The Magnolia League - By Katie Crouch Page 0,14

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