Peaches

and fine and perfect, sloped here and there to admit a sand trap or a tiny, perfectly shaped pond. The clubhouse up ahead practically gleamed with the whiteness of its walls. A golf cart zoomed past them, carrying an older couple in all white.
    For Leeda, coming to the club had used to feel like a great way to spend the day, but now it was like stepping into a mind-numbing TV show instead of real life. She glanced at Birdie to see how she was dealing.
    “Those trees are so ugly,” Birdie said distastefully, pointing to the skinny Italian pines. Leeda had always thought they were pretty, but now, she realized, her taste had shifted. They didn’t look ugly to her. But they didn’t look right either.
    “I’d like to stick one of those trees up Horatio Balmeade’s butt,” Murphy said casually, and Birdie giggled.
    Leeda had to admit, Murphy knew how to put things into perspective. But she made Leeda nervous. It had taken all of Leeda’s sweetest, eyelash-fluttering persuasion to get Uncle Walter to letMurphy off the orchard for Danay’s party, and she didn’t want her to screw it up. Already Uncle Walter had started to look at Leeda suspiciously, like he was beginning to figure out that she wasn’t quite the good influence on Birdie he had assumed she would be, though he still seemed to mostly lay the blame on Murphy.
    And seeing the way Murphy strode beside Birdie, like she might kick Horatio Balmeade in the shins if he looked at her sideways, was enough to make Leeda wish—half guiltily—that they’d left her in the dorms.

    Inside the clubhouse the blandness of the grounds extended itself and hitched up a notch. Leeda felt a little dizzy from the coolness of the air conditioner, the neatness of every person who passed by, the clean, empty smell of the air after the heady, earthy smell of the orchard, which clung even to the inside of the dorms. Leeda looked for Rex but didn’t see him.
    “You guys stay here,” Birdie said.
    Leeda and Murphy sank onto the leather couch by the door as Birdie crossed the room like a convict approaching the electric chair.
    “I wonder what those papers are,” Murphy said darkly, tapping her feet against the marble of the floor.
    “It can’t be good,” Leeda said, eyeing her meaningfully. “Do you think she knows?”
    Murphy stared across the wide floor as Birdie was reapproaching them. “Yeah, she knows,” she said quietly. “Did you talk to him?” she added brightly as Birdie approached. Birdie’s chest was heaving in tight bursts, and she looked like she might cry.
    “He wasn’t there.”
    “Didn’t he tell you to come at two?”
    Birdie looked back over her shoulder. “Yeah. I just put the papers on his desk.” And then she looked at Murphy and Leeda. “Let’s get out of here.”

    “Hey, Birdie, where we going?” Leeda asked.
    Birdie didn’t answer. She didn’t know. She took long strides in a straight line, trying to put the clubhouse as far behind her as possible. Everywhere, the Balmeade Country Club appeared to be thriving financially. There were gardeners out trimming the shrubs to perfection and tons of shiny white golf carts crisscrossing the grass. Beside the new condos on the north side there were even newer condos going up. Here everybody was white, wore white, drove white golf carts. There were SUVs parked in discreet lots beyond the course so nobody would have to walk too far. All the golfers were men.
    “Birdie, are you okay?” Murphy called out from behind her.
    Birdie turned back to Leeda and Murphy and swallowed, trying to talk herself out of all the anger she felt. She took a deep breath. “Those papers were specs. For the orchard. Acreage, tree count, land surveys. I peeked.”
    Leeda and Murphy both stared at her solemnly.
    She crossed her arms and stared around, blinking. She wasn’t surprised, but she was still shocked. “I just…I want to knock everything down.”
    They were standing near a couple of boxwood shrubs, close to the first hole. She was about to kick one of the shrubs when Murphy grabbed her arm and gave her a hard yank. She, Murphy, and Leeda went tumbling behind the bushes.
    “What?” Birdie hissed, looking for whatever it was that Murphy had seen. Her eyes lit on Horatio Balmeade, strolling across the grass with another man about fifty yards away.
    “Why are we hiding?” she whispered to Murphy. Murphy didn’t answer. Her green eyes narrowed for a moment, and then she seemed to remember something,