The Magnolia League

7





When I wake up in my new room thousands of miles away from my old life, I’m feeling more than a little negative. Let’s face it—I miss Reggie. So, to cheer up, I drag myself out of bed and go to the kitchen to brew a bath tincture Mom would have made: some orange slices, cinnamon bark, pine straw, rosebuds, cloves, and nutmeg. See, Mom taught me that taking a bath is about more than just washing off dirt. “It’s a time for spiritual renewal,” she said. “Purifying and strengthening your soul.” Before every bath, she’d mix up a batch of ritual herbs and salts. Salt, she said, is derived from the passion of God—it comes from his tears. Mix it with water and you’ll clear all forms of negativity. Then by blending the mixture with herbs and oils, you can anoint your aura in order to shape your fate.

Today, I ponder as I blend my mixture over the stove. There’s no question what part of my fate I’m trying to shape. Obviously, I’m seriously jonesing in the love department. Josie, who is sitting at the table with her coffee (she doesn’t drink sweet tea either), shoots me a questioning look but doesn’t bother to ask why I’m cooking up a pot of straw first thing. I take my batch of brewed herbs upstairs, put it in the bathwater with a cup of salt, and soak, chanting the mantra Mom taught me:


Salt and rose and spirits,

listen to what I say.

Bring me my lover

by the end of the day.


I lie in there for about half an hour. Then, down below, the doorbell rings. Actually, it’s more of a grand, old-timey gong sound.

“Alex!” Josie calls up the stairs now. “Visitors!”

My eyes fly open. Could the salts have worked that fast?

I shoot out of the tub and, leaving a trail of puddles on the floor, pull on my cutoffs and favorite Phish shirt. (No way am I letting the RC-ers see me in that Dolce thing.) I run down the stairs so fast that I almost slip. But it’s not Reggie. It’s just Hayes and Madison again, looking irritatingly beautiful in outfits even more glamorous than yesterday’s.

“Gosh,” Madison says, studying my crestfallen face, “we’re not that bad.”

“Sorry. I was just expecting someone else.”

“Zac Efron? Taken.”

“Who?”

“Listen, we’re here to insist that you come shopping with us,” Hayes says.

“Thanks, but if you haven’t noticed, I’m not really into mindless consumerism.”

“OMG,” Madison says. “Mindless is the last word you could apply to shopping. Clearly, you have no idea.”

“Alex,” Hayes says, “I know you think your situation really blows right now, but for the time being you’re stuck here. You might as well make the most of it.”

“Also, if we’re taking you to the Field tonight, you are not going dressed like that,” Madison says. “It’s disrespectful to God and yourself and us and the whole concept of clothing.”

“Why can’t I wear this?” I look down in confusion. “The kids at the RC would have killed for this shirt. And what’s disrespectful to the world is spending so much money on clothes.”

Madison bursts out laughing. Hayes kicks her.

“I really respect that you’re so thoughtful about spending money,” Hayes says. “But your grandmother wants us to help you pick some new things for school, and she gave us this.”

She pulls a gold credit card out of her wallet. It’s so new, it glitters.

“It’s not even really money,” Madison says. “It’s plastic.”

“My grandmother already bought me a ton of stuff.”

“Can we see it?” Hayes asks, and before I can stop them, they’re both halfway up the grand staircase. I follow. As they enter my room, Hayes nods with approval. “Your grandmother has such great taste. I love this wallpaper.”

“Really?” I say. “I think it looks like Marie Antoinette threw up in here.”

“Slightly gross, but that’s the first joke I’ve heard you make that normal people might understand.” Madison smiles, dumping the shopping bags on the bed.

“She’s got some nice pieces,” Hayes says, like a jeweler appraising diamonds. “The Marc Jacobs military jacket—that’s a good start.”

Madison nods. “She could wear it with those trashy T-shirts if we added some decent skinny jeans. I’ll put it together for you. I’m studying to be a designer.”

“See?” says Hayes. “We’ve got you covered. You won’t even have to buy that much. Plus, it’s a way out of the house.”

“Fine.” I do need to get out of this tomb before I find myself in more trouble with my grandmother. “I’ll come, but I’m warning you both: If you think this is going to be some kind of shopping spree, then you’re going to be disappointed.”

“If you weren’t disappointing,” Madison says, “you wouldn’t be you.”

On a whim, I hold up an old necklace of my mother’s. It’s a small pointed rock woven into a tiny, crude straw basket. The pendant hangs from a piece of hemp twine. Even I know it’s a horribly ugly piece of jewelry, but my mother used to love it. In fact, I don’t ever remember her without it. I found it in the Sanctuary after she died.

“And I don’t care if you hate this,” I say defiantly. “I’m wearing it anyway.”

Madison’s eyebrows shoot up. Hayes leans in as if she’s going to touch it, but she stops with her fingertips an inch away from the rock.

“Where did you get it?” she asks in a hushed tone.

“It was my mom’s.”

“It’s eco-chic,” Madison says quickly. “Barely. But WTF, is that Bubble Yum on your dresser? Alex, bubble gum is very WT.”

“WT?”

“White trash. I’m not being un-PC here, just accurate. Gross. Okay, put that thing around your neck, flush that gum down the commode, and let’s go.”

Together, we march down the stairs into the scorching afternoon. Hayes’s SUV is missing. Instead, there’s a brand-new gold Prius waiting in the driveway. I look at her incredulously.

“You switched cars?”

Hayes smiles. “Sure. You made some very good points about how fuel-inefficient my truck was.”

“That was… fast.”

“I take your advice very seriously, Alex.”

“Well, if you were really serious about going green, we’d bike.”

“Don’t push it,” Madison snarls. “For God’s sake—I already have to cram myself into this hippie pellet.”

“It’s a little hot for biking, Alex, don’t you think?” Hayes says. “Just look at this as a glass that’s half full. Come on. Hop in.”

I climb in the backseat. As soon as she turns on the engine, the music starts blasting. It’s all drum machines and processed vocals and keyboards—not an ounce of soul, really—but I have to admit I kind of like it. I stare out the window at the vine-covered houses and lush squares, taking in this new place. For about three minutes. Then our tour of Savannah comes to an abrupt end. The store, it turns out, is all of six blocks away.

“We should have walked,” I say as we pull up in front of a string of boutiques on Broughton Street. The street is crowded with cars, their drivers circling as they look for parking, but Hayes parks about four feet from the curb in a handicapped spot.

“Hey, you can’t park here.”

“Don’t worry,” Hayes says. “I’m an MG. They know me.”

“Who knows you? The old lady with rheumatism who’s out of a parking place?”

Madison puts her finger over my lips.

“Shh,” she whispers. “You’re being annoying.”

They lead me into BleuBelle Boutique, obviously the chicest shop on the street. As soon as we walk in, there’s a sudden hush; everyone seems to be waiting to hear what these chicks are going to say. The air is cool and fragrant, as if we’ve dived into a very pleasant, lavender-scented swimming pool.

“Miss Madisonnnnn!” a man coos as he comes out of the back room. He wears a shiny pink button-down shirt, dress pants, and—if I’m not mistaken—a bit of eyeliner. “Oh! And Miss Haaaaaaaaaayes!” A girl brings out a tray of champagne, and the MGs swoop up glasses. Reluctantly, I take the last one, feeling suddenly unable to abstain from this preposterous ritual.

“We’re here to save our friend from herself,” Madison announces. “Damien, this is Alex. What do you think? Is she too far gone?”

“Hmm,” Damien says, clearly perplexed. “She hasn’t missed many meals, has she?”

“She’s a Magnolia,” Hayes says flatly. “The Magnolia, sort of. She’s Miss Lee’s granddaughter.”

Damien’s eyes grow wide with understanding. “Oh,” he says. “Louisa’s daughter.”

I nod uncomfortably. How does this guy know my mom? Her favorite outfit was a sundress she made herself out of denim patches. No way she ever would have shopped here.

“What a beautiful, beautiful girl she was.” He sighs sadly. “Her mother used to bring her to the old store all the time. Well. What sort of things are you looking for, Alex?”

“I’m not, really.”

“The girl came from a pot farm,” Madison says. “So we’re pretty much starting from ground zero.”

“Hey, I told you. These T-shirts I wear are vintage. Like this one? It’s super old and belongs to my boyfriend.”

“I can see why he deaccessioned it,” Madison says.

“It happens to be very rare. Reggie says it’s a collector’s item. Surely Damien can appreciate that.”

“Oh, Damien does, honey,” he says soothingly. He leads us across the floor. “Alex, is it? I actually like this hippie-punk thing you have going. Very Patti Smith, but maybe too much of a good thing? Let’s maybe hone that wicked little fashion weapon of yours to a razor’s edge and then balance it with some pieces that’ll make it sing. Rock and Republic is going to be key.”

“One item,” I say. “Tops. The fashion industry is a conspiracy to make women hate their bodies, and no matter how much I buy, it’s not going to solve the real problems of the world.”

“She grew up on a commune,” Hayes explains gently.

“But you’re helping the economy, sweetie,” Damien says. “We’re all in trouble, haven’t you heard? Consider this your way of pitching in.”





We spend a total of an hour at BleuBelle’s, during which, despite my protests, Damien manages to completely outfit me for my first semester at school in Savannah. Two pairs of jeans with fancy designs on the butt, velvet and tweed blazers (to go over my T-shirts, which I refuse to give up), fitted beaded tank tops, sweaters made of something really soft. Every time I say it’s enough and I don’t want any more, Madison and Hayes sneak more things into the bag.

They try to hide the receipt from me, but on the way out of the store I wait until they’re air-kissing Damien good-bye and I grab it. The total is staggering. They come out on the sidewalk and see me fuming.

“This is… this is bullshit,” I say, about to cry. “We can’t spend money like this! Don’t you know what’s going on in the world? People are dying in Sudan, and we’re doing this?”

Hayes pulls out her cell phone and, using my grandmother’s credit card, proceeds to donate the exact same amount to Doctors Without Borders.

“Is that all right?” Madison says. “Or do you have a problem with them too?”

“How do you girls have such a cavalier attitude about money?” I ask. “If you are that loaded, let’s do something worthwhile! Start a community garden, maybe.”

“Good luck getting my sister to grub around in the dirt,” a voice says. We turn around, and there’s a movie star in front of us. Or I’m pretty sure he’s a movie star. I haven’t seen that many movies, but this guy definitely looks like he’s straight out of Hollywood. Tall. Blond hair that slips down his forehead. White shirt tucked into khaki pants. Converse tennis shoes. Tortoiseshell glasses framing a pair of very green eyes.

Despite myself, I can’t help hearing my mother’s love chant in my head:


Salt and rose and spirits,

listen to what I say.

Bring me my lover

by the end of the day.


“Alex,” Hayes says, “meet my brother, Thaddeus. He’s a year ahead of us at school.”

Oh, God. A male MG. Well, never mind that little crush… I guess.

“Are you shopping?” Hayes asks.

“SCAD library,” he says.

“Checking out the fresh art-student meat, no doubt,” Madison purrs.

“Hayes,” Thaddeus says, ignoring Madison, “I’m going out to the beach house this afternoon. Mom said you might need me to pick up something from the doctor?”

“No,” Hayes says quickly. “Thanks, though.”

“Going all alone?” Madison says to Thaddeus, tipping forward ever so slightly so as to offer up a prize view down her shirt. “You really ought to practice the buddy system if you’re going swimming.”

“I’m not swimming,” Thaddeus says coldly. “I’ve got reading to do for school.”

“Oh, school,” Madison says with distaste. “What is up with everyone and school? It’s like you all think this crap is actually going to be useful later in life.”

“I know it’s gauche, Mad, but some of us actually feel we should apply ourselves.”

“Maybe I’d apply myself if it mattered. But since I’m stuck in this town forev—”

“What book are you reading?” Hayes interrupts.

“A Farewell to Arms.”

“That’s not such a bad one,” I say. “Except for all the castration anxiety.”

“What?” Thaddeus says sharply, as if my talking to him is some sort of affront.

“No, don’t get me wrong—the book’s really good,” I say. “I’ve read it. Awesome war scenes and a bitchin’ romance. It’s just pretty sexist because of when it was written and all, and the main guy’s a little messed up, but you still side with him somehow. But, like I say, it’s where you can see the roots of Hemingway’s infamous castration anxiety. Everyone’s always losing fingers and legs and arms… you know, working our way toward The Sun Also Rises, where he loses the full—”

“Anyway,” Hayes says, cutting me off.

Thaddeus looks me up and down and then turns back to his sister. I feel my face turning red. I gather it’s “uncool” to talk about books to your basic country-club-belonging, golf-playing, yacht-sailing, magazine-layout-looking snob. Well, screw everyone, then. I feel tears sting my eyes as I think for the thousandth time today about how much I miss my imperfect Reggie and the shaggy, genuine RC.

“See you,” he says to his sister. He looks at Madison and me but doesn’t say anything to us before striding away.

“Wow,” I say. “Is he always that friendly?”

“He’s just having his period,” Madison says.

“God, I’m burning up,” Hayes says, gracefully changing the subject yet again. “Wanna go swim in Madison’s pool? Tan a little?”

“Sorry, I’m not really into skin cancer.”

“MGs don’t get skin cancer.” Madison laughs. “Or wrinkles or age spots. Didn’t you know that?”

Hayes coughs loudly.

“It’s in our genes,” Madison adds, winking at her.

“You know, I’ve got to get back,” I say, and my voice trails off. Because, in reality, I’ve got nothing to do. “Guess I need some ‘me’ time.”

“Sure,” Hayes says. “You should get some rest before the party.”

“I told you, I’m not going to—”

“Just come,” Hayes says. “I want to see how you look in your new clothes.”

“And what else do you have to do, anyway?” Madison asks.

She has a point. Besides bonding with Miss Lee’s neurotic cat, all I can think of doing is reading a book. Which is great, of course, but I’ve been doing that a lot lately.

“All right,” I say. “But strictly for sociological reasons. Not, you know, to get drunk and stuff.”

“Of course not,” Madison says. “God forbid you actually have fun like normal people.”

“We’ll drive you back,” Hayes says.

“No, it’s cool. I’ll walk.”

“With those bags?”

“I’ll be fine,” I say, bending over to stuff the new clothes into my backpack.

“Oh my God,” Madison says, turning away. “I feel sick. Please tell me Damien’s not seeing this.”

“It’s okay. See? All gone,” I say.

The sun has moved behind a cloud, and the city lies before me. Ever since my mom died, I get like this sometimes—overcome with the desire to be alone. “Hey, thanks again. That wasn’t so bad, and Doctors Without Borders is probably really grateful.”

“You should have let us spend more money, then,” Madison says, almost merrily. Hard to tell.

“We’ll pick you up at eight thirty,” Hayes calls. I wave, then fade into Savannah’s beckoning maze of one-way streets.