The Judy Garland Club

“Layla, come on! We’re going to be late,” Naomi exclaimed, gasping from under a flowy, purple gown beneath a crown of baby’s breath . She hated wearing dresses, but Layla insisted on nothing else for such a formal occasion. Naomi could only roll her eyes.

“We’re going to be late if you don’t get that curl in your hair to ring around your neck and back, like some murderous device,” she joked, painting a sincere grin on her rosy lips that beamed in the limelight of the moon. 

“I’m coming, you twit,” Layla laughed, opening the bathroom door to reveal a goddess in silver heels: a Judy Garland Jr. as Naomi used to call her, but since their first year of camp, Layla thought it was best to keep a good name for herself and the last thing she wanted was for that to be ruined by her temperamental sister. Naomi shrugged it off, knowing that she wasn’t wrong.

Layla’s dress was a single strap of emerald silk, laced around her curves and edges like paint, so tight you could practically see her veins pulsating through with tinges of blood. She knew she looked ravishing, like Cinderella herself, but thought it wouldn't hurt to have a second opinion.

“How do I look,” she questioned, anxious to hear Naomi’s answer. There was nothing she wanted more in life than to be noticed.

“Good enough to snatch a boy, if that’s what you were hoping for,” her twin teased, causing a pink flame to arise on her cheeks: they knew how to get under each other’s skin if anything else.

Hand in hand to the Everwood Camp Summer Ball, Naomi and Layla skipped to the beating of their hearts as they sailed like a boat on the water to the Mess Hall, which, to their surprise, was draped in the finest floral decorations in all of Western Maine. 

“Go get your dance, Judy,” Naomi poked, only earning herself a slap in the arm, which she knew she rightfully deserved after all. She had very much disregarded Layla's only request for the summer: to keep things professional and mature. 

Of course, that went against everything Naomi believed.

Only moments after the music started, Layla was pulled away towards the center of the room with her hand in an unfamiliar one.

“The name is David James, and who are you,”

“Waiting for someone to dance with my sister,” Layla responded, hoping to see her sister enjoy the evening as she knew she would in the arms of the mysterious boy she recognized from across the lake.

“I know you, David,” Layla exclaimed as she twirled around the boy with the spiky, dark hair, “You splashed my sister in the canoe just off the dock!”

“I know: I was hoping to get your attention,” he recoiled, sending a warm tinge through Layla’s spine. She couldn’t help but admire the boy’s benevolent, yet hazy eyes like he knew more than he let on. However, it wasn't in Layla's nature to question a seemingly good thing, even if Naomi would have. Where would she be without her?

Naomi watched from across the room as her sister introduced herself to a strange boy she had never seen before, both excited yet skeptical. But she knew Layla, and she knew that she wouldn’t do anything stupid. They did know each other longer than they knew anyone else, so Naomi found that there was nothing to lose. Layla was a good kid.

Grabbing a cup of punch, Layla and David made their way to the back of the ballroom just to get away from the fuss and feathers of the festivities. 

Layla noticed Naomi was distracted elsewhere.

“Why are you so on edge tonight, Layla,” David confronted, hoping to comfort his friend with a little jump of giddy.

“Nothing, it’s just, nothing,” she responded, trying to enjoy the moment as it was, even though she could no longer find Naomi in the bustling crowd of campers, dancing the Macarena like monkeys in a circus. 

David grabbed Layla’s punch and walked over to the concession stand, refilling her empty glass to cool her down.

Layla couldn’t find Naomi, she began to feel lost.

David saw the hesitance in Layla’s eyes, and he hated it. He hated that she had doubts: doubts that he was sure were planted in her head by Naomi. Angered by Naomi’s hold on her weak sister, Layla, David opened the flask he kept under his shirt and poured it into Layla’s cup, blending with the punch inside like a witch's brew.

He was doing Layla a favor: he was setting her free.

Naomi didn't stalk Layla or her boy-toy but did her best to track her every previous move. Was it that she was worried about her sister’s gullibility or her lovesickness: she didn’t know. She had one goal that night like she did every other night: protect Layla. She wasn't sure that Layla could protect herself.

“I’m a horrible person, you know David,” Layla sobbed into her hands as her makeup ran over her pink-stained cheeks and down her sharp chin. She really was an angelic beauty, even in tears.

“You are an incredible person, a person of spirit and soul, wishing to be set free,” David replied, placing the potion into the hands of his love.

Without looking up, Layla took a sip, thinking only of Naomi, but just as the chilled liquid ran down her throat, she disappeared, leaving not a trace of her presence behind. 

The music never stopped playing.

Naomi forgot why she was there, staring at a boy in the corner with an empty cup. She pitied him but found it more pleasurable to keep dancing: she did love to dance almost as much as she liked dresses. And boys, she loved boys. She waltzed her way across the room in a pink dress that matched her blushed cheeks, smelling like the rose petals she wore with grace. 

While dancing with a boy from a neighboring cabin, the graceful flower stepped on a flat shoe the color of ash, almost falling to the ground as every boy in the room dove to catch her, resulting in the distant sobs of glowing green girls.

“Sorry,” the shy girl whispered, inciting a wave of laughter to rise over the room. She looked like a baby and Naomi noticed that she dressed like one too.

“What are you wearing,” Naomi interrogated as she scanned the girl from head to toe. 

“It’s Dorothy’s dress, my mother tells me I look like Judy Garland,” she replied as she pushed her hair away from her eyes. She hated the spotlight.

Naomi snickered and kept dancing, not bothering to look at the Kansas girl wannabe.

“Judy Garland,” Naomi muttered, “pathetic”.