The Magnolia League - By Katie Crouch Page 0,28

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