Magnolia

by Kristi Cook

  I pick up my pace, my bare feet slapping against the packed-dirt path, sending up puffs of dust in my wake. I don’t slow down until I reach the enormous oak tree—the largest on our property. A swing still hangs from one of the wide limbs, swaying gently on the breeze. The barn lies just beyond, its peaked tin roof reflecting the sun. The doors are thrown open, and I can hear music drifting out—Jimmy Buffett—which means my dad is inside, probably working on one of his pieces of furniture.

  Which is fine—Daddy doesn’t ask embarrassing questions or force me to talk about things I don’t want to talk about, like Mama does.

  “Sorry,” I say, shooing the dogs out. “You know the rules.” I close and latch the lower doors, leaving the upper panels open to take advantage of the cooling breeze. “Hey,” I call out to my dad, who’s standing over by the gun safe with his back to me. “You didn’t go to church with Mama?”

  He turns to face me. “Oh, hey, half-pint.” Yeah, it’s a Little House on the Prairie thing. Embarrassing, I know. “Nah, she went with Laura Grace. I figured the pair of them would be yammering on nonstop about the party, so . . .” He trails off with a shrug. “You want Delilah?”

  “Yeah, thanks.” I watch as he reaches inside the gun safe and retrieves my pistol—a .22 caliber Ruger Mark III with a five-point-five-inch barrel. Daddy bought it for me for my thirteenth birthday, despite my mom’s protests. She wanted to buy me a sewing machine instead. For some unknown reason, I named the pistol “Delilah,” which I thought sounded kind of badass. I know it’s silly, but the name stuck.

  He hands me the pistol, along with my noise-canceling headset—a lavender set with swirly silver designs on each earpiece. “Mind if I stick around and watch you for a bit?” he asks.

  “Nah, go ahead.” I loop the headset around my neck. “Maybe you could change the music to something from this century, though?”

  He pulls a frown. “What’s wrong with Buffett? He’s a Mississippi boy.”

  “Yeah, I know. You’ve told me, like, a million times,” I say with a grin. “Anyway, you know I like Buffett just fine.”

  “That’s because I’ve raised you well. But, here, I’ll change it.” He fiddles with the stereo, switching it over to the radio. “Hey, don’t forget we’re having an early dinner at Magnolia Landing tonight. They’re expecting us at six.”

  My heart sinks—the last thing I want to do is hang out with Ryder tonight. Or any night, for that matter. “Aww, do I have to go?”

  He looks taken aback. “Of course you do.” He watches me thoughtfully for a second. “I don’t understand what’s going on with you and Ryder these days. The two of you used to get along so well.”

  “Oh no,” I say with a groan. “Not you, too.”

  “I’m not saying you have to be best buddies, or whatever the heck your mom and Laura Grace think you two should be.” He winces, and I realize with a start that maybe he’s on my side, after all. “But you could at least be civil to each other, couldn’t you?”

  “Dad, stop. Please? I don’t want to talk about Ryder, okay?”

  He holds up both hands in surrender. “Okay, okay. Just make sure you’re ready to go at quarter to six.”

  I nod. “Fine.” I reach for my headset, then stop myself. “Oh, wait, I meant to ask . . . What were you and Patrick Hughes talking about last night?”

  “Oh. That. Patrick was ‘jokingly’ ”—he makes air quotes around the word—“asking for your hand in marriage. I ‘jokingly’ ”—those air quotes again—“told him that he better get his act together or stay the hell away from my daughter.”

  I just stare at him, my mouth agape in horror.

  “He assured me that he’s seen the error in his ways and is on the straight and narrow now.”

  “Please tell me you’re joking,” I say with a grimace.

  He shakes his head. “I wish I were. Your mama’s not happy, by the way. Seems to think the two of you were way too cozy last night. Apparently, Cheryl Jackson said something to her.”

  “Oh my God! Cheryl Jackson?”

  He shrugs. “You know how she is.”

  “Oh, I know, all right.” That woman needs to learn to mind her own damn business.

  “Anyway, I’ll let you get to it,” Daddy says, pointing to Delilah.

  I nod, slipping the headset over my ears, effectively ending the conversation. Delilah is heavy and cool in my hand, the familiar weight comforting. It takes me only a couple of minutes to get her locked and loaded, and then I move toward one of the stalls and pick up a pair of goggles.

  I shoot for close to an hour. At some point, my dad slips out with a wave, but I barely notice. I’m too focused on the target in front of me, the center bull’s-eye blown to bits. Daddy thinks I’m good enough for the Olympic trials, but for women it’s just air pistols or skeet, which isn’t nearly as fun. Air pistols seem like playing with toys, whereas .22 calibers like Delilah are the real deal, you know? Anyway, I’ve got enough on my plate as it is, what with college applications and senior year in general. Which reminds me . . .

  I need to sit down and talk to my parents. I can’t put it off any longer. With a sigh, I set down Delilah, then slip off my goggles and headset, swiping at the sweat on my brow with the back of one hand.

  Here’s the thing. My parents expect me to go to Ole Miss. They talk about it as if it’s a done deal. “Next year, when you’re in Oxford . . .” and “You’ll probably live at the sorority house, but . . .” They’ve got it all planned out. I’ll pledge Phi Delta, just like Mama and Laura Grace did, date frat boys, cheer for the Rebels if I’m lucky enough to make the squad. It doesn’t really matter what I major in. All that matters is that I get a degree, marry a good ol’ southern boy—you know, someone like Ryder—and raise my family right here in Magnolia Branch. That’s the only future they’ve imagined for me, the only thing that makes any sense to them.

  But . . . I’m not sure that’s what I want.

  Ever since that film class last year, it’s all I’ve been thinking about. I’d requested information packets from several film schools, ruthlessly checking the mail each day before my parents got home from work and stashing the brochures in my desk drawer. Late at night, after my parents went to bed, I’d read them cover to cover and then check their websites for additional information. Ultimately, I’d narrowed it down to NYU’s Tisch School of the Arts. Only problem is, I haven’t discussed it with my parents yet, and I’m running out of time.

  The deadline for early decision is November first, less than two months away. I’ve already completed most of the application package, everything except the final two elements of a four-part portfolio that includes a ten-minute film. But, obviously, I’m going to need my parents’ support or it’s never going to happen. New York is a long way away, and NYU is expensive. Really expensive.

  Who knows? Maybe it’s just a pipe dream. Still, I’m not quite ready to give it up.

  I head over to the gun safe to put Delilah away, thinking that maybe I can talk to them now, before I lose my nerve. It’s not like it’s going to get any easier the longer I wait, and if they say no, well . . . I guess I won’t bother with the rest of the portfolio.

  * * *

  When I return to the house fifteen minutes later with Beau and Sadie in tow, I find both my parents sitting together at the kitchen table, drinking coffee. My dad has obviously just showered—his hair is damp—and my mom has changed from her church clothes into a pair of bleach-stained shorts and an old T-shirt, her usual Sunday-afternoon attire. Her blond hair is pulled back into a ponytail, and she smells like sunscreen and bug repellant.

  I realize I better catch her now before she heads out to her gardens—a vegetable plot just off the kitchen and a larger, fenced-in space out back where she grows Old World roses along with other colorful flowers that I can’t name.

  “Hey, can I talk to y’all for a sec?” I ask, sliding into the chair opposite them.

  My mom raises one brow quizzically. “I
s this about Patrick? Because I’m not sure I like—”

  “It’s not about Patrick.” I take a deep, calming breath. I can do this. “It’s about my college apps.”

  Daddy sets down his mug. “How’s that coming, hon? You need help with your essays?”

  “No, nothing like that. It’s just . . . I know we talked about applying to just the state schools, but I was thinking . . . I mean, you know how I like to make movies and all. I was hoping that I could apply to a film school, too.”

  My mom’s blue eyes narrow a fraction. “Film school?”

  I swallow hard. “NYU, actually. You know . . . in New York City,” I add lamely.

  “New York City?” my dad parrots back, somehow making it sound like Mars or something.

  I plow on recklessly. “Yeah, I’ve read over their materials, and I think their program sounds awesome. It’s a good school, too. And . . . well, I’d like to at least apply and see what happens. I know it’s a long shot, but—”

  “We’re not sending you off to New York City, Jemma,” Daddy says, shaking his head. “That’s all there is to it.”

  My parents exchange a glance, and then Mama nods. “Besides,” she says, “all your friends are going to Ole Miss. What would you do in New York? Alone? And film school . . .” She trails off with a shrug. “You’re a straight-A student, Jem. Why would you throw that all away for some crazy idea—”

  “I wouldn’t be throwing anything away. They have academic programs at NYU, too, you know. Maybe I could . . . I don’t know, double major in film and English lit or something like that.”

  “Where did you even come up with this idea?” Daddy asks, sounding a little dazed.

  I fold my arms across my chest, trying not to look too defiant. “That class I took last summer. You know, the one at the Y? The teacher said I had a cinematic eye. I know it’s hard to believe, but she actually thought I had talent. Real talent.”

  My mom eyes me suspiciously. “Are you sure this doesn’t have something to do with Patrick? He took that class with you, didn’t he?”

  I can’t help but roll my eyes. “This has nothing to do with him. We’ve never even talked about it. This is just something that I really, really want to do.”

  Daddy rakes a hand through his hair. “Look, Jemma, if you’re serious about this, then let me and your mom look over the application materials, okay?”

  Mama shoots him a glare, and a little breath of triumph makes me sit up straight in my seat. I nod, barely able to believe what I’m hearing.

  “Let’s give her a chance to make her case, Shelby,” he tells her. “If she’s really interested in film—”

  “This is New York City we’re talking about, Brad,” Mama shoots back. “I mean, maybe Atlanta or even Houston . . .” She trails off, shaking her head. “But I am not sending my baby girl off to New York, away from everyone and everything she knows.”

  Daddy lays a gentle hand on her wrist and then looks back at me, his green gaze steady and serious. “Your mom and I will discuss it more later, okay, hon? In private. I don’t want you to get your hopes up, though,” he warns. “NYU is a private university. I’m not even sure we could afford it.” He glances over at my mom apologetically, but she remains silent, her mouth set in a hard line. “Now, how ’bout some lunch? You hungry?”

  As if on cue, my stomach growls. “Starved,” I say, suppressing a grin. Because, okay, I know he warned me not to get my hopes up and all, but that went better than I expected. Way better.

  Maybe there’s a chance I’ll get that other life I imagined, after all.

  ACT I

  Scene 4

  The roast is delicious, Laura Grace,” Daddy says as he sets down his silver—real silver—and reaches for his crystal water goblet.

  Laura Grace beams at him, her pale blond hair perfectly coiffed, not a strand out of place. “Why, thank you, Bradley. I wish I could take credit for the meal, but it all belongs to Lou. I don’t know what I’d do without that woman. We might just starve to death.”

  “Amen,” Mr. Marsden mutters, and Laura Grace shoots him a sidelong glare.

  It’s true, though. Laura Grace can’t boil a pot of water without burning it, much less manage an actual meal. If not for Lou, who’s been working for the Marsdens for as long as I can remember, they probably would starve to death.

  Laura Grace does, however, set a beautiful table. Everything, from the starched linen tablecloth to the Blue Willow china, the perfectly polished silver to the delicate crystal, is absolutely perfect and set just so for her dinner guests. An embroidered linen napkin is laid across my lap—a far cry from the supermarket-brand paper napkins we use at home.

  Two colorful floral arrangements complement the decor, one set in the middle of the long mahogany table and another on the matching sideboard near the swinging door that leads toward the kitchen. Candles in elaborate silver candelabras cast a soft, flickering glow across it all, creating a warm, inviting palette.

  Sunday dinner at the Marsdens’ is more than a meal—it’s an occasion. I’m dressed accordingly, wearing a pale green sundress with a sweater to ward off the chill of the air-conditioning.

  “Well, I blame my mama, God rest her soul,” Laura Grace says with a sigh. “She never taught me how to cook. You have no idea how lucky you are, Jemma—you and Nan both. Your mama’s a great cook, and she made sure to teach you. You girls’ husbands are surely going to thank her one day.”

  It’s impossible to miss the pointed look she gives Ryder.

  He ignores her and continues to attack his own roast. He’s rolled up the sleeves of his white button-down shirt, but his tie is neat and his khakis perfectly pressed. He cuts off a slice of rare meat and brings it to his mouth. Chewing slowly, he fixes his gaze on the wall directly above my mother’s head. It’s clear that he, too, would rather be anywhere else right now—anywhere but here, a helpless victim of our mothers’ machinations.

  Laura Grace glances from him to me and back to him again. “Next year, when the two of you are off at Oxford, you better promise to drive over together each week for Sunday dinner, you hear?”

  “Now, c’mon, Laura Grace,” Mr. Marsden chides. “You know Ryder hasn’t made his decision yet. You’ve got to give the boy some space to figure it out.”

  She waves one hand in dismissal. “I know. But a mama can hope, can’t she? I’m sorry, but I just can’t imagine the two of them going off in different directions.”

  “There’s only one choice for the both of them, as far as I’m concerned,” my mom says. “It’s about time the Rebels get their football program back on track, and Ryder’s just the boy to do it—with Jemma cheering him on.”

  I can’t help but cringe, staring down at my plate. I mean, is this really what my mom dreams about? Is this the best she can imagine for me?

  For a moment, everyone continues to eat silently. The tension in the air is so thick you could cut it with a knife, but I doubt Mama or Laura Grace even notice.

  “Alabama’s got a great football program,” my dad finally offers, earning a sharp glare from my mom. “Probably the best in the nation,” he adds with an apologetic shrug.

  I want to get up and hug him. Instead, I offer him a bright smile. He returns it from across the width of the table, his eyes sparkling mischievously.

  Sometimes it’s hard to believe my dad’s a college professor—he does not look the part, not by any stretch of the imagination. He’s tall and lanky, with messy light brown hair and pale green eyes. He looks way more at home in cargo pants and army-green T-shirts than he does in khakis and cardigans, more comfortable on the gun range or in his workshop than he does in his office or classroom. Think Daryl Dixon from The Walking Dead teaching physics. Yeah, that’s Daddy. He’s pretty awesome.

  I take a bite of mashed potatoes, savoring their warm, gooey goodness. Lou really is an exceptional cook.

  “Homecoming’s next month,” Mama says, obviously desperate to change the subject—to get it back on h
er track. “I hear they’re having a reception this year at the sorority house for alumnae and their daughters. I can’t wait for Jemma to see how nice the girls are and—”

  “Mama,” I interrupt, rolling my eyes. “Please.”

  “Can’t you just imagine the two of them next year at the Phi Delta Carnation Ball?” Laura Grace asks, clapping her hands together.

  Daddy looks confused. “The two of who?”

  “Why, Ryder and Jemma, of course.” Mama pats him on the hand. “You remember the Carnation Ball—it’s the first Phi Delta party of the year. They have to go together, right, Laura Grace?”

  She nods. “We’ve been waiting all our lives for this.”

  Mama finally glances my way and sees my scowl. “Aw, honey. We’re just teasing, that’s all.”

  This sort of teasing has been going on my entire life—second verse, same as the first. It’s gotten real old, real fast.

  “May I be excused?” I ask, pushing back from the table.

  “You go on and finish your dinner,” Laura Grace says, entirely unperturbed. “We’ll stop teasing. I promise.”

  “It’s okay. I’m done. It was delicious, thanks. I just need to get some air, that’s all. I’m getting a bit of a headache.”

  Laura Grace nods. “It’s this heat—way too hot for September.” She waves a hand in my direction. “Go on, then. Ryder, why don’t you go get Jemma some aspirin or something.”

  I glance over at Ryder, and our eyes meet. I shake my head, hoping he gets the message. “No, it’s fine. I’m . . . uh . . . I’ve got some in my purse.”

  “Go with her, son,” Mr. Marsden prods. “Be a gentleman, and get her a bottle of water to take outside with her.”

  Ugh. I give up. My escape plot is now ruined.