Chapter 1 Georgia #2
As a group we are Louises. It was a sliver of proof of my belonging among them.
Any way I dice it, my name should’ve been a revolution. A ticket to an enviable life beyond the shop.
Until I couldn’t make good on the version of myself Mama planned for me. Until I didn’t turn out particularly glittery. Until
I came to resemble a fairly average person. And the eagerness to please Mama’s memory turned to guilt inside me.
The elevator doors open and my mind clears as the sprawling open workspace appears in front of me. Most of the desks are empty
since it’s after five. I snake through the rows and rows of low cubicles in shades of greige to my perch, in similar bland
neutrals, outside Felix’s office. The door clicks open as I approach, and I catch sight of Sophie. She begins to bound out
but corrects herself into a slow walk when she presumably remembers she’s a preteen now and a bit too cool to be excited about
a strange woman in her thirties.
I raise a hand, trying to look cool. “Hey, Soph.”
She walks up and slouches on my desktop.
“You’re stuck with me again, huh?” I say, setting my bag on the desktop and pulling out my phone.
“Can we do a massive fishtail that goes all the way down like a French braid?” she asks.
It’s my favorite thing about hanging with Sophie—and probably one of the bigger reasons she reminds me so much of Junie—her
love for hair. We’ve done every variety of French braid, mastered the fishtail, executed peak early 2000s butterfly clip styles,
and even experimented with temporary hair colors (with her dad’s permission). She once asked me to cut it, but that was where
I had to draw the line.
“Of course.” I smile and reach into my bag, then pull out my jumbo case of rainbow hair ties, clips, and every other hair
trinket a girl could dream of. “I came prepared.”
Sophie squeaks and claps in excitement.
A tight part of my insides unfurls with relief. I’ve been waiting, expecting the moment when she decides she’s too cool for
me. Because along with the inevitable polite “No thanks, I’m not into that anymore,” Sophie will close this magical window in my mind that allows me to go home for a bit, to see Junie, to revisit the moments
we were closest.
Felix comes out of his office, pulling on a sport coat and finger combing his hair. “Thanks again for this, Georgia. You’re
always Sophie’s first choice.”
I squeeze a quiet smile. I must admit babysitting isn’t exactly the picture I had of a Friday evening at thirty-two, but this
is different. Sophie’s mom has been in and out of treatment facilities for her addiction and the mental health problems that
have sprung from it like tendrils. I don’t know the details—they aren’t really my business anyway—but I feel a special desire
to show up for Sophie. She’s eleven years old. The same age Junie was when our mom died. I did my best back then to step in
and be there for Junie, to do whatever seemed like a “mom job” and to do it exceptionally, but I know it wasn’t a fix.
Just like my hanging out with Sophie won’t fix her missing her mom. But I know what it’s like growing up without a mom around, and if I can make the girl happy for even a few minutes by braiding her hair, saying yes is a no-brainer.
“You guys good?” Felix asks as he turns to go. He grinds to a halt, slaps a palm to his forehead, and groans. “Dinner. I didn’t plan dinner. Georgia—”
“I’ve got it,” I say, cutting him off.
Sophie grins and shoots a look my way. “We seriously always get the same thing. Pizza. Next to the hair place.”
Felix nods rapidly. “Of course. Yes, of course you do. Again, thank you.”
I wave him off as an exasperated Sophie chimes in, “Dad, just go. Georgia is, like, the most responsible person I know. And we’ve got plans.”
Felix throws us a final wave and disappears toward the elevator, and Sophie wastes no time in pulling up the YouTube video
she found demonstrating the braid she wants me to execute. I watch it a few times to make sure I’ve got it before she settles
on a makeshift pillow at my feet and hands me her brush.
“Braid first, then pizza, right?” I ask as I pull the brush through her brown waves.
“For sure,” she says.
We have a routine: braiding at the office, then pizza downstairs, and last, YouTube or TV on her tablet. It’s never made sense
for us to sit in rush-hour traffic for the drive to their house that’s in the opposite direction of my place. Plus, Felix
keeps these work dinners short, saving what he has of his single-dad energy for outings with true friends. Or at least that’s
what I assume; we aren’t particularly close, to be honest. I have to admit the arrangement suits me, being able to help Felix
out without having to go to his house. The last thing I need is people gossiping at the office about the nature of our relationship.
Sophie is quiet as I braid her hair, only making the occasional comment about shows she’s watching or something a friend told her that she wants to fact-check with me. I’m almost to the end of the braid when my phone rings.
I look over and the screen is lit with Junie’s smiling face, the photo I have saved for her.
“Hang on, Junie,” I tell the phone. “I’ll call you right back.”
The phone rings off then immediately buzzes back to life on the desktop.
“You can get it, you know,” Sophie says. “She’s calling twice in a row—maybe something’s wrong.”
I reach for the phone, thinking the same. Ever since our mama died, even all these years later, I expect the worst every time
Junie calls. As if losing Mama, a force of nature, was so baffling that the only possible explanation is that we are cursed.
It’s a never-ending limbo, waiting until the next catastrophic thing happens. Other bad things have to happen; statistically
it’s the case. But I’ve dedicated myself to being diligent and practiced and organized and efficient enough to minimize whatever
ill arrives on our doorstep. If I can hold it together, it could make all the difference. If the ship goes down and I’ve trained
long and hard enough, I’ll be a strong enough swimmer to save them, the whole family. Maybe even myself too.
I click to accept the call. “Junie.”
I’m met by a quiet sniffling that crescendos into a deep, heart-wrenching sob.
The braid slips from my fingers as I rise to my feet. “What’s happening? Where are you?”
I hear the sound of her breath that she’s trying to catch, the inhale caught on the sorrow reverberating inside her. “It’s—”
She blows her nose. “It’s bad, Georgia. Can you come home?”
“Yes, of course, I’ll leave first thing in the morning, but what’s wrong? What’s happening?”
“I’m so sorry,” Junie says.
“Have you been in a car crash? I’ll call 911.” I turn and reach for the landline on my desk.
“No. Don’t. There’s no crash. I’m at June’s.”
I wait for her to go on.
“I’ve really messed it all up, Georgia,” Junie says. “Like always, with everything I try to do, I’ve messed it up. And this
time it’s the shop. June’s is in trouble.”