my whole grains for the evening.

“We’re the New South,” Hayes says. “Like Justin Timberlake.”

“Ugh, Hayes. Eeee-nough,” Madison drawls. “Justin Timberlake lives in LA. He abandoned Memphis at, like, thirteen. And don’t let her fool you, Alex. Savannah’s still Savannah, and for a lot of people down here, being Southern is a full-time job.”

I follow them past the trucks, and there everyone is: a massive, milling, laughing, dancing, jostling, drinking, shouting, smoking, spitting crowd of kids. The Field is basically a landing next to the river, shaded by huge old trees dripping with really thick moss that looks like ghost fingers. The crowd fills the landing as far as I can see. A thick blue cloud of cigarette smoke hovers over everything.

Kids are everywhere. Despite the redneck trucks in the parking lot, it’s a mixed crowd, I’m relieved to see. Black, white, Asian. Three chunky Hispanic boys are running the keg next to an idiotic bonfire that’s way too close to the trees—one of them keeping it confusing by wearing a Confederate flag belt buckle and a Don’t Mess with Texas baseball cap.

The guys all wear a uniform: khaki shorts, a polo shirt, and a baseball cap. The girls, on the other hand, look like exotic birds, bright, colorful, dressed to the nines, even though they’re out here in this dusty field. The boys bob their heads solemnly to the music and drink seriously out of their red plastic cups; the girls laugh loudly and manage to text nonstop while juggling cigarettes, plastic cups, lighters, and purses and still never missing a beat in their conversations. All of them are slapping at the mosquitoes that swarm their faces. All of them, that is, except Hayes, Madison, and me. I can hear the insects whining in my ears, but for some reason, they aren’t biting.

“It’s our perfume,” Hayes explains, spraying more on me. “Magnolia herbal secret.”

“Herbal?”

“The Magnolia League was into herbal medicine way before anyone else was,” Madison says. “Why do you think they all look so forever twenty-one?”

“My mom knew a lot about herbs,” I say. “Maybe that’s where it came from.”

Madison looks at me oddly.

“Come on,” Hayes says. “Let’s see who’s here.”

As we plunge into the crowd, my heart beats so hard it hurts. I’ve never felt this out of place in my life. Everyone is staring at me, and I realize that Hayes really was trying to help. She wasn’t giving me a makeover; she was offering me protective camouflage. Too bad I didn’t let her go all the way, because right now I feel like a fat frump.

She and Madison stop to chat with a big, good-looking boy, and I step back, trying to avoid the moment when he looks at me and the disappointment registers in his eyes.

“Hey, Piggy!” someone says. It takes me a minute to realize a girl is talking to me.

My face turns scarlet. God, can’t I just go home? I hate them. I hate them all.

“Unbunch your underpants,” she says, suddenly smiling. “I’m Carson; this is Natalie. We’re just playin’.”

“Oh,” I say, trying to smile. “Sorry. That’s cool.”

“Yeah,” the little rat-faced one called Natalie says. “It is cool. We’re very cool people.”

I notice that they’re flanking me. I look around desperately for Hayes or Madison, but all I see are polo-covered backs. I’m on my own.

“You’re not from Georgia, are you?” Carson asks.

“I’m from Mendocino.”

“Oh, wow. So you must smoke a lot of pot. Are you a stoner?”

“I like a little weed every now and then,” I say, trying to sound worldly.

“I bet you do,” Carson says. “We both love your hair.”

“Yeah,” Natalie says. “What a statement. You’re such a unique individual. So different.”

The sarcasm drips off her tongue like poison. My face burns. I mumble something.

“And those flip-flops,” Carson says. “Piggy baby, you shouldn’t wear your nice shoes to the Field. Save them for all the special places you have to go, like the welfare office.”

I will not let these girls get to me, but my eyes burn, and I feel something wet slide down one of my cheeks. Carson notices, and I see a mean little smile sneak across her lips.

“What’s it like to be a burner?” Natalie asks. “Are you high right now? Are you flying?”

And then a pair of hands are on Carson’s shoulders, and Madison is kissing her on both cheeks, leaving lipstick smudges. Carson’s mouth becomes an O, and then Madison has me by the arm and is pulling me away into the crowd. Her lips are moving, but I can’t make out what she’s saying. Behind me, Carson shrieks.

“Something bit me!”

Beside me, I hear Madison muttering fast, “Jon-ta-conku-er. Jon-ta-conku-er.” I stop and look back to where a crowd of people are gathering around Carson.

“Is that girl okay?” I ask. Because she definitely does not seem okay. If she were okay, she wouldn’t be lying on the ground. If she were okay, she wouldn’t be starting to convulse.

“Snake!” someone yells helpfully.

“Call nine-one-one!” someone else shouts.

“F*ck you!” a third voice shouts back.

From the ground, Carson is making wet, gagging noises.

And then Hayes is there.

“Madison!” she whispers, and pinches her arm. Madison snaps out of it. Hayes turns to me and flashes her million-dollar smile.

“Alex, come on over here. I want to introduce you to some people,” she says, beaming.

“But that girl…”

“She’ll be fine,” Hayes says. Sure enough, Carson is suddenly standing. Someone hands her a beer, and just as quickly as the illness seemed to arrive, it’s gone, and she begins to dance.

“Wow,” I say, trying to act as if this scene were normal. “Who are they?”

“Regular cotillion debs. They’ll be at the Christmas Ball too. But they’re not in the Magnolia subset.”

“They seem really… special. Awesome first impression of the scene here. So, who do you want me to meet?”

Hayes points to a group of girls. I can’t believe it. They’re standing at attention, as if they’re soldiers. She curls her finger inward once, and four of them scuttle over.

“What’s up, y’all?” one of them says. She’s a platinum blond, with spray-on-tan-gone-wrong orange skin.

“This is Alex,” Hayes says. “She’s from California.”

The girls are looking at me the same way Carson and Natalie did. Clearly, they have as much interest in talking to me as they do in, say, eating dirt. I can feel my heart starting to wallop inside my chest again.

“Her grandmother is the president of the Magnolia League,” Hayes adds.

Now, I’ve seen a lot of things: a seventy-year-old woman on an acid trip, a pod of whales playing off the beach. But I’ve never, and I mean never, seen people’s expressions change as quickly and as thoroughly as when Hayes said those words.

Magnolia League. Can that really be all it takes to earn respect in this town?

“Do you play tennis?” one of the girls asks.

“No.”

“I’ll teach you,” says a redheaded girl quickly. Freckled, and seriously stacked. “I’m Mary. I’ve been dying to teach someone to play tennis.”

“Sure,” I say. I’m feeling uncomfortable.

“Do y’all want me to get you beers?” the orange girl asks.

“Do we look like Canadians, Anna?” Madison snaps. “Go get us three Manhattans from Johnny Vader’s car bar.”

Anna smiles obligingly and trots off.

Suddenly I see Hayes’s and Madison’s expressions change. I turn and see yet another girl approaching—a tall, truly stunning girl with eyes just like Sam Buzzard’s. She wears long dangly earrings, a silver headband, and a top that sparkles in the bonfire light. Put her on the side of a highway, and she would literally stop traffic.

“Sina,” Madison says quietly. “Hello.”

“Hi, girls,” Sina says, and then, without shame, she checks me out. Even though I seriously could care less about this teen politics crap, she makes me nervous. Madison and Hayes are snobby and a little silly, but this girl is on a different level. There’s something unsettling about her.

“So’s this the prodigal grandbaby?”

“Sina,” Hayes says, smiling weakly, “this is Alexandria Lee. Louisa Lee’s daughter. She’s living downtown with her grandmother.”

“Huh,” Sina says. “Your mama was a beautiful lady but, must say, don’t see the resemblance. And what’s goin’ on with your hair? You tryin’ to be black or something?”

“It’s just a style,” I mumble. “I don’t know.”

I look at Hayes and Madison, but they won’t meet my eye. For once, even Madison seems to have nothing to say.

“Are you a Magnolia?” I ask.

Sina tips her head back and laughs wildly.

“Magnolia League’s a bunch of withered-up old white ladies, sippin’ wine and plannin’ garden parties,” she says. “I swim in deeper waters than that, trustafarian.”

I wait for Madison’s barbed retort, but it doesn’t come.

“Look,” I say. “It’s not the coolest pastime, this debutante thing, but it’s no better or worse than whatever it is you do that you think is so great. They’re just ladies with some old-timey traditions. What’s wrong with that? You don’t have to be a… a friggin’ racist about it.”

“Sounds like you’ve fallen right in line,” Sina says. “Do anything to maintain that certain lifestyle you all like.”

“Hey, don’t try to lump us all in as rich socialites. Some of us are really involved in working-class issues.”

Right on cue, Anna shows up with the drinks.

“Madison,” she simpers, “he didn’t have any cherries for the Manhattans. Can you believe that?”

“Oh, lookee.” Sina laughs. “Your cocktails are here, missus.”

“Those aren’t for me. I’m getting a beer,” I say. I don’t even like beer, but I have to prove a point. “It wasn’t very nice to meet you.”

“Be careful, sweetie,” Hayes calls as I storm off.

Ugh. Sweetie? These chicks are so girlie they make my teeth hurt.

I work my way through the crowd, stewing. What was up with that girl? Madison and Hayes aren’t exactly my best friends in the world, but it kills me that Sina was picking on them. And even worse, they acted so… helpless. I’m so pissed that I forget about everything else, and before I know it I’m trapped in the mob by the bonfire. The keg is on the other side of an impenetrable wall of sweaty bodies, and the fire is so hot that I feel like I’m going to pass out.

There’s a gap next to a boy in a T-shirt and a sweat-marked cap. He looks earthy, exactly the kind of guy who would be working for the summer at the RC.

“Hey, can I get in there?”

“I don’t think so, Fatso,” he says. “Yo, Roger! This girl’s got that possum we run over last week on her head. This is Georgia, girl! We like our women big-tittied and blond!”

“Screw you, Gilroy,” says a dark-haired girl with a flat chest.

Defeated, I retreat to the parking lot. All right. Fine. I don’t like beer, anyway. But… oh God. Apparently, I’m crying again. Savannah has turned me into a leaky faucet. I can’t help it. I’ve never felt so alone in my life. I’ll never fit in here, ever.

“Ugh. Reggie,” I whisper. “Where are you?”

“Hello.” Furiously, I wipe my face with the back of my hand. A figure emerges from the shadows. It’s Thaddeus, Hayes’s brother. Even though we’re all hanging out in a dirt field, even though it’s the middle of August and there’s an enormous bonfire raging, he looks perfect walking around in his spotless white shirt and khakis—as if he has his own personal air-conditioning unit. “What are you doing back here?”

“Oh,” I say, straightening up. “Hi. I’m just… checking out this license plate. Huh. Georgia… on my mind. Cool.”

“You should be careful,” Thaddeus says. “Carson Moore was just bitten by a snake.”

“I know. Although with all of this ironweed around, I’d probably be okay.”

“Excuse me?”

“Ironweed. If you apply it to a fresh snakebite, it absorbs the poison. I should have said something.”

“She recovered on her own, actually,” Thaddeus says, looking at me with a flicker of interest. He still doesn’t smile, though. I don’t get it. Is he a narc?

“I’m not drinking or smoking or anything,” I say. “I’m just hanging out.”

“Fine,” he says distractedly. Why is he being so standoffish? After all, he’s the one who came to talk to me.

“Are you looking for a beer?” I say finally. “Because the keg’s back by the bonfire.”

“God, no,” he says with what sounds like disdain. “I don’t drink.”

“Well, no offense, but then why are you at this party?”

“It’s a lacrosse party.”

“Oh,” I say, confused.

“I’m the captain of the lacrosse team,” he says.

“Cool.”

“Not really. I hate these things.”

“Me too. But that’s because I don’t know anyone here.”

“You know my sister.”

“Yeah, she’s cool.”

Why do I keep saying “cool”? I sound like an idiot.

“She’s very loyal,” he says. “So is Madison.”

“I guess.”

“We used to go out. Madison and I.”

“Fascinating,” I say. At least it’s not “cool.” And it’s not really fascinating at all. It’s boring—the hot blond jock, the snobby brunette. They were made for each other. “So, what happened?”

“I don’t kiss and tell,” he says dismissively.

“You were the one who brought it up,” I say, annoyed. Because he actually did bring it up.

“Well… it was sudden and passionate. I just fell for her one day, as if I was possessed. And then just as suddenly—wham!—it was over.”

“Man…” I don’t know what to say. What if Reggie does that to me? “So you must still like her?”

“Not in the slightest. Some relationships are just, like—I don’t know—temporary insanity.”

I don’t reply. All I want is a relationship that’s insane. Isn’t that what being in love is all about?

“Anyway,” I say, changing the subject. “That Sina’s a piece of work.”

“Oh, Sina. Yes, all the Magnolias are terrified of her. Madison rules the school, but only because Sina doesn’t go there.”

“Sina goes somewhere else?”

“She lives out past Pin Point, toward Skidaway Island somewhere,” Thaddeus says. “No one knows where she comes from. But everyone certainly knows her. She’s at all the parties.”

“She sort of sucks.”

“Maybe, but everyone wants her to like them.”

“Not me. If I want to be abused, there are plenty of other people here to pick from.”

Thaddeus looks at me thoughtfully. “You don’t really look like a Magnolia.”

“Why?” I say defensively.

“Your hair, for one thing,” he says. “It’s pretty out there.”

“Where I’m from, it’s normal,” I say. Whatever. Why should I care what this guy thinks about my hair?

Behind him, some guys are tapping a second keg, and the party is getting nutty. Three jocks throw a wooden chair on the bonfire, and sparks flare up, getting dangerously close to the overhanging canopy of Spanish moss. A flock of boys has settled down around Hayes and Madison. A completely gorgeous black guy has his arm draped around Hayes’s shoulder.

“That must be Jason,” I say.

“They’ve been dating forever. Jason’s family is major Georgia new money. Golf courses, I think.”

“Huh,” I answer, thinking about what Reggie would do at this scene. He’d probably be rolling joints and doing keg stands, well on his way to being everyone’s best friend.

“So, you grew up on some kind of commune?”

“A collective farm.”

“And now you’re here for good.”

“No way! I’m moving back as soon as I turn eighteen. Or college.”

“That’ll be a first.”

“You think women don’t go to college?”

“No, Magnolias don’t leave Savannah.”

“What?” I look at him uncertainly. “I’m sorry, but there is no way that someone like your sister won’t end up at Princeton or something. She’s an admissions officer’s wet dream.”

“That may be,” he says. “But she’ll go to Armstrong Atlantic or Savannah State. Not Princeton, not even Georgia Tech. Because she’s a Magnolia, and Magnolias don’t leave. Ever.”

“Now I know why Sina thinks you’re all so lame.”

“I promise you, sweetheart, I have much better reasons than that,” Sina says, suddenly appearing. “What are you doing back here, Thaddeus? Molesting children is still a crime, even in Georgia.”

Thaddeus doesn’t answer.

“We’re just hanging,” I say. “And I’m probably the same age as you.”

“I doubt that,” Sina says, and she takes a breath in preparation for saying something really mean that’ll totally humiliate me in front of Thaddeus and—oh God—I know I won’t be able to help it. I’m going to cry again. But then we all hear yelling.

A pretty serious fistfight has erupted next to the keg. The kid who said I had roadkill on my head—Gilroy—is currently being pounded into the dirt. The crowd has moved back to a respectful distance, happy for the entertainment.

“Faggot!” Gilroy screams at the other boy as they roll around on the ground, arms wrapped around each other’s necks.

“If that’s true, then I think Gilroy’s definitely the bottom,” I say, and I detect a tiny smile flitting across Thaddeus’s face. It’s not like me to be so bitchy, but what the hey? I finally got him to smile.

Then things go bad. Sparks from the bonfire ignite a clump of Spanish moss dangling from the canopy. It smolders, bursts into flame, and drops like a rock into a bunch of scrub at the base of the trees. The scrub is bone-dry from the August heat.

“Those idiots are going to get killed,” Thaddeus says. Without a backward glance, he runs toward them.

“Jimmy! Roy!” he yells. “Look around you!”

They continue to roll on the ground—doing themselves no favors in proving they’re not attracted to each other. I look over to where Hayes and Madison are standing, and they’re staring at the bonfire. The crowd is jostling and people are running into each other as they back away. No one’s in a panic yet, but it’s only a matter of minutes. The scrub at the base of the live oaks is blazing, and the flames are creeping across the ground. Thaddeus tries to break up the fight, but a flying leg from the man tangle on the ground sends him back on his ass, right into the burning scrub.

Hayes starts toward him, but she can’t get there through this river of people. I’m closer, and no one else is nearby except Sina. I don’t know what I’m going to do, but someone has to do something.

“Thaddeus!” I yell. “Watch—”

And then something seriously strange happens.

As I come near him, the flames shrink away from me, and then the fire dies down, as if someone has blown out an enormous candle.

I step back, stupefied. Did that really happen? Maybe I imagined it. It is hot out here. I look down at Thaddeus on the ground. I reach out my hand to help him, but he stands up on his own.

“Are you okay?” I ask.

“Perfectly fine,” he says, his face red, his clothes covered in ash.

“Did you see that?”

“No.”

“But—”

“Just watch out for snakes, Alex,” Thaddeus says curtly, walking away. As I watch, mouth agape, Sina sidles up to me.

“Nice work,” Sina says. She leans in close and then brushes my necklace with her fingers. “I see you’ve learned to use your protection.”

“What?” Some idiot has already started another fire in the pit behind us. Sina’s eyes glitter in the new flames.

“I’m onto you, Alexandria,” she says. “Remember that.”

I watch as she sashays away into the darkness, leaving me to fend for myself next to the fire.