Oh, Maggie May. In this moment, I’m bursting with love for her.
“You know,” I muse, “I always thought the saying ‘you can’t go home again’was a thing ’cause once you leave and come back, things have changed. But as far as I can figure, New Orleans is still New Orleans. So maybe the saying should be…why would you wanna go home again?”
She frowns. “You’re not happy to be back?”
“Oh, I’m happier than if I had good sense. And you knowI’m happy to see you. What I’mnotstoked about is coming face-to-face with the likes of those four.” I point to Violet’s table. “Did you know Cheryl was the first girl I ever kissed?”
Maggie plants her elbow on the table and cups her chin in her hand. “You never told me that.”
I nod. “It was our sophomore year, and we’d gotten coupled up after playing spin the bottle at Leroy Baker’s pool party. A party I didn’t wanna go to, I might add, but my mom made me. This was back when she thought if I tried hard enough, I’d get the kids at Braxton Academy to accept me even though everyone knew the only reason I was able to attend that snooty school was on account of her relationship with the mayor. Anyway, kissing Cheryl was like kissing an octopus.”
Maggie’s smile is wide and genuine and not the least bit wobbly now. “How so?”
“Lots of hands and very wet.” When she laughs, I shake my head sorrowfully. “You think it’s funny, but that experience nearly turned me off women for good. And then there’s Marlene over there.”
“Oooh.” She rubs her hands together and wiggles her eyebrows. “What about her?”
“She sat beside me in American history. And in case you didn’t know, teenage boys have zero control over the thing they’re packing in their pants.”
“Oh Lord.” She covers her mouth. “Where is this going?”
“For some reason, sweet Jesus only knows why,mything decided to sit up and wave a happy howdy-do exactly fifteen minutes after class started each day. It was like clockwork. Marlene told the whole school I was turned on by Martha Washington and Betsy Ross.”
Maggie chokes and reaches for her coffee, but she’s laughing too hard to take a sip.
“Andthenthere’s Jessa,” I say, on a roll. “Shewas sitting in the bleachers one day when I made the mistake of cutting through the gym to get from biology to algebra. One of the guys on the basketball team ran onto the court and depantsed me right in front of her. She saw everything, dickandballs. She started calling me Meat and Potatoes.”
Just as I hoped, Maggie is shaking with laughter. “That’swhere that nickname came from? I always wondered.”
I make a face. “So my point is…why would you wanna go home again?”
She reaches over to pat my shoulder. “Because home is where the people who love you live. Forget about them.” She hitches a thumb toward the table in the corner. “They aren’t worth the dirt on your shoes.”
My plan worked. She no longer feels bad about not being invited to join Violet and the Mean Girls.
“In fact,” she continues, draining the last of her coffee, “let’s get this show on the road. Fortune-tellers of Jackson Square, here we come!”
The three of us are almost out the door when Violet turns and calls to Maggie, “The aunts are having tea at one o’clock next Saturday. You should bring these two.” She indicates me and Cash with a flick of her fingers. “I’m sure Aunt Bea and Auntie June would get a kick out of seeing the three of you thick as thieves again.”
“We’ll see,” Maggie tells her. And then she hastily shoves open the door.
Once we’re out on the sidewalk heading toward Jackson Square, it’s clear that everyone in The Quarter knows Maggie. People shout her name. In true New Orleans fashion, they call, “Where y’at?” Which means,How are you? How are your kinfolk doing? How are you liking this weather?And a dozen other inane, yet totally sincere, conversational starters. Who knew two little words could encompass so much?
When we turn down St. Ann Street, an old woman selling paintings on the corner waves Maggie over. Cash uses the opportunity to hang back, grabbing my arm.
I glance at him. “What’s up?”
“Why’d you take a woman home from Maggie’s bar the other night?” he asks.
I’m sure my confusion shows on my face. “Ididn’ttake her home. Or weren’t you listening? And even if I had, what’s it to you?”
“Look, I know the years have been good to you.” There’s something funky going on with his expression, but damned if I can figure out what it is. “I know women throw themselves at your feet, and you’re making up for all the sumpin’-sumpin’ you missed out on in high school. But would it kill you to lay off that whole Lothario shtick for a while? I don’t want Maggie thinking you’ve turned into a total manwhore.”
Okay, now I’m not only confused, I’m pissed. “You’re one to talk. How many women haveyouslept with over the years, huh?”
“Yeah, but not while Maggie’s watching. I think we need to play it cool. Keep our noses clean and our dicks dry. This whole reunion is brand-new. It’s fragile. I don’t want anything to fuck it up.”
I want to tell him Maggie doesn’t give a good goddamn who I go home with. But I’m so happy to hear that he’s worried enough about screwing up his chances with her that he wantsbothof us to be on our best behavior that I keep my mouth shut.
