Magnolia (4 page)

I pause on the front porch only long enough to give Beau and Sadie a quick scratch behind the ear. It's impossible not to smile at the mismatched pair—Beau's a chocolate Lab mix, Sadie some sort of silver-blond terrier mash-up. They're rescues, just like the three cats lying indolently in the grass, sunning themselves. Kirk, Spock, and Sulu—Daddy named them. 'Course, Sulu turned out to be a she and thus should have been named Uhura instead, but whatever.

Embarrassed that I even
know
this, I make my way down the porch steps and across the yard, trying to get away from the house as fast as I can. Beau and Sadie join me, their tongues lolling happily as they race ahead of me and then circle back to my side, rubbing against my legs before racing off again.

I head toward the barn, thinking I'll get some target practice in. Since we don't have horses, my dad has turned the barn into a workshop for him and a makeshift shooting range for me. It's my favorite place to blow off steam and get my head on straight—two things I'm in desperate need of right now. Between this whole crazy thing with Patrick and last night's argument with Ryder, well . . .

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. “Is 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.