The Spring Girls

“With what? It’s just a makeup course.” I shrugged and drank the last little bit of my water.

Shia had stopped eating, and a server came by to clear our plates. I held on to the crostini on my plate, but Shia had them take his away. He tipped her, too, and I wondered how many people I was supposed to tip but didn’t since we arrived. The bellman? The valet? The concierge when they drop off John’s clean uniform in the morning?

“In life. You’re not taking the course you talked about for weeks. And you’re working for my mom, of all people?” Shia dragged out the sentence like he needed me to really listen to what he was saying.

“She pays me well. More than my other job.”

He had a different relationship with Mrs. King than I did, and no matter how intimidating she was to me, I could only hope to be like her one day. She was everything I wanted to be.

“And you’re doing what for her? Long term? Where is that going to get you?”

I didn’t respond, so he kept going. He did soften his voice so it didn’t escalate the way it could have. “My mom said you’re trying to marry John. Is that true?”

“She said that?” The burning in my throat spread up to my ears and cheeks.

“Not literally. But she hinted. She was saying how we could throw you a big engagement party.”

He paused, but I didn’t think he was done talking. I interrupted him anyway. “Like your engagement party?”

He sighed and lifted the bottom of his T-shirt up to wipe his face. A line of his skin peeked out and I looked at my plate. I wanted to look at him, but didn’t want to give him the satisfaction.

“A little like mine. But more romantic, more real, I think.”

“Mm-hmm.” I sat back against the cushioned back of my chair. I didn’t know how romantic my engagement party would be or why Shia was hinting that his wasn’t real, but I didn’t want to play this game. A different woman came by with a pitcher of water and filled my drink.

I swished an ice cube around in my mouth, and he sat forward.

“So that’s it? We’re just going to pretend like we have nothing to talk about?”

“You mean your engagement?”

He shook his head. “No. I meant you. What happened to you having to get the hell out of here?”

“I’m still planning on leaving.”

He licked his lips. “When?”

“Soon. I don’t know. My dad’s gone, and Jo hasn’t even graduated yet. I can’t just leave them. I’m working and saving my money.”

The sleeping old man from the couch was now up and moving, searching through a basket of potato-chip bags on the counter under the TV closest to us.

“Soon, huh?” Shia asked.

I was so annoyed that I felt like my anger was going to stain the upholstered chair under me with blotchy black streaks. “What’s your problem? Why are you starting shit with me?”

“I’m not. I’m just wondering why you’ve changed your whole plan around, and now what? You’re looking at whatever base John’s gonna be stationed at?”

His response reminded me of his speech right before I was supposed to meet him last fall. Winter had come since and now we were on the verge of spring.

“Seriously, Meg. You’re nineteen. You have so much time to do your own thing before you become a—”

“Stop.” I held my hand up. “Don’t try to lecture me. You’re engaged, Shia.”

“Why do you keep repeating that? Does that have something to do with you, Meg? I thought I was delusional and made us all up in my head? So if that’s true, why do you keep bringing my engagement up?”

He had me there. I didn’t want to talk about the day we blew up whatever scraps of a relationship we had and now had this awkward, barely speaking faux-ship going on that scratched at my skin. I didn’t want things to be so muddled between us. Arguing with Shia usually made me bloom with laughter and feel a little spark on the tip of my tongue, but as I sat here in the fancy Club Room in the luxurious Ritz-Carlton in the famous French Quarter in New Orleans, it felt like wading through a thick vat of maple syrup.

“Oh, don’t hold your tongue now,” he said after we stared at each other for a minute.

The old man walked away with three bags of salt-and-pepper chips and a bottle of Coke tucked under his arm.

I told a little seed of truth: “I didn’t say you were delusional.”

He laughed without a sound. “Yes, you did. You told Reeder a really, really not-true story about us. You’ve been telling yourself that same story?” he asked, but he wasn’t asking.

“What was I supposed to say? I don’t want any drama in our group. You shouldn’t either. So I said what I needed to say to clear myself.”

“It’s always about you, isn’t it—and who’s ‘our group’? No one talks to me while I’m gone. No one talks to John either, except me, and even that’s not often. There doesn’t have to be drama. I’m not River.”

My pulse shot through the roof of the Club Room.

Shia kept going. “I wouldn’t have been pissed at you for not coming with me. That’s your choice and your life. But it would have been nice if you could have just told me you weren’t coming to the airport. I would have understood if you would have just told me. Been honest with me.” He cupped his hands together and moved them slowly.

“I thought I was being honest. I thought I could be like Jo for once and just jump on a plane and leave without a plan.”

In a flat voice he said, “We had a plan. It was literally a planned trip with my dad’s foundation.”

“You know what I mean.” His sarcastic semantics weren’t going to get us anywhere. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you”—I remembered just how hard I left him hanging—“until you landed.”

“I’m not ma—”

“Well, well, well, look who it is!” John suddenly exclaimed by our side, patting Shia on the back. His hair was wet, so he must have showered, but he couldn’t have worked out so fast.

And just like that, they were bros and hugging and their smiles were so big and so fake, I could spot the insincerity a mile away.

30

jo

When Beth walked back into the kitchen, the color was drained from her face. On her heels were two men in Army uniform.

Meredith dropped to her knees before they spoke.

Beth rushed toward her.

I felt like my socks were rooted into the ground. I couldn’t move as chaos erupted in the room.

My mom was screaming, but the voices of the men broke through it.

“Meredith, Meredith! It’s just an injury. I only came because Frank is my friend. I’m sorry to have frightened you!” the taller man yelled.

My dad’s supposed friend looked like he wanted to get the hell out of Dodge. His cheeks were so red and the newspapers from the counter were all over the floor.

“Where is he? Where’s my husband?” Meredith demanded.

The other man took a step forward, and his boot covered a picture of a homecoming ceremony for the Scout platoon who came home last week.

“Germany. He’s at a hospital there while he gains his strength to come home.”

“Germany?” Beth asked.

I told her that most injured soldiers end up in Germany before coming home to the U.S.

Beth wrapped something around my mom’s shoulders, and I felt like we were on an episode of True Life or something. It all felt like it wasn’t really happening to us. It felt like an article on the internet. I read once that by watching too many documentaries and Facebook videos, you can become desensitized to violence in front of you in real time because your brain and memory are not able to tell the difference from watching it happen virtually.

The room spun a little until my mom calmed down. Beth got my mom to sit in Dad’s recliner with a cup of something that smelled a little stronger than coffee.

Beth called Aunt Hannah and our grandparents.

Twenty minutes beforehand, I was rummaging

through old newspapers in my room upstairs. I was listening to music and searching through page after page of homecoming ceremony coverage. I wasn’t even sure what I was doing with them yet, but I knew Laurie had a plan when he gave me a list of names to search for. It suddenly seemed incredibly unimportant as my mom’s shoulders were shaking under the blanket wrapped around her.