Saving Georgia

Kristin Flynn

Copyright © 2013 by Kristin Flynn

First Edition, 2013

The right of Kristin Flynn to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her under the
Copyright Amendment (Moral Rights) Act 2000

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the author, except for the inclusion of brief quotations in a review.

All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Cover design by Shoutlines Designs

Photography by Tam Lym

It is the kind of day that you wake up happy and want to drink in the sunshine, so I find myself doing just that; and there isn’t a more perfect place than the meadows here behind the Hyde’s house, about 3 miles out in the property. The field is filled with purple flowers and dandelions. The birds are singing harmonies and melodies. The grass is this deep, forest green from purely being farmland. The smell of the country air is so fulfilling, and it saturates my lungs with the fresh scent that can only be found here in North Carolina. The Hyde’s property is rich with trees, lush gardens and quaint meadows. The ponds and trails are peaceful and fill your soul with tranquility. The sun always seems to find this place, no matter how harsh the weather may be. Every summer, it never fails; the lightning bugs always show up in abundance and play against the twilight. Sometimes, it seems are if there are hundreds of them. It also warms my heart when I see laundry on the clothesline outside. Everything and everyone seems so much happier out here. Places, times and days like this is what makes life worth living. Leaning against this broad, old oak tree with a Brad Paisley song going on in the background in my head, I start to think about how Jennifer Hyde and I used to play here as little girls, catching those lightening bugs. But today, I am here alone, talking to God, playing guitar and writing the next great country song that will never see the radio. In the distance, I see the horses trotting and galloping in the field below. The Hyde’s have a very modest house on the most extensive property I have ever seen in my life.

I have been living with the Hyde’s since I was eight years old. My father was a firefighter in Smithfield, North Carolina. There was a big fire 
 
in 
 
town  at a gas station, and he didn’t make it. I was two years old. My mom, Katherine, always used to say  that my daddy, Ronnie was “the best looking man in all of Johnston County.” A few years after my dad passed, my mom married this man, Cecil Long. When I was eleven and a half, my mom dropped me off at my Grandma Abbey’s here in Benson. Mama was on her way home on highway 70 and the car rolled off the highway in the rain. I was left to Cecil. That is, until that fateful night when I was twelve. Since then, I’ve lived with my best friend Jennifer’s family – the Hyde’s.

But, I’m not going to think about the past—not today. Today is Saturday. It’s beautiful, and I am in a considerably good mood
. Sometimes, my 
 
creativit
y
   gets   the   best   of   me. For instance, the jeans I’m wearing today are littered with blotches of paint and stains of some sort, much like my sneakers. I find m
y
self painting things from guitars to my bedroom walls
,
I love doing anything crafty and hands-on.

Perhaps it’s my mother’s ill-grace and practicality that
I
inherite
d
which makes me connect more with Mr. Hyde.
M
y birth mother
w
as never was much for a Glamour and Elle magazine woman, but put a hack-saw in the girl’s hand, and watch the magic flow. I enjoy all of Mr. Hyde’s projects and his appreciation for fine craftsmanship. He enjoys fine woodwork – restoring things, and breathing new life into old pieces of furniture. Restoration of any kind would certainly get his attention, especially cars. Cars and wood are two subjects he will never run out of words for. Growing up, I always remember finding him in the barn or shop working on this and that until all hours of the night. He was always determined to finish a project and to never give up on it. He repurposes things, like the wooden pallets he made the patio furniture from. Mr. Hyde was the one who taught me how to bait a hook, and shoot a gun. I sometimes think that I am the quasi son that he never had. Jennifer would never do anything which would require her to get dirty.

Jennifer’s room is everything that the quintessential teenage girl would die for. It is the picturesque Seventeen or YM magazine spread type of bedroom. She has every dress in every color, more purses that could ever be necessary and bottles of perfume to rival the beauty counter at Dillards. Her closet runneth over with shoes! She has lacy, see-through curtains, an
d a big mirror that could capture the reflection of the moon in life-size proportions hanging on her wall. She has to have every possible shade of pink in her room. I don’t know how someone could live with that much pink, but she likes it.

I miss the simplicity of youth, where differences are celebrated rather than rivaled. I miss the days where we were happy and playful. I miss the days where she’d be in the meadow with me, her bike parked next to mine, but today my bike sits alone, and her purse is sitting next to Harper Kelly’s in a huge Antebellum Mansion.

I could have all the things Jennifer has if I wanted. In fact, I think Mrs. Hyde would prefer it that way; I know she would be tickled to take me shopping. But the truth is that I am perfectly content with the simplicity and practicality my life has. If you don’t have much to lose, you won’t lose what you have. That is the one thing, the only thing that Cecil ever taught me, and frankly I have yet to decide if I am thankful for that philosophy. Right now, I have sadness, sorrows and scars, but I also have my guitar, my band, and a stable home for many years to come. What more could a girl want or need?

I glance down at my watch. Crap! It’s 3:30 already? Where did the time go? Quickly, I jot down the last verse I was working on and start making my way back to the house. I’m going to be late for rehearsal. That insufferable Misty Swanson would give me a huge lecture that, frankly, I don’t have the patience for. I hope Shane will take it easy on me, too. I hate having him irritated at me. With the absence of Jennifer, he has been my best friend for years.

As I make my way back to the house, I putter around the kitchen and grab an apple and some bottled water.

“That all you having, Pumpkin?” Mrs. Hyde asks.

“For now, yes. I gotta jet. Late for practice.” I smile at her.

“Okay baby. Be back early. Church in the morning,” she smiles sweetly.

“Yes ma'am,” I say and wink at her.

Church is one of the few things we do together. Jennifer can’t wake up in time to save her life, and Mr. Hyde only shows at holidays, weddings and funerals in his mismatched, ill-fitting suit.

I grab the keys to my ever-faithful 1961 Mercury Meteor, and dash out the door with my guitar in hand. It takes a full five minutes to get off the Hyde’s property. The next house is Shane Daltons’, but practice is at Misty Swanson’s this week.

There’s not much in Benson, North Carolina
. On Main Street there’s the post office, Robertson’s feed store, which is where I work, Town Hall, Grimes Grocery, a bank (the Farmers Union), Dr. Chipman’s office, the town Barber (I forget his name since Mrs. Hyde takes me to Raleigh to get my hair done) and the library. We also have an old-fashioned movie theater, tons of churches, and small diners and cafés. And that’s about it, not much to it.

I turn North on New Hope Road from Merriweather Street, and then a sharp left on Dixie River Road, then pass Chicken Farm Road onto Hickory Grove Baptist Roa
d. After my thirty minute drive, I see Misty’s house. I’m twenty minutes late. Crud!

As soon as I walk in the door, she turns to me with her big, brown Brittany Murphy eyes and movie star blonde hair. “You could have called!” she sneers derisivel
y.

“Must you always be s
o
dictatoria
l
?” I fume, setting myself up.

“I could have driven you in, babe,” Shane adds, although I don’t know if his comment was a shot at me, or meant as a nice gesture.

“Yes, but then I wouldn’t have been able to drive Elsie.”

“Oh, Georgia, you and that sorry excuse for a car,” Shane chides in his boyish humor. He hates my car. He argues that if there isn’t a truck bed, it doesn’t deserve to have wheels.

“Can we get on with it?” Misty prompts. She is a stickler for perfection.

The three of us sit with our guitars in front of us for the next three hours, belting out and fine tuning the songs we wrote
,
throwing i
n
a few covers for fun. Our trio is set to play at graduation next month.

“Georgia, are you Okay with that tempo?” Misty asks, more flustered than I have ever seen her.

“Yeah, I got it.” I sashay in my seat, just to get under her skin.

“Cute,” she sneers and gives me a stern look. Shane and I bust out laughing.

“Okay girls, I think this is a wrap,” Shane says as he stands up and stretches.

“Okay, Mr. Dalton,” I snicker.

“Sounds good,” Misty chips in. “I’ve got to get a move on anyways.”

“Burgers anyone?” Shane asks with a boyish smile.

“Can’t. Got a date,” Misty offers with way too much enthusiasm. But, in her defense, she is every bit as beautiful as any other buxom blonde, like Harper Kelly.

“I’m free. Let’s do it.” Of course I am free. I’m blonde, but plain and damaged beyond repair. I’m not as endowed as Jennifer or Harper Kelly, and no guy - not even a Shane Dalton, let alone the gorgeous Jason Grimes, would want to invest in me. I’m by definition a loner – just a girl and her guitar.

“Let’s go then.
Chucks
on New Hope?” he says while casually throwing his guitar into the bed of his hand-me-down F-150.

“Meet you there,” I offer up before he changes his mind because, frankly, I’m starving. “Bye Misty!” I shout and blow her a kiss. Sure she can be infuriating, but I still adore her.

“
Besos
!” she belts out and walks into the house from the garage we were playing in.

The drive to
Chucks
is easy and relaxing. I’m not even mad that there’s no AC in Elsie. At
Chucks
, Shane and I sit at a picnic table outside. It is dusk and cool. Tons of the other high school kids are hanging out here as well. This tends to be the hot spot for the local youth since we don’t have any other place to go.

“So, what’s new in your world?” Shane asks me while stuffing his face with French fries.

Quickly, I look to change the subject. I hate talking about myself, even to Shane and Jennifer – from trite subjects to the major issues. Nothing about myself comes out willingly.

“I hear that your world is far more interesting. The only thing I have planned is painting Annalise.” I named my guitar too; yes I am a strange woman.

“Well, that surely sounds like something. I’ve got the playoffs coming up. Can you come? You know, moral support?”

“Yeah sure, you got it.” I hate letting my friends down, because now my friends are my family. Suddenly my pocket starts to vibrate. I reach in and retrieve my cell phone, finding a text from Jenn.

Georgy?

Crap. She only calls me that when she needs something. I wonder briefly what it is, but I know full and well she will divulge everything momentarily. Hastily, I respond back. It figures that as soon as I start to have some fun, something comes up. She needs a ride, I already know it.

Sup, Jenn?

I hit send and already I’m regretting it. I’m sure Shane can see the frustration painted on my face.

Can you pick me up? I am at Harper’s. She is going to Jason Grimes’

I knew it! I freaking knew it!

“Who is it?” Shane asks.

“Jenn. She wants me to pick her up from Harper Kelly’s. Harper is going to Jason Grimes’s house,” I seethe.

“Ah, the problems of the pretty people.” Shane laughs. His laugh is infectious, and I, too, find myself erupting into giggles.

I swiftly tuck my long, blonde and annoying curls into a hair tie and stand up. “Time to pick up Ms. Daisy.” I roll my eyes.

“See you later, Georgia,” Shane says throwing fries my way.

***

In the car on my way to Harper’s , I can picture Jennifer smiling, but fuming behind her polite smile and chocolate brown eyes. Her lashes are ridiculously long and I have always been jealous. I’m sure she’s  in Harpers’ room telling her that she looks great in everything, and is sitting on her bed twisting her raven black hair around her finger. I cringe at her superficiality, but I know that somewhere deep in the brunette Barbie facade is the girl who knows everything about me. She even knows the story about Cecil.

As I pull up into the intimidating, unnecessary—but  beautiful—plantation style entrance, I embark up the driveway to the Antebellum estate.

Jennifer is sitting out the front in her purple sundress. Her hair is in a loose bun that is perched on top of her head.

“Thank you, Georgy,” she sighs and pouts.

“Yeah, of course. No problem. Why couldn’t Harper drop you off?” I inquire. She seems upset, so I am not going to push too hard.

“Boys trump friends and manners,” she sulks, wringing her hands in her lap.

“Oh. I see. I never got that memo. Thanks for filling me in,” I joke, hoping to lighten the mood.

“You are s
o
sarcasti
c
,” she laughs, but I can still tell she’s a little hurt.