The Spring Girls

I wondered if boys were taught the same. Once, Meg told me that girls who were prettier had easier lives. I didn’t believe her then, and I didn’t think I could ever agree with that. I wondered if the pretty girls Laurie could date were ever interesting. It wasn’t fair to assume they weren’t, but since I didn’t have much social experience, I only had the basic stereotypes to base my ideas on.

After a few minutes, Laurie changed the subject. “What about high school?”

I groaned. “I hate it. I can’t wait to be a journalist. Or a businesswoman. Or a writer, or all three.”

Laurie’s expression changed and I thought he wanted to say something, but he kept tapping his lips with his fingers and pulling at the corners of them. I used to do that when I was younger, and I constantly had the worst red rash around my mouth. Meg called it my “ring around the rosie,” and Amy told me it was a disease. There were two types of people, I supposed. Well, three, including sweet Beth, who helped rub cream on my lips before bed.

I started telling him about high school and how I felt about my teachers. Mostly Mr. Geckle, and how he kicked me off the newspaper and demoted me to yearbook. Laurie laughed a lot and looked pissed a lot, especially about Mr. Geckle and his red cheeks and hairy fingers.

“You have such a funny way of explaining things and telling stories. It’s so . . . so . . . true, but told in a way I wouldn’t have thought of,” Laurie said. “When I was younger, my dad had this girlfriend who talked like you. She lived in New England somewhere, and she was like a Gypsy or something.”

I laughed like it was a silly thing to say, but I loved the comparison.

“Do you want a tour of the house?” Laurie asked me the third time his phone rang.

But by the time we reached the big staircase, Meredith had texted me and told me that my dad would be calling in twenty minutes. I told Laurie I had to go, and he showed me to the door.

Old Mr. Laurence was watching me and opened his mouth like he wanted to say something before I left, but he turned away and disappeared behind another door.

15

meg

“Jo? Jo? Where are you?” I cried, standing at the bottom of our staircase.

I heard a small “Here!” from upstairs. It sounded like it was coming from our bedroom, and sure enough, when I got there, I found Jo reading The Bell Jar and covered shoulder to toes in our dad’s plaid blanket that usually rests on the back of his armchair.

This was Jo’s utopia: a bowl of Bugles on her lap and her fingers gripping the binding of a novel. It gave her some sort of refuge; we all knew that. Meredith reminded us of our strengths and our weaknesses. Jo was smart—education would come easy to her. And me, well, I was beautiful and charming. I may not be as book-smart, but I’m street-smart, and sometimes that gets you further in life. We would see.

Jo would be fine, and Amy would be, too. Beth was the only one I worried about.

“What can I help you with?” Jo’s eyes regretfully pulled away from her book. She held the edges tightly in her hand, careful not to lose her place.

“Look.” I held up the screen of my phone, showing the Facebook invite with Bell Gardiner’s smug face on it.

Ugh, why would she even invite me? Just to rub it in my face that she’s part of that family now?

“Miss Gardiner, soon to be Mrs. King, invited us to the King family’s New Year’s Day dinner. Isn’t that nice?” I stomped in a line. I was trying to be calm, but I didn’t have much patience at that moment.

Jo sighed and closed her book. Her eyes were full of maturity and wisdom when she spoke. She was changing and evolving every day, it felt like.

“Do you really want to go, Meg? Or is this some weird social sabotage that we shouldn’t get ourselves involved in? It feels like a setup to me. I’ve read stories that started like this,” Jo finished, full of skepticism and fire.

“Jo,” I sighed. She just didn’t get it. I didn’t want to go per se, but I sort of had to. I had to pretend that I wasn’t bothered by Bell Gardiner’s new fiancé, new thoroughbred family that I longed for, dramatically. I didn’t care about her advancement into a part of society that a woman who works at a bar has no business being in.

I could work my way up to that same level; I just needed time. Bell Gardiner was older than me and had a head start anyway. When John got back, I would make up for it. I would be with a man who adored me, and that was all I ever wanted in life. Well, that and beautiful, sweet, happy children, a nice house, and a good marriage. I knew that Jo didn’t share the same values, but I hoped she would have my back on this.

“Yes, I want to go. What are we going to wear?” I asked her, changing the direction of the conversation. I only had two hours to get ready. It was obvious that whatever reason Bell had for inviting me in the first place came as a late thought, which annoyed me more than the randomness of the invite did.

Jo pulled the blue-and-gray-plaid blanket away from her body and looked down. “What I’m wearing is fine?” She revealed a gray T-shirt and dark blue jeans with rips up the legs.

“You have to wear a dress, Jo. You have to. Look at this invitation! There’s going to be matching silverware and people serving us dinner—you can’t wear jeans.”

I usually loved Jo’s chill Los Angeles style, but not for something like this. Mrs. King would be offended as hell if I brought my sister to her annual New Year’s Day dinner wearing jeans.

“I don’t own a dress.” Jo shrugged like it wasn’t a big deal at all. And fair enough, to her it wasn’t; but for me, this was monumental. There had to be a reason that Bell Gardiner was inviting me. The invite hadn’t come from Mrs. King, as I would have hoped. I didn’t expect to be invited at all, but it would have been a totally different story if Mrs. King herself had invited me, especially since we had had some QT last night.

So I had to be on my best behavior with Mrs. King, and Jo’s wearing jeans wouldn’t cut it.

“Josephine. You have to wear or a dress or I can’t go.” I tried not to let my voice crack.

I hated that I was so worked up over this. I couldn’t help it. When I thought of Bell Gardiner dazzling in that green dress the other night, it made me panic and imagine how dressed up everyone would be in such a formal setting. I couldn’t stand to be the one person who looked like they didn’t belong.

“Jo, please. Can’t you wear one of Beth’s or mine? Just find something to wear! But it has to be a dress.” I was anxious.

Jo sat up and set her book on the desk at the end of her bed. “Then I won’t go. I don’t like these snotty, negative-energy social hurdles. They’re pointless, and I don’t care who likes me and who doesn’t.”

She was being ridiculous. I didn’t know how two sisters could be so different. It didn’t seem possible that this long-haired, long-legged firecracker was my blood. She couldn’t care less about her reputation or what boys, or girls, in her grade thought of her. Honestly, I cared more what the women thought; they were the ones judging. Sometimes I thought I wanted to be more like Jo, but when I imagined the lonely realities, I quickly broke with the ludicrous idea.

“Come on, Jo.”

She closed her eyes and held them shut, the way she always did, and I let my mind wander for a moment. I thought about Shia. What he would wear, how he would act around Mr. King after their fight yesterday. My stomach felt like I’d drank rotten milk. I hoped this feeling would let up before the dinner. When I would worry like this, my dad had a way of talking me down. My dad, Shia, Jo . . . they were all so different, yet somehow tied to me and my life.

“You can wear something of mine, Jo. Anything you want.”

I was being so helpful.

The moment she nodded her reluctant assent, I ran off to shower and shave and pluck and plump.

Two hours later, we were standing by our front door, Jo wearing a denim dress of mine. One of the straps was hanging a little off her shoulder, and her long hair was toppled over to one side, the part in the middle nonexi

stent and messy. It fit her so well. Jo had that type of face and thick hair that could pull off the messy look. When I tried that, I looked more bedhead than beach waves.

She looked like she was in California, not Louisiana, but she looked completely striking. She always did. Women in Sephora would pay forty bucks a pop for the natural blush on her cheeks.

“We’re doing this,” I said to her, and she nodded her defiant head at me and I somehow knew she would be down for anything I asked her to do. It made me love her more, and I felt our bond grow. It had been happening a lot lately. Jo was finally at that age where we could relate again. At a few ages it always fades a little, like twelve and fourteen through sixteen. But now she was almost seventeen, and I finally felt like she was cool to hang out with again.

“We’re doing this.” She smiled back at me.

I always loved her, but sisterly love is different from friend, complete-comfort love. There were things I’d told my friends in Texas that I would be absolutely humiliated about if Jo or sweet Beth knew. Lately Jo had been blurring the line between sister and friend.

It made me feel good, having another person to trust. Of course I trusted my mom and all of my sisters, but trust and ease don’t always go hand in hand. It was hard to find those people, and I tended to trust the wrong people again and again.