The Magnolia League - By Katie Crouch Page 0,10

dash with a sock. “Dropping into that crash pad? Not to mention her future position.”

Hayes blasts the air conditioner to ward off the brutal August heat and weaves her car through the streets like a pro. It’s not easy. Savannah is a beautiful old city, but the cramped downtown has twenty-two public squares, which means almost all of the streets are one-way. The canopy of live oaks stretched over the winding streets casts ghostly shadows in the late-afternoon sun. Madison watches neighbors chatting in the squares, walking their dogs, sitting on benches and fanning themselves. In Savannah, no one’s going anywhere fast.

“So, is your brother going tomorrow night?” Madison asks nonchalantly.

Hayes ignores her and turns up the Taylor Swift song that’s playing.

“Hayes,” Madison says. “Hayes?”

Hayes starts singing along to “Fearless.”

Madison turns the music down. “I don’t mean to get all Kanye, but you need to hear me.”

“The last time you got near my brother,” Hayes says, “you put him in the hospital.”

“Not on purpose. I’d never hurt him on purpose.”

Nothing from Hayes.

“I’m sorry,” Madison says. “You know how sorry I am.”

Hayes’s face softens. Madison bumps her fist against Hayes’s where it clutches the wheel, and Hayes’s knuckles start to unclench.

“Come on, Hayes-ee. MGs for life. Yo?”

Hayes smiles.

“There’s my li’l gangsta,” Madison says. “MGs got respect. We don’t stab each other in the back—”

“We stab each other in the front,” Hayes finishes.

“Holla.”

Madison sits back, satisfied. Hayes turns the music up again.

After a bit, Madison says, “I wish I could go to California.”

“Probably overrated.”

“It’s just that we’re so trapped.”

“If you want to see it that way,” Hayes says. “But you know how I see it? I’d rather be a big fish in a small pond than a nobody in California.”

“Savannah isn’t a pond. It’s a puddle.”

“We can do anything we want here. You heard Alex, and she’s right. There are people struggling out there right now. They have to shop at, like, Urban Outfitters, Madison. But as long as we play by the rules, we never have to worry.”

“I’d trade,” Madison says. “I would. I’d go live on that hippie dirt pile in a second just to be free.”

“But she’s not free,” Hayes says. “Out of all of us, she’s the least free. You wouldn’t want to be in her shoes.”

“That’s because I don’t wear flip-flops.”

“Just give her some time. She’ll be good for us. We’ll be better as a threesome.”

“I hear threesomes are overrated,” Madison says.

“Gross. Anyway, we need to get her to the Field on Friday.”

“Because it’s a mega-happy roller coaster of fun,” Madison trills. “You’ll let Jason feel you up in his dad’s Suburban, and I’ll watch the idiots swill Coors and blast Black Tusk. If we’re lucky, maybe some freshman will manage to set his car on fire again.”

“Madison,” Hayes says, “you have a very limited imagination. Let’s use this as an opportunity. We’re in charge of making her a Magnolia, and there’s no time like the present. She’ll be our little back-to-school project.”

Madison snorts. “That dirty hippie is no little project. She’s a Gulf of Mexico cleanup mission.”

“You love a challenge. Besides, think of who she is.”

“She is her mother’s daughter,” Madison says thoughtfully. “And everything she hears about the Magnolias will be spoon-fed to her by us. It actually has possibilities in an evil kind of way.”

“That’s my li’l gangsta,” Hayes says. “Now, let’s get manis at See Jane and then stop by 700 Drayton to see if that hot bartender you like is working. At midnight we’ll head out to Bonaventure Cemetery for some goofer, and then tomorrow we’ll be totally ready to start showing our little hippie just how fun being a Magnolia can be.”

6

Once the girls leave, the house is deathly quiet.

Fine, okay. I have no friends here, I know no one, and I really should have probably said yes to that party thing. Still, if there’s one thing Mom taught me, it was to be true to myself.

“Pick a path and stick to it,” she’d always say. She hated it when people flaked on things, or when I’d leave something unfinished. She wasn’t brought up that way, she said. Although she’d never talk about exactly how or where she was brought up. Whenever I asked about it, she’d just say, “The past is past.”

Mom. I can’t even imagine her here. Every time I talk to Miss Lee, I just want to say, Seriously? This is your mother?

“Miss Lee?” I call. My voice echoes down the hallway. No answer. “Josie? Helloooo?” I do