Read Online Leaving Carolina by Tamara Leigh - Free Book Online

a Cracker Barrel restaurant, and farther down the road I pass a shiny new gas station with multiple bays and a minimart.
    “Progress,” I murmur. Wide-eyed with the thrill of discovery that contrasts with pangs of familiarity—the high school (yuck), Martha’s Meat and Three Eatery (yum)—I smile. There’s a chain bookstore. A swanky hair salon and spa. A block of office suites that resemble a village. A large bank with a bubbling fountain. A boutique named Le Roco Roco. A billboard advertising a single-family home development on Pickwick Lake.
    Ah, civilization. Maybe my stay won’t be so bad after all.
    My stomach reminds me of its need at the next light, so I make a U-turn and lock in on Martha’s Meat and Three Eatery. As I nearit, I change my mind to Cracker Barrel, where it’s less likely I’ll run into people from my past. And less likely I’ll be fed, after being told to expect a thirty-minute wait.
    The good thing about a wait at Cracker Barrel is the diversion provided by its old country store. Browsing among the shelves and tables, I catch the sound of familiar voices and peer around displays to identify a grouchy old neighbor lady, a high school classmate, the lazy-eyed barber who cut my father’s hair, and the librarian who looks much as she did the last time I checked out a book.
    Content to remain an outsider, not unlike when I was growing up here, I keep my distance and am relieved when “Wick, party of one” is called.
    Shortly, a cup of coffee is set before me. Though I trained myself to drink it black—in the interest of projecting confidence and strength in a dog-eat-woman world—I’m tempted by the pitcher of cream left by the previous customer. This
is
Pickwick, and I don’t need to impress anyone here.
    The splash of white tumbles into my cup and comes up creamy brown, which begs the question of sweetener. I eye the multicolored packets but resist. The less retraining I have to do when I return to L.A., the better.
    Wishing the five occupants at the table to my left were less boisterous, I go through two cups of coffee before my breakfast of eggs, bacon, and blueberry pancakes arrives. Excusing the overindulgence with the reminder that this is breakfast
and
lunch, I start in on the meal. Partway through, a man and woman are seated at a table to the left of the fivesome. What makes me look twice is the woman’s hair. It’s fiery red, like mine, but long and wavy.
    “Maggie,” I breathe as I push past the Easter memory that was so recently revived, only to be dumped back in high school where my cousin Magdalene was head cheerleader.
    It’s the first day of our freshman year, and it feels twice as long as a middle school day. Entering the cafeteria, I wince at the clamor of voices and falter at the sight of the hot-lunch line. By the time I get through it, I’ll be lucky if I have ten minutes to eat. But at least I have something to pass the time. As I hurry forward, I open the battered copy of A
Wrinkle in Time
I checked out from the school library. I’ve wanted to read it forever—
    Something slams into my shoulder, and I stumble back to find Maggie rubbing her own shoulder
.
    “Sheesh!” She scowls. “Do you need glasses?”
    Her three friends, two pretty brunettes and a blonde, snicker, and then the taller of the brunettes says, “Well, that would certainly complete the picture.” They exchange knowing looks
.
    “Sorry, Maggie,” I say. “I wasn’t watching where I was going.”
    She rolls her eyes. “Whatever.” With a shake of red curls, she steps past me, and the others follow
.
    “There’s no way she’s your cousin,” one of them says as I force my feet forward
.
    “She is.” Maggie sounds fatalistic. “She has the hair.”
    As I bring up the rear of the hot-lunch line, I hear a snort and look around
.
    The four have claimed a nearby lunch table, and the blonde waves a hand in Maggie’s face. “Hello, red hair isn’t exclusive to the high-and-mighty