Sour Grapes

was on the other end and... crime solved.”
    Dirk looked at Savannah. She grinned, and said, “Easy got as a wet foot on a rainy April morn.”
    He just grunted.

    Leaving the men to look over telephone bills and formulate the psychological profile on the sort of person who would give a girl a bouquet of flowers and chicken entrails on the same night, Savannah made her way over to the stage where the interviews were taking place.
    She looked around for Atlanta, hoping to catch hers, then realized that the entire process had ended.
    But the trip over wasn’t a total waste of time. Hearing one girl address another as Desiree, Savannah decided to get acquainted.
    Up close and in person the girl was very simply stunning. Savannah wasn’t surprised that she had won numerous beauty contents. With her golden blond hair, perfect skin, and classic features, she reminded Savannah of a young Grace Kelly.
    Savannah tried to reconcile that pretty face with the cruel, sarcastic voice she had heard on the other side of the bathroom wall. It was a difficult fit.
    “Hello,” Savannah said. “I’m looking for Atlanta Reid. Would you have any idea where she is?”
    The blue eyes that met hers were a rare and lovely shade of teal, the color of the Pacific on a crisp October morning. But somehow, they seemed devoid of life, eerily empty.
    “Who? The hick with the drawl?” came the reply. Savannah gave her a tight smile. “No...,” she said carefully, “the pretty one with the Southern accent... the one who looks a bit like me—seeing as how we’re sisters and all.”
    Desiree didn’t even bother to pretend that she was embarrassed for her faux pas. “Nope, haven’t seen her.” The teenager gave Savannah one of those quick, evaluating, glance-overs that some females give to other women, females who consider all others to be competition in some sort of ridiculous game that exists only in their own limited minds.
    When the girl lifted her nose two notches, turned her back on Savannah, and prissed away, Savannah watched her go, wondering if she had any idea what a sad cliché she was.
    Any woman who only saw other females as competitors would never know the joys of sisterhood, of having another woman standing by her when she really needed her, offering that unique maternal love and support that only a woman could give.
    And that deprivation alone was just punishment for her egotism.
    Another girl, whom Savannah didn’t recognize, stepped up to her. “Hi, I’m Lynette. I overheard you asking about your sister, Atlanta. She said she was going to her room to practice her guitar for a while.” “ Thank you very much,” Savannah told her.
    “No problem. I like Atlanta she’s cool. She did really good on her interview.”
    “When I see her, I’ll tell that you said so. Thanks again.”
    As Savannah walked away, heading back to their room, she thought of what Marion Lippincott had said about most of the girls being gems. She could see that was true.
    Too bad the rotten ones seemed to be getting the most attention.

    As soon as Savannah started down the hallway, before she even reached their door, she could hear a clear, sweet voice singing an old gospel tune that she hadn’t heard for at least fifteen years.
    The last time she had heard that song, Granny Reid had been singing it, and she had been rocking Atlanta to sleep in the old bench swing that hung from chains on the front porch. Gran’s only accompaniment had been the creaking of those rusty chains as she swung back and forth and fanned herself and the baby on that sultry summer night.
    But Atlanta was playing along on her guitar, simple but lovely chords that provided a harmony for her solo.
    Savannah stood outside the door, enjoying the — song until it ended. Reluctant to break the spell, she unlocked the door and slowly, quietly, pushed it open.
    “Where were you?” Little Sister demanded, pissed again. ‘You missed my interview, and I did good, too. I looked all over for you, and you weren’t there!”
    Well, so much for sultry summer nights and all that sentimental crapola. The kid’s lip was stuck out again.
    “I’m sorry. The guys and I were comparing notes on this case, and by the time I got over there the interviews were finished. But I heard you did very well.” “ Yeah, sure.”
    “No, it’s true. This nice girl named Lynette said so. And she said you were cool, too. So, there.”
    Savannah stuck out her tongue at her, and they both