The Magnolia League - By Katie Crouch Page 0,26
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