The Spring Girls

11

I easily found my way to the upstairs bathroom, the one that was connected to Ineesha’s room. She was the oldest daughter of Mrs. King. I wondered if Ineesha was here, too. I hadn’t seen her, but it would be even stranger if Shia’s sister hadn’t bothered to come to town for his engagement party. I stood in front of the mirror for a few minutes before I struggled with my Spanx and relieved myself.

On my way out, I thought I heard male voices talking low, but in a fury. I paused by a heavy painting hanging on the wall. I knew the painting well. It was of the entire King family. I didn’t have to look up at it to know that Mrs. King was wearing a vivid red dress and that a young Shia sat at his mom’s feet, a teddy bear in his small arms. His cheeks were chubby from childhood, and his hair was long on top; clusters of curls sat on his head.

I saw the painting every day that I walked through the empty halls upstairs. Now, as I tried to listen to the conversation through the open door of the room closest to me, I looked around to make sure no one was coming. I hid behind the corner wall. The halls were empty; only faint voices and the echo of music downstairs could be heard. I was surprised that it wasn’t louder up here, given the number of people in the house.

My stomach turned. The King estate always felt so empty. I could always hear my own footsteps clomping on the original hardwood floors—which Mrs. King loved to tell me were from the 1860s—to the high ceilings, which complemented the original crown mouldings that clung to the crème walls. Mrs. King was so proud of her home; she talked about the detail on the stained-glass windows in the attic with far more pride than on those rare moments when she spoke of her only son and his “adventures” around the world.

I began to feel bored and wanted to go back and find Jo, even though she was grinding on my nerves with that Laurie boy.

Right as I took my first step away, I heard a voice I recognized.

“You don’t know that!”

Shia was speaking loud and deep. I slowly slid my feet across the floor, quietly moving closer to the voices.

“I don’t know that?” a booming voice howled toward the empty hall. Something fell and broke against the floor. It sounded like glass smashing.

“You know nothing, boy! You think just because you went on some child’s mission and fed a village of people that you know about the world? Well—”

The voice cut off and I heard Mrs. King say something unintelligible next.

I had never met Mr. King in all my time at the King house. I had only heard his voice once, when he had called the house phone to speak to his wife. His voice was the deepest I had ever heard.

“Are you happy now? You made it clear that you don’t want me to be a part of this family!” Shia yelled.

I wondered if Bell Gardiner was in the room. I couldn’t help my constant craving for drama. It usually wasn’t a coincidence when I found it, but that night I was actually minding my own business, just using the bathroom—trying to get away from the drama of Bell—so it had to have been fate that brought me to hear the argument they were having.

It was strange, though, because unlike in most cases, as I stood in the hallway listening to Mr. King yell at his son, I didn’t feel the adrenaline rush from the drama of it. I felt the hairs on my arm tingling and my back straightening.

“You never deserved to be a part of this family!” Mr. King shouted. “You’re my only son, the only one who can carry my family name, and look at you!”

I thought I heard the sob of a woman.

Bell Gardiner, maybe? I thought to myself, inching closer.

I drew a deep breath and took one last step toward the door. I had never been in that room before, but I knew it was Mr. King’s office. I had passed it once when the door was open, but the only thing I remembered about it was the large desk in the center of the room. Now when I peered around the doorframe, I saw three people.

Shia stood closest to the door, his back turned to me. Across from him was Mr. King, a man almost the height of Reeder. His skin was a deeper brown than Shia’s and his eyes were dark, but they looked so much alike that it surprised me.

Mr. King stepped toward his son, who turned in profile to meet him. Shia’s shirt was untucked now, hanging low below his hips. His face was pulled into a tight grimace, eyes closed and mouth twisted at the corners.

“I thought by now you would be done wasting your time on these childish games,” Mr. King said, his voice going right back to a shout.

Shia spun around and looked at his mom. “Childish games?” He pinched the bridge of his nose and walked in a jagged line across the carpet. “I’m doing what I’m passionate about! Do you have any idea how many people I’ve helped? Fed, taught to read—and here you are still telling me that I’m a child?”

The chime of a cell phone seemed to shriek throughout the room. It rang and rang until Mr. King finally snapped, “I have to take this.”

The clattering of his shoes on the floor echoed back to me—almost through me—in the hallway.

“Of course you do,” Shia said, but his father didn’t respond.

My chest tightened, and I thought about the first time I met Shia King. We had just been stationed in southern Louisiana from the middle of Texas, and I was walking alone around the French Quarter. I remember leaving my sisters and Aunt Hannah at a frozen-yogurt shop, to explore for a few minutes alone. I had never been to the French Quarter before, and it was the one thing I was looking forward to when we got the news about our PCS—permanent change of station—to Louisiana.

I wanted to move from Texas after what happened during my freshman year. It felt like a godsend when my dad sat us down, nervous and ready for the worst reactions from us, and told us girls that we were moving that summer. I cheered, ready to get away from the torturous assholes at my high school. Jo threw a fit, Beth was smiling, and Amy didn’t care at all.

That summer was the summer I reinvented myself. I dyed my hair dark, dark brown, and I cut my bangs. I learned how to do my makeup, and I felt like I could start over.

That particular day, the sun was beating down on my skin as I walked around the cobblestone streets. My shoulders were sunburned within twenty minutes. I was walking aimlessly, just wanting to explore the streets. The sweet smell of sugar led me down Decatur to a creole praline shop.

The building was beautiful; the outside looked so charming, so New Orleans. Blue metal that resembled lace ribbon draped over the windows. It was impossible to think anyone could pass this place without going in. My mouth was watering and my body was overheated and I wasn’t the only soul who came out that day. I was about the twentieth person in line in the big room. The air-conditioning was on high, blowing loudly from the ceiling.

Little carts were full of souvenirs, with the logo of the store on everything from T-shirts to mugs. I grabbed a mug because I couldn’t resist.

“You have to try the chocolate,” a voice behind me said.

I turned around to see Shia standing there, his smile youthful and his eyes frosted green.

“I’ve never been here.”

He smiled at me and glanced at my mug. “I figured.”

I turned back around.

A few moments later, his fingers tapped my shoulder. “You didn’t get the chocolate,” he said as I took my first bite of the crunchy praline treat.

I almost got the chocolate, but chose not to just to spite him. Our relationship kept with that pattern. Him giving me advice and me doing the opposite, just to prove a point. It’s why we would never work. We tried a few times, but neither of us had the patience to put up with the other.

“Meg? What are you doing up here?”