The Magnolia League - By Katie Crouch Page 0,32

younger boys pretend to hold their noses as they walk past.

“It’s called soap, hippie!” one of them says.

“Look!” someone else yells. “Whoopi Goldberg and a marshmallow had a baby.”

The bell rings. Everyone begins rushing inside as if gathered up by the world’s largest vacuum cleaner. They all seem to know exactly where to go, but I hang back, clueless. For once I sort of wish Hayes and Madison were with me.

“Lost?”

A tanned, tough-looking woman in her mid-thirties stands before me. She’s wearing a khaki shirt and matching pants, and she holds a carved wooden cane. She looks like she’s about to go on safari—all that’s missing is the pith helmet. It takes a moment before I realize what else is different about her: She’s not wearing even an ounce of makeup. After the glamourama look everyone else sports around here, I have to say I’m sort of digging it.

“Not lost,” I say. “New.”

“Name?”

“Alex Lee.”

“Oh, well, I’m Constance Taylor, and you’re assigned to my English class.”

“Cool.” I’m actually looking forward to English class. It’ll be fun to hear what someone other than RC hippies has to say about American literature. At the RC, everything always seemed to come down to the fight against “the system” and—I don’t know—composting.

“Stand here. I’ll get your assigned homeroom.” She disappears into the building, leaving me to wait outside. I wander over to the doors and peer into the hall. Even though this is clearly a fancy school, it still smells a little like disinfectant. The walls are painted a pearl gray. Shiny brushed-steel lockers line the sides of the passageway. It’s all very pleasant and very… sterile.

All of a sudden, the smell and the silver lockers take me back to a vivid memory of my trip to the morgue.

I’m so sorry, honey, but as next of kin you need to identify—

As if bitten, I jump back from the door into the sunlight, bumping into a fat kid dressed in droopy hipster jeans, Buddy Holly glasses, and a completely rad black Save CBGB T-shirt. Sure, it’s a little too tight and, yes, there are man-boobs present, but it looks authentic.

“Easy there, Grace Slick,” he says with no trace of a Southern accent as he bends down to pick up his sketch pad. His skin is refreshingly pale compared to everyone else’s perfect golden tan.

“Sorry,” I mumble.

He looks at me curiously. “You’re new, aren’t you? I’d definitely remember that hair.”

“Yeah. I’m Alex.”

“From?”

“Mendocino.”

“Nice. I’m Dex,” he says. “As in Dexter. Like the show.”

“The show?”

“Yeah. But my parents named me years before the show even came on, so I’m pretty sure I’m the result of hate sex. Dexter is my parents’ expression of verbal regret.”

“Um… ha-ha?”

“Or it was really good sex, and this was their way of expressing their guilt at enjoying it. Which would make sense, because they’re Jewish.”

I’m starting to like this guy. He’s more embarrassing than I am.

“That’s a cool T-shirt.”

“Yeah? I’ve got one in every color.”

“They only made the Save CBGB shirts in black,” I say.

“Yeah, well, I’ve got black, black, black, black, and black too. Not many people would have that particular factoid on file, by the way.”

“I like to keep things old school.”

“No diggity. We’ll have to break out my turntable sometime. I’ve been buying all this vinyl from Daptone, and listening to it is like pouring honey into your ears, only without the ants, and the mess, and any of the horribleness of actually pouring actual honey into your ears. Digital reproduction is like listening to twenty percent of a song played on instruments made of scrap metal. It’s a copy of a copy of a copy. There’s no soul.”

I smile.

“Anyway, I have to go, because I’m late. But I’ll find you at lunch. You’ll need me then. This place is like the sequel to Mean Girls. As in Mean Girls 2: Even Meaner and More Hateful Girls Who Will Burn Your Soul to Death with Their Eye Rays.”

“It can’t be that bad,” I say.

“Oh, really? There’s this one pack of debutantes who will tear off your face and eat it just for fun. They’re like rabid dogs. Their moms are all in this reactionary right-wing group called the Magnolia League. Ask yourself: Who joins something called a league besides supervillains?”

“I’ll be careful,” I say, my cheeks flushing.

Just then Constance approaches, carrying a sheaf of papers. “Hello, Dexter,” she says pleasantly. “The first day, and already—”

“Late,” he says. “I know. Would you expect anything less?” He grins and dashes down the hall.

“You’re