8

Savannah was founded in 1733 by James Oglethorpe, a dashing young colonist from England. According to the book my grandmother gave me, he chose this particular site because it was a little bit inland, on high ground, and it could be easily defended. Basically, that means we’re far enough from the ocean to be mind-blowingly hot but close enough to the coast to be humid enough to suck all the water from your body after a two-block walk. Oh, and then there are the swarms of mosquitoes that come up from the swamp. Smooth move, Ogles.

Still, no matter how grumpy and homesick I may be, I gotta say it’s a pretty freakin’ charming place. The city is laid out in a grid of pretty squares that start at the river and end at Forsyth Park. Each one has its own style and is graced by huge trees and benches where people sit and do nothing. It’s not that people here are lazy, exactly; it’s just literally too hot to move. Unless, that is, it’s early in the morning or late at night. Once I got up super early, and all sorts of people were in the park running around and doing jumping jacks. Trust me, Savannah’s also got its share of crazies. That particular morning I spotted a man in a purple ball gown on roller skates. There’s also a Willie Nelson look-alike who cruises around town with a big radio on his bike. I’ve been here for two and a half weeks, so by now I have my favorite spots: the best place to watch tourists get hustled is Chippewa Square; Whitefield Square has a really nice gazebo; and the back of Colonial Park Cemetery is a safe place to smoke pot, because it’s usually pretty empty.

On days this blazing hot, the best way home is not always the shortest but the route that provides the deepest and most consistent tree coverage. Weaving back and forth between Bull, Barnard, and Whitaker, I pause on Jones, noticing a narrow opening between two old, decrepit houses. I slip down the alley and find a high-walled, untended garden next to what looks to be an abandoned house covered in flowering vines. Weeds and ivy run wild over the ground, and at the end of a path paved with cool old bluestone sit two wrought-iron benches by a weathered brick wall.

I settle on one of the benches and take out my book. This week it’s Jane Eyre, the one novel on the school summer reading list I haven’t already read. Thoughts so far: Edward is hot, but a total nightmare. And what is with this banshee in the attic?

“Alexandria?”

Jumping so high I almost fall off my bench, I turn to see a seriously hot African-American man standing in the entranceway wearing blue sunglasses, Levi’s, Converse All-Stars, and a soft, formfitting T-shirt.

“Yeah?” I say.

When he takes off his glasses, I note that this guy is one of the best-looking people I’ve ever seen. Maybe even topping Hayes and Madison. Snobby Thaddeus too.

“Well, hey there. I’ve heard a lot about you.” He steps into the garden.

“L-listen,” I stutter, standing up. “I’m really sorry if I’m on your property. I thought it was public—”

“Don’t worry about it. I don’t live here. This is actually Mary Oglethorpe’s garden, but she won’t care. She knows who you are.”

“I’m sorry, have we met? I’m not that great at names, but I really think I’d remember you.”

“Oh no. We haven’t met yet. We will know each other, though.” He thrusts his hand forward. “Samuel Buzzard.”

“Hi.”

“May I?” he says, motioning to the bench across from me.

“Sure. As long as you think Miss Oglethorpe wouldn’t mind.”

“Oh, I think she’ll allow it.” He brushes the bench off a tiny bit prissily and sits. I notice that he doesn’t look overheated in the slightest, while I’m shvitzing like I’m in Big Jon’s sweat lodge.

“So, you know my grandmother?”

“Of course. Everyone knows your grandmother. She’s been excited for your arrival for a long time.”

“Huh.”

“So, how do you like it here?”

“Well, Mr. Buzzard…”

“Sam.”

“Okay, cool. I mean, I don’t want to offend you, Sam, but it’s kind of a drag.”

“Oh?” He looks over my shoulder at something and then puts his sunglasses on again. But when I turn to look, no one’s there. “ ‘A drag.’ That’s an interesting way to put it. How so?”

“I don’t know. Well… it’s super formal, for one thing. See, I’m supposed to be in this weird sort of stupid debutante thing.”

“The Magnolia League.”

“Right.” I look at him with surprise. “You know about that?”

He nods.

“All they care about are clothes and how to act and who says what and whatever.” The floodgates seem to have opened. I don’t know what it is about this guy, but he’s very easy to talk to. “I mean, it’s cool that they’re trying to get me situated. It’s awesome, actually. I just… I don’t know.”

“You feel like you have nothing in common.”

“Totally. I’m from a communal farm. I mean, I’m happiest on my knees in the dirt. These girls grew up in huge mansions. Their mothers probably nursed them with champagne bottles.”

“Or something like that.” Sam takes out a beautiful pipe inlaid with iridescent mother-of-pearl. As he lights it, the air fills with the sweet smell of tobacco. “You know what you need to do?”

“What?”

“Show them what you have to offer.”

“What I have to offer?” I look at him, confused. “What do you mean? Like, how to grow an awesome organic tomato?”

“Hmm. Well, not exactly. What I’m saying is, you’ve had a lot of experiences they haven’t had. Madison and Hayes probably want to know what it’s like in California. They’re just Savannah girls, remember, and they’d probably think it would be cool to learn from you.”

“How do you know their names?” I ask.

He continues as if he didn’t hear me. “So, I’d say you should beat them at their own game. Sure, they’re the princesses of Savannah, but you’ve got something different. And that’s cool.”

“I guess.” I play with the fray on my cutoffs. “I sort of just want to go home, though. You know? I don’t belong here.”

“You might find that you do, eventually,” he says. He reaches inside his jacket and produces an engraved card on ivory card stock. Samuel Buzzard, PhD. The paper feels heavy in my hand.

“What’s your degree in?”

“I studied ethnography at Yale,” he says offhandedly. “All right, you call me anytime, okay? I’ve heard you’ve had a lot on your mind.”

“Who told you—?”

Sam’s face suddenly freezes. He leans forward, intently staring at my necklace. “Where did you get that?”

“This?” I back away slightly, frightened of his tone. I rub the stone between my fingers. “It was my mother’s. I found it in her garden—”

“What? She wasn’t wearing it?”

I shake my head.

“Why?”

“It fell off, I guess. I found it in the dirt a couple of days after she died.”

He straightens, composing himself with obvious effort. “Well, that’s a very precious thing, isn’t it? If it was your mother’s.”

“Yeah. It’s kind of heinous, but I wore it today just to annoy the girls.”

“Oh, I’d wear it all the time if I were you,” he says forcefully. “It’s an heirloom.”

“I guess. I have a lot of things of hers. Like this ankle bracelet. See? It’s supposed to be good luck. The dimes or something.”

Sam is obviously upset. Why does he care so much about my necklace?

“Well, take care,” he says hastily.

“Thanks.” I have to admit, I do feel better. Sam’s the most real person I’ve met in this place. “Maybe I’ll give you a call sometime.”

“I look forward to it, Alexandria,” he says, giving me a small salute. “By the way, it’s true what they say about the dimes around the ankle. It’s definitely good luck—especially if you rub the dimes on a frog’s back by the light of a full moon.”

“What?” I cry, confused. Is that some kind of Southern witticism? But I never get my answer. My new friend has already disappeared around the block.