Georgia Boys

02. in which country boys run amok

SILAS

As planned, we find ourselves back at the gates of the country club. The gates are stark white and shut. The night is a deep blue and the moonlight casts a soft glow over the grass.

Quincy Denton runs a finger over his helix piercing, shifts his weight from foot to foot. He's in khakis and a cream-colored sweater vest. What Quincy had only decided to mention a couple of hours ago was that if we were going to fulfill the role of king, we needed to dress the part. 

Not only that, but our roles required the script as well. Quincy was now Darby Griswold, insisting that adopting the name for the night was the only way in which he could sneak into the country club. 

Now, the honor was bestowed upon me to choose a name. 

"Can I not just go by Silas?" The question slips through my lips.

Quincy glances up at me from where he's standing, adjusting his belt. "Come on now," he says. "You gonna get into the role or not?"

"I think it's foolish," I slip my hands into the pockets of my own khakis. 

"I think you're foolish," Quincy bites back. He twirls about the grass until he's in front of me, bottom lip brought beneath his teeth as he examines me. "You're Charles. We'll keep the last name. You're Charles Barnes."

"I sound like an asshole."

Quincy clicks his tongue, and there's a way he says his next few words, dripping in what is either sarcasm or teasing. "If it makes you feel any better, you are an asshole."

"You're pissing me off," I cut back as he tilts his head every so slightly.

He gives my chest a pat. His hand lingers. Flirt. "What's new?"

"I look dumb as hell." A voice snaps, faces emerging from the shadows behind us.

The voice belongs to a figure, tall and elegant with sharp cheekbones and a permanent feline quality to her eyes. Maxine De Leon. The place where her septum would normally be is empty— as per the dress code Quincy informed us of— and she's in a white skirt and tennis shirt. Pissed is a mild understatement for the expression taking over her face.

She's not alone. After her is one Drew Gardner with finger-coiled hair and an oversized sweater, and following said person is a Luna Park, her hair in washed-out waves and her face reddened and freckled due to summer.

"This should be fun," another voices mutters, and from the opposite end arrives the other half of our group of problematic single folks, led by one Cedar Mitchell with long locs that cascade down her back, and followed by a Micah Hill with a lazy grin and an Oliver Bailey who is mid-yawn when he arrives. 

I suppose our group was brought together out of necessity. When you're the kids that don't belong in the country club, that are made of the town rather than the bubble that secludes the club—there's a draw that is bound to pull you together.

Our people have dressed up in the preppiest way one can imagine. The discomfort is visible in everyone except Luna Park who embraces the old money aesthetic for fun, and Micah Hill who didn't bother dressing up in the first place. He's in an old tank and jeans, because he's Micah Hill, who can't be found wearing anything else.

Now we look damn foolish, but hopefully, the country club members don't realize that. The trick is in the fact that we only look foolish to those who know how we normally dress. To those who are meeting us for the first time? Well, they haven't a clue. 

We huddle up like an old team, all of us neighborhood kids dressed up in costumes— and we lean down, eyes flicking to someone across the circle, Quincy working out the plan. The initial plan is to split. Cedar, Micah and Oliver will enter from the South entrance. Maxine, Drew and Luna tackle the West entrance and Quincy and I settle on the North entrance.