This stuff really pissed me off, I mean really, but I bit my tongue as I had promised to and fought Ashley’s fire with a new brand of my own—the Magnolia Court Handbook, of all things! Who would have guessed that reading it from cover to cover three times would turn out to be the best weapon ever? It provided me with such grenades as “Oh, dear Ashley, a Maid never raises uncomfortable subjects in public, Magnolia Court Handbook, chapter six, page twelve.” “A Maid never calls attention to another’s physical condition, including pregnancy, unless it is mentioned by the other first or if assistance is necessary, chapter seven, page twenty-four.” This really made old Trashley see red. Who would have believed how much fun you could have with rules? So refreshing!
Time to interrupt our programming for some smokin’-hot news items:
LUKE CHURCHVILLE TOTALLY DRIVE-BY STALKED ME!
I am so serious. It happened a few days after the Episcopal Church incident. There I was on the roof outside my bedroom window lighting up a ciggie. (I had determined upon moving back to Grandmother’s house that this was the least likely place to be caught smoking. After all, she wasn’t going to haul her sixty-five-year-old self out there looking for me.) Anyway, it was around ten o’clock at night, when I suddenly spied a car turning onto my street a few blocks away. I didn’t give it much thought UNTIL IT SLOWED DOWN as it approached my house. I’m talking, to a crawl. What in the world? It was some kind of older diesel sedan, oddly familiar, with headlights bulging like the eyes of a frog. I could see the outline of a face turned to look at my house. Whoever it was had angled their head in such a way that he/she/it could glance upstairs in the direction of my bedroom window. Seconds later, the car moved through the beams of a streetlight and that’s when I saw—fanfare, please—the face of Luke Churchville! Turned up. Looking at me. Our eyes locked, and one Mississippi, two Mississippi, three…
His face jerked forward. The car, his dad’s old convertible Mercedes, I think, sped up, and the moment was over. But the damage was done.
A grin spread across my face. Ear to frickin’ ear. He was looking for me. Luke Churchville was drive-by-stalker looking for me. Nice.
News flash number two: MR. WALTER APPROVED THE BEACH CLEANUP FUND-RAISER! Mizz Upton was clearly not thrilled to relay that news to us, but we girls were psyched. With the exception of you know who! So now, in addition to rehearsals and dress fittings, we were out on a regular basis soliciting donations for the event, which we had decided to do the first Saturday in June.
News flash number three: MALLORY AND BRANDI LYN COMPLETELY BONDED! The other day Brandi Lyn ran late into rehearsal wearing her waitress uniform from Karl’s Kajun Krawfish Shack, apologizing up a storm. “Oh, Mizz Upton, I am so sorry! We got slammed down at the Shack! All these English guys are in town from the oil company that caused the spill.”
Mallory went berserk. “Oh my gosh, you work at the Krawfish Shack? I love the Krawfish Shack!”
“Ugh. Why?” Ashley grimaced. “It stinks in there.”
“That’s just because you don’t like fish, Ashley. But the Kajun cheese fries are the best on the gulf, I swear.”
“I know!” enthused Brandi Lyn. “Do you ever get them with bacon?”
“I love them with bacon!” That, right there, sparked the Brandi Lyn/Mallory love connection, but it was the arrival of Miss Dinah Mae with the fabric for our dresses that set it aflame. We had been asked to rank the hideous pastel colors in order of preference for our dresses. Each girl had to be in a different color and that color was finally determined by Mizz Upton and a team of experts. But we got to weigh in. As we all shared our top picks, Brandi Lyn and Mallory discovered that they had chosen the same three colors and ranked them in the same exact order, wasn’t that amazing!? When Mizz Upton announced that Brandi Lyn got lavender and Mallory got spring green—their first and second choices—they worked themselves into a frenzy of compliments about how beautiful each would look.
As for the rest of us, Caroline was left with pukey peach, poor thing, not a good color on anyone, but she was the alternate, so she had to take what she could get. Zara was happy to learn that her dress would be yellow because it looked good with her complexion. Ashley and I were the disappointed ones: Mizz Upton put me in pink and Ashley in blue. Huh? Pink was nowhere near my list, and blue was Ashley’s third choice! I offered to trade with her, but Mizz Upton wouldn’t hear of it. Apparently, she and the committee strongly felt that pink went with my Greek Southern skin and that blue would compliment Ashley’s eyes.
Sweet Thorns in a Thornbush! Me in pink? Ugh.
News flash number four: I was STILL OFFICIALLY LUKE CHURCHVILLE-OBSESSED. Great Gorgeousness on a Gin Blossom, I cannot tell a lie. He had grown himself up into a hottie pa-tottie, and sighting him at church had been enough to stir any straight girl’s senses, but the fact that he had done a drive-by look-see of my house meant he now had taken up permanent residence in my head. Everywhere I went, I pictured the two of us together. On my morning jog down Bird River Parkway, I would see us cruising in his dad’s old convertible, singing retro eighties tunes at the top of our lungs. When I passed the Picklefish Pizza and Sandwich Company, I pictured us munching muffulettas on the roof and making fun of the Friday night revelers as they stumbled out of the bars and clubs that line Le Moyne Street. Sprinting through Bienville Square, I imagined us dashing, hand in hand, through the fountain, trying to make it through before another stream of water spouted up.
Ewww. Could I get any more Harlequin romance all up inside my head?
Alas, I couldn’t help it. Everywhere was Luke Churchville; Luke Churchville was everywhere.
The thing is, we were best friends at one time. Shouldn’t we see each other again? More than once, I pulled out my phone and scrolled down to his number. Yes, I had his home number in my phone. Stalkery, I know, but hey, what if he decided to call me one day? I’d need to know it was him before I picked up the phone, just to have my game face on, right? But then I’d scold myself, “Jump into reality, Jane! You haven’t talked to him in five years! You can’t just call out of the blue.” There were just too many unknowns. I had no idea what he was like now. He could be a total jerk for all I knew.
I suspected Ashley and Mallory would know his 411.
Not that I would ever, EVER deign to ask them.
But then news flash number five: I did. Sort of. “Hey there, do you have a sec?” No, that wasn’t me on the verge of asking Ashley or Mallory about Luke Churchville. It was Mallory asking if she could talk to me. Hmmmmmm. Breaking ranks with Ashley to converse avec moi? Intriguing. That merits a news flash, so I’ll make it number six.
“Sure.” We were midway through our Magnolia training torture, a mere three weeks away from our grand debut at Boysenthorp Gardens, and we were gathered in the multipurpose room of the chamber of commerce for the first fitting of our dresses. Miss Dinah Mae had called and said she was going to be late with them, so we were just twiddling our thumbs until she arrived. I followed Mallory down to the ladies’ room. “What’s going on?” I asked.
Mallory’s shoulders heaved in a sigh. “Well, it’s just that… Jane, you know we do have our problems and all.”
“And all.”
“But you are a really honest person, always saying what you’re thinking, right?”
“Pretty much so.”
“Telling the truth all the time?”
“Enough to get me in trouble on a fairly regular basis. What is it?”
Mallory sighed again. “I can’t really say.”
“Nice chat, Mal. Let’s do it again sometime.” I moved to go, until she latched on to my arm.
“No, Jane, wait, please!” Worry seeped from her words, so I waited. “What if you knew something that would upset someone really badly, really hurt them, and other people knew it, too, but you swore to the person doing the something that you wouldn’t tell anyone, and you didn’t want to hurt that someone person by telling them but you think maybe they should know?”
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Did anyone catch that? “Try again, Mallory, with a little less confusion, a little more information.”
“Oh, I can’t! I was sworn to secrecy. I can’t break that promise!”
“Okay, empty the contents of your makeup bag.” Blank look, but Mallory did it, and out came at least five hundred dollars in beauty products. “Okay, pick a product.”
She picked a Smashbox lipstick in a berry color called Sublime. I held it up. “This is you. Pick another product.” She handed me a compact of M.A.C. Studio Fix. “Okay, give this one a role in our drama.”
“The someone who would be upset really badly,” Mallory said.
“And wasn’t there a person you swore you wouldn’t tell?”
“She can be the miniature bottle of Chanel Number Five. Actually, ooh. Can I be the Chanel Number Five?”
“Whatever. Okay, so that means that the lipstick is who?”
“The person I told I wouldn’t tell.”
“Great. Now, act it out with the makeup.”
“Okay. So Smashbox lipstick, that’s the person who swore me to secrecy.”
“I get it.”
“Well, Smashbox is cheating with Studio Fix’s boyfriend.” She picked up a bottle of OPI nail polish. “This is Studio Fix’s boyfriend.”
“Oh no!”
“Yes! It’s terrible!”
I picked up the Chanel N°5. “And you, Chanel, you are the only one who knows?”
Mallory bit her lip. “No. That’s the problem, Jane. It’s getting around, and Studio Fix is going to find out, I just know it, and I am terrified—simply could not be more terrified!—as to what’s going to happen when she does.”
I paused. “What does Ashley think about all this?” Mallory was silent. “Ohhhhhh. She’s one of the parties, isn’t she?”
“I am totally and completely sworn to secrecy.”
“Okay. Here’s what I would do if I were Chanel Number Five. I would think about who was more important to me, Smashbox or Studio Fix. And then I would decide based on that whether or not to tell Studio Fix.”
“But then Smashbox will hate me!”
“It’s a tough world, Mallory. It’s either lipstick or foundation.”
Looking sad, Mallory stuffed her makeup back in her bag and moved to leave. “You’re right. Thanks, Jane.”
I thought, Well, here’s my chance. It’s now or never. “Wait, Mallory, I have a question for you. Do you know this guy, his name is ummmm, Luke Churchville?”
“Luscious Luke! He’s friends with my brother. He’s just the cutest thing since Bradley Cooper!” Her eyes widened with excitement. “Oh my God, do you have a crush on him?”
I acted as cool as I possibly could. “No, no, nothing like that. We just used to be… neighbors. And his family doesn’t seem to live on my street anymore.”
“Oh no, they moved out by the golf club. So, what? Do you want to try to see him?”
And here we were back to the same question that kept eating at me: did I or did I not want to see him? Suddenly, I felt incredibly nervous.
Mallory could tell. “Oh, you know what, I think his family’s on a trip to Hilton Head right now. I don’t think he’s even here.”
“Oh. Okay.”
“But if you want I can totally tell my brother. We could meet them over at Picklefish or something one night.”
No! I screamed in my head. No way, no how, not in this lifetime!
What I actually said was, “No, that’s okay. I’ll run into him sooner or later.” The last thing in the world I wanted was some orchestrated reunion. Where we’d be in the spotlight and everyone would be all excited and watching, all, “Look at the cuties, they haven’t seen each other in ages, do you think they’ll fall in love again?”
Last thing in the world.
And now, for news flash number seven: MY FATHER IS COMING TO TOWN!!! I came home from brunch with Teddy Mac one day to find Grandmother out on the back porch, staring into her glass of sweet tea and swirling the ice around like a teacup on that Disney World ride. Swirl, swirl, swizzle, swirl. “Jane, darling, I need to talk to you.”
“Ooh. Sounds ominous.”
“Your father called this afternoon.”
“There we go. Is ominous.” I acted all calm and cool as I sank into the seat beside her. “Does he want me to call him back?” These little phone calls from my father happened about once a month. He’d call in from London or Athens or wherever it was he happened to be, and demand to know how the hell I was. Such lovely conversations they were. In between caring, concerned questions like, “You’re not embarrassing me, are you, Jane?” “What’s this about straight Cs, Jane?” “You’re a Ventouras. Aren’t you smarter than that?” He’d bark out orders to his secretary or put me on hold to pick up another call. Eventually, he’d come back on the line and tell me to “Straighten up, make the family proud, be good.” The only nice thing about these calls was getting to hear my father’s voice. He has such a beautiful voice, as deep and sun-kissed as the Aegean Sea that surrounded his beloved Greek Isles. It was layered with the British accent he acquired from growing up in London after my grandfather moved his shipping conglomerate there, and if he weren’t always berating me for something or other, I could have listened to that voice all the livelong day.
“So what did old Cosmo have to say for himself?” I took a swig of sweet tea.
“He’s coming to the Magnolia Court Debut.”
I spit my mouthful of tea all over the verandah. Mizz Upton surely would have kicked me off the Court if she’d witnessed this violation of all things ladylike. “Here? At Boysenthorp Gardens? Are you kidding me?”
“He wants to see how you’re getting along now that you’re back at home.”
“Well, I’m fine, thank you. Didn’t you tell him that?”
“Of course I did. Truth be told, I suspect he wants to check up on me as well.”
“Well, you’re doing great!” I groaned out loud. “What’s his problem? I haven’t seen him in ages and now he decides to pop over for a visit? What for? I haven’t gotten kicked out of anything lately!”
“No. In fact, you’ve been better than I ever could have expected.”
“Please, Grandmama, call and tell him not to come. I don’t want to see him right now. Please. Please, please.”
“Well, I’m not going to do that.” She looked down into her tea glass again. “I invited him.”
My jaw hit the ground. “You invited him? Why would you do that?”
She sighed. “As you know, I do not entirely approve of the choices your father has made in raising you since your mother passed way.”
“No kidding.” Grandmother shot me an expectant look. “No kidding, ma’am.”
“It is one of the great sorrows of my life that your mother did not live long enough to raise you into a young woman.” Her voice caught in her throat at the mention of Cecilia. “I realize your father may not be the most present and accessible of parents, but he is your father, the only father you have, and you need to appreciate him more.”
All I could do was stare at her. “Unbelievable. Seriously. I see the man, maybe, I don’t know, twice a year, he has zero involvement in my life on a daily basis, and you’re telling me that I am supposed to appreciate him?”
“You live in the lap of luxury, Jane. He pays for your schooling, your clothing, your allowance,” she replied. “Your life could be so much worse. You should be thankful for what you have instead of resentful of what you don’t.”
How could she say this? There’s no way she could mean it. Not with our history. But she had that whole stern-look/furrowed-brow thing going on which meant she wasn’t just serious. She was dead serious.
“Really, Grandmama? Is that what you’re selling? That I should be happy because he throws a few bones in my direction every once in a while? Uh-uh. Sorry, I’m not buying.” I stood up from the table. “And excuse my profanity, but if he’s going to be the world’s crappiest father, then no on
e should expect me to be anything but the world’s crappiest daughter.” I grabbed my purse. “I’m going for a drive.”
As I stomped off, Grandmother yelled after me. “Family is family, Jane. You may not respect that right now, but you will one day!”
“Why? Why, why, why, why, why?” I punctuated each “why” with a punch of the steering wheel. The speedometer was hovering around eighty and the steel girders of the Bienville Bay Bridge were flying by. There’s something about hitting and stomping and pushing things that feels oh so satisfying when what you’d really like to do is put somebody’s eyes out.
“Get out of the way, blue hairs!” I punched the horn and slammed on the brakes to avoid a couple of sweet little old ladies out for their afternoon drive. “If you can’t keep up, get out of the way! Or I’m calling the nursing home!” Seriously, the centenarian in front of me was clutching the steering wheel like a lifeline. Not exactly the model of a responsible driver.
Neither is a pissed-off seventeen-year-old flooring it up to ninety.
I used to call the man who is my father “Daddy.” It’s a term of such affection, one that implies cozying up in front of a fireplace to read a storybook, tugging on a shirt hem to beg for a lollipop, or the keys to the minivan so you can run to the mall and spend his money, depending on your age. “Dad” has a more serious ring to it, no longer little girly, a bit more mature, very much “I’m too grown up to call my daddy ‘Daddy.’” “Papa,” well, that was tailor-made for an old man, and “Father” has a formal ring to it, like you live in a castle with servants and minions. I’ve never known what to call my father because, well, he was never around, not after my mother died. Except for fleeting visits and monthly phone calls, I never knew where he was or what he was doing.
So “Daddy,” as I called him back then, was never around, but then Grandmother strong-armed him into coming to Bienville to see me one Thanksgiving. Sound familiar? It’s just like what she was doing with this Magnolia Maid Debut. That time, she had this big plan that Daddy and I would go off to Disney World for a little family fun. How excited was my twelve-year-old heart? RIDICULOUSLY. I had been telling everyone at school about it for days and days and weeks and weeks. Made everyone pea green with envy. Made myself pea green with excitement.
Never Sit Down in a Hoopskirt and Other Things I Learned in Southern Belle Hell Page 11
