Be Brave With Me

By the summer of Magnolia Hawthorn’s nineteenth birthday, she’d come to understand that “quiet” oftentimes was polite talk for “cowardly.” Maggie, as everyone called her, was born in a small town, the one-horse type, bookended by cow fields, with a stoplight in the middle, and a rumor mill taller than the old water tower. As a child, she’d played in creeks in the sun and caught fireflies in the moonlight, freer than a bird. Her youth had been nothing but peaceful. The trouble with growing up is one day your eyes focus and you realize you’ve been looking at the open sky through the bars of a cage. 

On the morning of July 4th, Maggie woke up a bit earlier than the sun and despite the hour and her softly humming ceiling fan, sweat beaded at her hairline and darkened her blonde curls within minutes. She dressed in her starched waitressing uniform and apron and armed herself with her brightest shade of lipstick. Independence day in her little world was almost as big a deal as Christmas and more than half the headache - especially for one of the town's largest providers of apple pie: Willow Branch Diner. She liked to face a day full of serving overheated, sugared up, and liquored-down townspeople with a spot of color. 

The old house creaked around her as she slipped down the stairs, through the kitchen, and out the front door. Like most days, the trees that lined the streets provided almost all of the noise in the sleepy town; birds tweeted and leaves rustled gently in the breeze but the homes along her route stayed sleepy and still. 

The Jones's house, gray and white with a pretty picket fence, was on the corner of Maggie’s street. Their little dog was in the yard and she took a minute to pat it. Mr. Jones went to work and came home every day at the same time, like clockwork. He grilled on Saturdays and got his hair cut every other Sunday at 11 am. Mrs. Jones had her routine- one that started four years prior when she started sleeping with another man in the middle of the day. Mr. Jones was a sharp man and undoubtedly knew about his wife, but Mr. Jones was the quiet type. 

It only took a few moments to reach the center of town, even at Maggie’s relaxed stroll. Just a few blocks from the diner, Maggie glanced at her reflection in the window of the only dress store in town. Annette Clark graduated from high school with Maggie, just about two years prior and had immediately taken over running the store for her mother. Mrs. Clark was a proud woman who was probably born with a thoroughly thought-out plan and a clipboard in her hand. Annette dreamed of running away to the city and singing her songs for people that weren’t standing in crowds at the country fair. But, Annette was an easy-going daughter - easy-going and quiet. 

The bell on the door tinkled happily as Maggie stepped into the diner and flicked on the lights. She’d been waiting tables for Mr. Mickles for a few years and had been given opening privileges just a month prior. John Mickles was a large man with kind eyes and an easy laugh. He made the diner’s prize-winning pies himself and gave free lunches to kids with A’s on their report cards. The ladies of the historical society loved his pie and came in together each Wednesday- and each Wednesday they left without paying their bill. But, Mr. Mickles didn’t like kicking up a fuss, and anyway, he just stayed quiet. 

Maggie made her rounds through the room, turning on lights and taking chairs down off of tables. At the counter, she set out the sugars and salt and pepper shakers. Soon, it would be packed with patrons with pushy elbows and sticky pie smearing between them. She didn’t look forward to it. 

Done with those duties, Maggie pushed through the double doors and into the kitchen. Making food wasn’t her territory nor was the kitchen, so her only job was to flip on the lights and pull down several dish towels from the shelf and toss them on the counter. After, she stood on tiptoe to fish down a to-go container. From the refrigerated display, she pulled out an apple pie, cut a large slice, and placed it in the container. While she put the pie back, she hummed a soft tune. 

At the back of the kitchen was a screen door that lead out to a small lot and, beyond it, a rambling creek. Maggie glances back at the kitchen, just to be sure everything is all set, and then pushes through the back door with her container and fork in tow. 

Gravel crunched under her sneakers in the lot but the grass that led to the creek was whisper soft. There was a large oak, just by the creek, perfect for leaning against to watch the water flow. As she came upon it, she found a blanket laid out next to the tree. And on the blanket, sat a blonde girl with a soft smile. 

“Morning, Mags.”

Maggie folded herself down onto the blanket with a smile of her own and placed the pie between them. “Hey yourself, Abby girl.”

“Whatcha got?”

“Apple pie,” Maggie flipped open the top. “Best in town.”

Abby leaned back against the tree and topped her head back. “Has your mama come around?”

“Nope.” Maggie toyed with the fork. “Hasn’t said a word since last week. The house is quieter than a cemetery.”

“Daddy says he doesn’t want to hear a word from me until I’m through my ‘phase’.” Reaching forward, Abby linked her pinky finger with Maggie’s. “I’m sorry.”

Maggie tangled the rest of their fingers together and met her eye. “It’s worth it.”

Abby looked away- watched the water for a moment. “Do you think we’re selfish?”

Maggie hooked Abby’s chin and turned her head back. Leaning towards her, she brushed the tips of their noses together. 

“I think we’re the bravest people in this whole damn town.”