Chapter 8 Junie
Junie
Junie has to work hard to convince Georgia to stop long enough for some lunch at the Clementine before they head to the shop.
She’s already alerted Cece and Tina to meet them there a little later on. The worst possible outcome is Georgia losing it
when she walks in and sees what Junie did to Mama’s shop, and if this occurs, Junie will certainly melt into a puddle of regret.
But then again, what else was she supposed to do? With new competition peeling off business, it wasn’t like they could milk
the “retro vibe” much longer, not when the customers have spoken quite loudly and clearly on how much they like the spiffy
new place across town. Junie had no choice but to do something to ensure the shop would thrive in the long run and hope one
day Georgia would understand—once Junie could show her all the cards in her hand.
After the dishes are cleaned up and both Georgia and Junie are prepared to leave, they load up in Junie’s truck. That’s how
they always do it. It’s never been discussed, surprisingly so considering that Georgia’s car is objectively more luxurious,
but once the Audi has done the job of getting her here, it practically disappears.
The drive to the shop isn’t nearly long enough to settle Junie’s nerves.
June’s sits at the base of Mountain Laurel Row, close to where the railroad tracks touch the little town of Whitetail.
The Clementine House is only a handful of turns off Mountain Laurel, so it’s minutes downhill and the car’s back in park.
Junie sneaks a glance at Georgia as she pulls in and stops in her usual parking spot.
Junie loves having her sister here. She can physically feel her blood pressure lower the moment Georgia rolls into town. And
it’s not just because of the massive ways Georgia supports her. It’s because Junie loves her as her sister, and sister love
isn’t ordinary love. It’s brighter and sparklier, and it tickles her veins when a wave of it hits her, like a giggle. Help
or not, she wishes Georgia would stay—for good. They’re Louise women, after all; they weren’t built to exist so far apart.
“Alright, Queen Peach, you ready?” Junie says. “And we agreed you aren’t going to throttle me, right?”
“As if I’d throttle an able-bodied person intending to be part of the solution here.”
Together the women pause. The shop is a freestanding box of a building made of solid red brick and thick trimmed windows that’ve
seen countless layers of paint over the years, the latest a French blue. A wide sidewalk wraps the building like a stand-in
for a porch, one step up from the parking lot. It was a perch, a play space for Junie and Georgia on the weekends their mother
worked as they diligently covered the sidewalk in chalk. Mama’s curlicue sign, the one she picked out and hung, is still in
place: June’s Beauty Shop, where a good hair day is only one stop away.
Junie is about to ask Georgia what she thinks of the timeworn sign, whether it’s cute vintage or plain sorry looking, when Junie’s phone rattles in the cup holder and a familiar name scrolls across the screen: Whitetail Breast Care Specialists.
She rushes to silence it and flip it over, the screen out of sight.
It’s a weekend, so it must be the automated appointment
reminder call, script read in a jolting robot voice.
“Alright, let’s roll,” Junie says and leads the way toward the entrance.