4

“Alexaaaaandria!” My grandmother’s voice pierces my pleasant, thick blanket of sleep like a harpoon. “The guuuuurls are hee-ah!”

I sit up with a start. The pot put me under. Way, way under. This is why I’m not really into it. I feel like there’s a brick tied to my face.

“Alexaaaaaaandria!”

“All right!” I yell back. I look in the mirror. Okay, I do look disgusting. Maybe it’s the weed, or falling asleep in the middle of the day, but suddenly my clothes look like rags. I can’t face going downstairs dressed like this to be judged by people I haven’t met and won’t like. My grandmother bought me a bunch of stuff, all still in bags lined up against the wall. I’ve been trying to ignore the clothes, but now I look in the first bag and instantly regret it: There are hundreds of dollars’ worth of things in there. Labels I’ve never heard of because I’ve never shopped anywhere other than the RC “mall,” which is just a closet full of hand-me-downs in the Main. Anything I needed—flannel shirts, an old sweater for warmth—was there. I got everything but my underwear from that closet.

I pick up a tank top and realize it’s probably the most expensive thing I’ve ever held in my life. I look through the bags and read the labels. Dolce & Gabbana—no clue. Marc by Marc Jacobs—even I know that one.

For the price of these clothes, my grandmother could have bought a cow for a village in Ghana. Ten cows! I should return all of these purchases right now and donate the money to Heifer International. Then I think about the people waiting for me, and I ditch my T-shirt for the Dolce sweater thing. With my cutoffs, it sends sort of an ironic mixed message, right? I fluff my dreads and jam my feet into flip-flops. Then, promising myself to return everything and donate the money first thing tomorrow, I head downstairs.

I have to say, every time I enter the main hall of the house, I get a bit breathless. My grandmother’s foyer looks a lot like the one in the plantation house where Scarlett O’Hara went to the barbecue in Gone with the Wind. That was Mom’s favorite movie. Actually, we never talked about it being her favorite; I just know that whenever she watched it, she’d get all misty-eyed. I like it because Scarlett is a badass, other than liking that d-bag Ashley Wilkes when Rhett Butler is so obviously superior. Anyway. In that last party they have before everything goes to hell because of the Civil War, they’re in a house with a huge staircase that descends into the middle of an enormous hallway. My grandmother’s house has a staircase like that, so when you walk downstairs, you feel like you should be wearing a hoopskirt. Cutoff jeans don’t exactly fit the scene.

“We’re in here, Alexandria,” my grandmother calls from the parlor.

As I wander through the hallways, the sound of my flip-flops echoes off the ceiling. When I enter the room, three heads swivel to look at me: a blond one, a brown one, and my grandmother’s perfectly arranged chignon.

Wow, I can’t help thinking, these girls are pretty.

Not just made-up pretty, either. These are seriously pretty people. Like, people who seem to have their own personal lamp inside their skin. Scarlett O’Hara had it. Audrey Hepburn in Breakfast at Tiffany’s, she had it. My mother had it. My grandmother, actually, has it. And now these girls—they definitely have it. It’s like if it were dark out, they’d still be glowing.

“Alexandria,” my grandmother says, “meet your Magnolia sisters.”

“Hi,” I say.

The blond one stands first. She has skin the color of milk, and her long, thick blond hair is arranged in little waves like that Botticelli painting of Venus that’s super famous—the one in which she’s standing naked in a big shell. The girl’s wide-set eyes are the color of bottle glass. She is wearing a green-silk knit dress that looks as though it’s been sewn just for her by her own personal elves, and tiny silver heels.

“I’m Hayes,” she says, smiling. She has an accent like my mother’s, but thicker. “Welcome to Savannah.”

“Thank you.”

And now the other girl steps forward. She is pale, too, with shiny, long dark hair and surprisingly blue eyes. She’s wearing a very cool burgundy Chinese silk dress—vintage?—and wooden platform heels.

“Madison,” she says in what I can’t help feeling is an icy tone.

“Josie!” my grandmother calls out, prompting her housekeeper to appear a moment later. Josie walks with a limp and looks much too old to be keeping anyone’s house. She’s really nice but certainly gets no points in assisting me in my attempts to eat healthily. She puts bacon in all the vegetables and offers me pie whenever I turn around. I’m pretty sure I saw her feed lard to the cat.

“Sweet tea for the girls,” my grandmother says. “And are y’all hungry?”

“Always,” Madison says.

“Just bring out something light, Josie. Do we have any of those cheese straws left over from Sunday? And that cake Molly Stone made? And a little of that crab dip if we still have it.” I wince, tallying up all the calories in my head.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“I’ll just leave you girls alone, and you can get to know one another.”

“Sure,” I say, although for once I’d rather she stayed. I don’t particularly like my grandmother, but at least we always have a topic of conversation: For the love of God, let me go back to California.

Josie reappears and sets down a silver tray laden with a pitcher of tea and plates of food. I back off, expecting these tiny girls to do the same, but Hayes grabs the entire plate of ham biscuits and puts it in her lap. I pour myself a glass of tea and take a sip, nearly gagging. What does it take to get a glass of water in this house?

“We like our tea pretty sweet down here,” Hayes says, watching with a smile.

I nod, trying to neutralize the sweetness with a cheese straw so intense it could double as a cat-sized salt lick. I lean back into the sofa—then, noticing their ramrod posture, sit up again.

“So,” Hayes says, “how’s the transition going?”

“Horribly,” I admit. “Not to be a whiner, but it’s hot as hell, and I miss my boyfriend.”

“A boyfriend?” Hayes says, her eyes lighting up. “Madison, she has a boyfriend.”

Madison bites into a cheese straw.

“I have a boyfriend too,” Hayes says. “Madison prefers to play the field.”

I look at Madison. She chews at me.

“Huh,” I say.

The conversation lies down and dies.

“A boyfriend in… California?” Hayes tries.

“Yup.”

“We were wondering what you think of the guys here.”

“I don’t think of the guys here. I’m going back as soon as I can.”

“Ha!” Madison contributes.

“Well, I think you’ll like Savannah after you give it a little time,” Hayes says patiently. “It’s always good to be where you belong.”

“No, see, I belong in Mendocino. I was born there, so… basically, I’ll be going back ASAP.”

Madison sneers. “Us country cousins’ll try to survive without you.”

“I’d love to hear more about California,” Hayes says, cutting her off. “Tell me about it.”

“Well,” I say, trying to ignore Madison, “it’s beautiful. Kind of foggy. It’s never hot or humid on the coast. Also, I didn’t have to go to regular school. I basically lived on a commune and read great books and smoked pot and had awesome friends and a great boyfriend. What else could I want?”

“A shower?” Madison says under her breath.

“Madison…” Hayes says.

“Gee,” I say sarcastically, “for Southern girls, you’re kind of rude.”

“Gee,” Madison shoots back, “for a California girl, you’re kind of a cliché.”

“Listen, this is sort of an awkward way to get to know one another,” Hayes says. “But what we want you to know is just that we’re so glad that you’re here. The Magnolia League is a real sisterhood, and if you just give it a chance, I know you’ll fit right in.”

“Thanks, but—”

“Hey, some of my brother’s friends are partying out at the Field tomorrow night. Why don’t you come?”

“That’s okay,” I say. “I’m busy.”

“Doing what?”

“Well…” I rack my brain. “I’ve never read any Flannery O’Connor, and I figure now’s probably an appropriate time.”

“Alex,” Hayes says, “I know you think your situation is bleak, but, please, don’t sit home reading a book on Saturday night. It doesn’t have to be that bad.”

“It’s really nice of you girls to ask me. I appreciate all of this sisterhood and whatever. Seriously. Very cool. But no, I don’t want to get to know this place. Honestly, I plan on vacating as soon as possible.”

“Don’t let your mouth write checks your ass can’t cash,” Madison says.

“What do you mean?”

“She doesn’t mean anything,” Hayes says. “Think about it. I know the Field’s not a particularly glamorous proposition, but I think you’ll have a better time there than you’ll have sitting alone in your room.”

“Thanks very much. But I’m pretty sure I’ll pass.”

“All right,” Hayes says. She and Madison exchange glances and rise at exactly the same time. “Well, I suppose we’ll see you later.”

“Right. At school or whatever.” I walk them to the entrance and stand in the doorway as they drift prettily down the steps toward Hayes’s Mercedes SUV.

“Hasn’t anyone told your parents there’s a global-warming crisis? Not to mention a recession.”

“Magnolias are a bit impervious to economic hard times,” Hayes says with a chuckle. “But you’re certainly right about Mother Earth.”

Mother Earth. Weird. That’s what my mom used to call it too.

“ ‘Impervious to hard times’?” I say, incredulous. “All of you? Well, eventually that sweet Southern luck is going to run out, and you’ll have to deal with reality.”

Hayes hesitates thoughtfully and then waves, as if she hasn’t heard me. The girls climb into the SUV and, with a great V-8 roar, peel out onto Savannah’s dark, slow streets.