15

It’s only when we come blazing down Drayton Street in Sam’s awesome blue truck, obvious as a Mardi Gras parade float, that I remember my grandmother’s warning to stay away from the Buzzards altogether. And because I am, and always have been, a somewhat inherently unlucky person, there she is—naturally!—standing on the porch, staring us down.

“Hello, Miss Lee,” Sam sings out from the window.

“Sam,” Miss Lee answers, smiling sternly as her eyes travel from him to me.

“Thanks for the ride,” I say hastily, hopping to the ground and lifting out my bike to head inside and face my grandmother’s wrath—and when I tell her where I’ve been all afternoon, wrath is exactly what I receive.

“To his home?” she sputters. “Are you joking?”

I shrug. I’m not a liar; even though I know that making up stories or avoiding the truth could make things a lot easier for me sometimes, I’ve never been into it. It’s too confusing. How are you supposed to remember what’s true and what’s not? But now that she’s going so nuts over this, I seriously wish I had just said he’d stopped to offer me a ride home from school.

“You deliberately disobeyed me,” she hisses.

“I didn’t, actually. I just forgot what you’d said. It was my first day of school, which was seriously overwhelming. I mean, those Magnolia girls? They are nuts. So I saw Sam Buzzard, and he was nice to me, and I just forgot you said not to hang out with him. Okay?”

“Okay?” Miss Lee spits. “Okay? No, this is most certainly not okay. You went to a strange man’s house. What egregiously irresponsible behavior! Is this the way people act in California?”

“Well, I can’t speak for the whole state, but, yes, I’d say I’m a pretty open person.”

Miss Lee purses her lips. “All right. Well. I’m sorry, Alexandria. I have no choice but to ground you.”

I stare at her in disbelief. She’s okay with me getting into a car full of teenagers with bad driving skills and spending all night at a keg party, but she’s grounding me for checking out a friend’s garden?

“Are you serious?”

“Yes. For the time being, you’re not to leave the house. And you may never go to Sam Buzzard’s again.”

“But that’s just crazy,” I say. “You can’t imprison a young person like that. It’s… un-American.”

“I can’t talk about it any further, Alexandria. I’m late for dinner out. I’ll have Josie make you something.” She looks at me hopelessly, gives one last dramatic sigh, and leaves.

I slink up to my room and plop on the bed, shaking my head in disbelief. Grounded? I never got grounded at the RC, even when I sneaked off with some kids to San Francisco for three days to see a concert without telling anyone. What am I supposed to do in this house? Learn ballroom dancing? Listen politely while my grandmother explains the correct way to sip friggin’ sweet tea?

Suddenly, I have an idea. I flip on the computer, waiting impatiently for the Internet to come up. No new e-mails from Reggie… big surprise. But that’s okay. After tonight, we won’t need this stupid e-mail system anymore. I bring up Delta.com and grab that brilliant new credit card out of my backpack.

Okay. I know the Visa was meant for new clothes, not a plane ticket back to California. But I promise you one thing, Grandma. As soon as I get there, I’ll get out some scissors and cut it up for good.