Chapter 3 Georgia
Georgia
garbage can. We say goodbye—a hug from Sophie, a wave to Felix—and I head out.
I take the elevator down to the lowest level of the underground parking garage for the offices in our building. Few cars are
left, and as I approach my Audi, it sends my guts roiling and acid creeping up my throat in shame.
This overpriced hunk of metal costs more than my annual salary. It’s absurd and impossible and inescapable, and I hate every
stupid inch of it. Every mechanical part, each and every screw. It reminds me of every lie I’ve told my family, every time
I’ve come up short, every way I never lived up to my potential.
This car is proof of how far I’ve fallen.
It’s the only part of my life they can see when I go back home. Junie, my dad, and the aunts. It’s fake proof that I’ve achieved
the life I was supposed to have. It’s a physical example they can point to when I return home, and their friends say, “I saw Georgia in that car of hers,” and the aunts can continue to brag and wear their pride like a silky blouse with a loud print.
I felt like I didn’t have much of a choice when I traded in Mama’s old Buick, the car my father gifted me on my way to college, just to show them I’d made their dreams for me a reality.
That the success had come and with it a paycheck hefty enough to upgrade.
Upgrade the car, certainly; I just wondered if they also thought I’d upgraded from my small-town life, from the shop.
Heavens, I hope they never thought I could upgrade from them.
That Buick had been the only family car at the time, and gifting it to me was my dad’s big act of faith that planted a bowling
ball of expectation in my belly. Heavy love.
I glance away, telling myself I’m scanning for strangers lurking in dark corners, because the car also reminds me of another
truth: I’ve doubled down too many times on this Georgia Plan, and despite my dreaming and scheming and pleading to the heavens
to just go back, there isn’t a real way there.
Not truly and not all the way home.
Nevertheless, tomorrow, I will go there. In this car. But I’ll always be stuck in between. Somewhere in the gulf between their
expectations and my reality, between who I should be and who I can be. And all at my own doing.
I tap the remote, and the glossy navy sedan emits a high-end bleep that echoes within the cavernous garage. The door pops
open with an effortless squeeze, and I slide into my liar’s chariot, the buttery leather grating on my conscience. The ignition
roars to life, and I drive out of the parking garage, through the streets where traffic has lightened, out of this swanky
part of town, and into my neighborhood. I slide my hand over the leather steering wheel to signal a turn into a ratty strip
mall, and the stack of gold bangles on my left arm jangles. I pull up behind the building and park my car with the rest of
the beaters that unwealthy, overextended people like me can truly afford. I live in a dump because that’s also what I can
afford—once I’ve paid for the car.
When I walk in through the flimsy apartment door, it feels like going underground.
The apartment building sits behind the strip mall, but the building itself appears to have been originally constructed for commercial use.
The living room is the only room in the place with real windows, but they’re covered with hippie-style tapestries belonging to my roommate, Moon.
Moon is short for Moonbeam, or at least that’s what she tells me, but I’d bet real money on the fact that she’s probably a Brittany or Jessica on her birth certificate.
Moon sits crossed-legged on our—her—corduroy sofa in what seems to be a trance.
She’s likely partaken of the marijuana she sells out of our place—activities
to which I turn a blind eye in exchange for cut-rate rent.
I pass by her and make it all the way to my room, but she hears the squeak of my door as I open it.
“Georgia, that you?”
I certainly hope there wouldn’t be any other strangers sneaking in while she zones out in the living room. “Yup.”
She rounds the corner. “Rent? You got it yet?”
I hold up a finger and flash an apologetic smile. “Soon, I promise.”
She shrugs and takes off.
It surprises me that she seems so relaxed about it, considering I’ve tossed and turned the last three nights over it. It’s
the furthest thing from my nature to miss a deadline, but a few weeks ago Junie ran into car trouble and asked me to tide
her over. I didn’t have anything but my rent money to give her. It’s my own fault for letting them all believe I have Felix’s
job (and paycheck). If memory serves, Moon did say her last roommate would get lights-out drunk and punch holes in the drywall, so I’m hoping my more palatable behavior
will buy me a grace period. More weekends than not I’m out of town and out of her hair anyway, allowing her every flexibility
to host her amateur psychic readings on-site.
I waste no time grabbing my well-used overnight bag from the closet and start filling it with my go-to items. My toiletry bag stays half packed, so I lay eyes on it and toss in a few extras.
I pack my comfort clothes: the softest tees, cutoff shorts, leggings, and a cozy sweatshirt for when the mountain air turns cold at night.
I’m almost done with everything I can do for the evening when a text chimes on my phone.
Junie: I’m real sorry to call you back last minute, G. And even more I’m sorry that you have to keep saving me.
My heart squeezes. I believe her, and I know she feels like a screwup, even if she isn’t one. She’s always been so focused
on her mistakes, like she wears blinders trained only to the lows. But she is so much more. Junie is bold and hopeful and
moves through life unafraid of swinging big. And maybe, yes, part of that is my being here in the wings, ready and willing
to pick up the mess when it eventually happens. But I do not begrudge her an ounce of my efforts.
Back when I was the driver in high school, I had to turn around every other day for a critical assignment she left at home.
Then there was the time she volunteered to chaperone the Brownie troop’s overnight camping and failed to plan meals or snacks
of any kind. Or the countless times I served as her personal roadside assistant to change a tire or jump her battery after
she left the car lights on. Even so, I am proud to be her backup.
I don’t keep score.
She amazes me, and I envy her in all sorts of loving ways.
Certainly, there’s the little situation with her getting the big sister name and the rights to the shop, but that’s not what I’m getting at.
Just look at me: scared and quiet and so afraid to rock the boat against my family’s expectations.
I’m small and loath to admit that I’ve made mistakes myself, let alone to admit my limitations by asking for help.
But with Junie, I get to be part of a loud life that stands up and asks for more.
A life rich in appetite and delight, one that just smiles and winks at the comfort zone before taking off into the wild.
It’s a type of abandon that wouldn’t survive inside me.
It’s those ways about her that I would wish for myself too.
I pick up the phone and type. I feel good, knowing I’m doing my part, filling in for our mama when she can’t be here. What are big sisters for? I add a smiley face and click send.
Junie texts back a GIF of a Looney Tunes character with heart eyes throbbing, and I laugh before dropping the phone back onto
my comforter. That’s the other thing about Junie: Even when she takes a hit, she doesn’t stay down long.
I finish up the rest of my packing and get ready for bed. Before long, I’m wrapped up with my e-reader, devouring a newly
released romance from one of my favorite authors. My eyes begin to sag, and I set down the reader, check my alarm, and turn
off the light.
I wake early the next morning so I have time to shower and blow out my hair. The dress code may be casual back home, but hair
should always be Done.
Done (noun): blown out, curled up, teased, shaped, or in some mechanical way manipulated for aesthetic purposes using hairstyling
tools and/or products. See also: Styled.
Out of the shower, I slip into a pair of lightweight joggers and a ribbed tank. I towel dry my hair, then initiate my multistep
haircare process.
It takes about an hour before my hair is finished, and then I grab my bag and head out to the car. I hit the road without
looking back.
An hour later, the Audi coasts to a stop at a roadside gas station, my faithful stopping place for years now, the Pump it’s simply not important
enough to us to chase. For us, food is never something to be measured, rationed, or withheld. It’s a gift from above, one
to flow in delightful abundance, a heavenly attempt at restitution for the suffering life requires.
My phone buzzes in my pocket and I pull it out, figuring it’s Junie checking to see if I’m on the road.
It’s not Junie, but it is June’s Beauty Shop. I subscribe to alerts from their Instagram account, and my phone chirps every time they post. It’s a
simple way, even from a hundred miles away, to make myself feel a little bit included.
I swipe on the notification and click through to a predictably no-frills post:
All appointments at June’s Beauty Shop for this weekend (Saturday June 3rd and Sunday June 4th) will be rescheduled. Thank
you for your patience!
Closed? On a weekend? Those days always book first and fully.
Mama would pull herself into the shop two steps from the grave before she closed on a weekend.
Even when the old warhorse was crippled from chemo, she’d drag herself over there, pop on a wig from our display wall, unlock the front doors, and slap on a smile. Much to our exasperation.
The sound of gas rushing into the car cuts off with a thunk, and I remove the nozzle and slot it back into the pump with my
free hand. I climb back into the car and call Junie. It rings and rings, and I can picture my little sister ignoring my call.
When it goes to voicemail, I hang up.
An All-Star Cuts just opened up across town, some local franchise. We pretend it’s not, but it is competition. I know for a fact some of our clients have started taking their kids there. Rumor says they have mini TVs for
each kid and chairs shaped like rocket ships. But I can’t think of a way they would be a reason to close on a weekend.
I text Junie. Need to talk ASAP. Saw the post.
A sour feeling covers me. I flick through every worst-case scenario, every iteration of every terribly bad situation, trying
to predict what Junie’s keeping from me. When it comes to my family, when it comes to her in particular, even the little things
terrify me. I guess maybe it’s unavoidable when you love this big. Probably it’s also unavoidable when you’ve already watched
your mama die.