She’s going to fall over! I thought, as she pretzeled herself practically level with the floor. But no, she held steady. And then, with nary a wobble, she began to rise back up. I watched her face for any expression of effort but it was a blank slate. Having done a little core work in my time, I was impressed.
“Now I want you each to try it. Who will go first?”
Everyone looked around—who would dare?
“I’ll go,” I said breezily, and stood up. Strength and flexibility were my stock in trade—I did sixty box jumps three days a week and could squat a buck fifty ten times. And by going first I was showing initiative, which might make Ann forget I’d arrived late. A twofer.
“Just relax,” Ann said. She held her hands out to me, palms up.
“I’m good.” I looked at her hands. Was she there to spot me? “Seriously, I got this.”
“You will need assistance.”
“I think not,” I said. Seriously, how hard could it be?
Ann reluctantly stepped back, but reserved judgment. I closed my eyes, took a breath. Tried to remember just how she had done it. I put my arms out to the side, then began to lower myself.
The first six inches went great, and I let my left leg drop behind my right. The next six inches went pretty well, until my right knee reached parallel. Then a strange thing happened. My left leg ground to a halt behind my right and refused to budge. I tried to force it down with my torso, and then my right leg quivered. I pushed harder, and my right thigh clenched and the muscle spasmed, and under extreme duress the staples in my dress popped. That caused my hip to fly out and I went ass over elbows onto the floor. I had jujitsued myself. Abby died laughing—a full, infectious laugh.
“It’s more difficult than it first appears,” Ann said drily. She offered me a hand up, but embarrassed, and confused by my failure, I refused. I stood up, held my dress together, and sat down. Julia patted my shoulder, and I grimaced. Lauren gave me the “so sad for you” look.
After my epic fail the other girls went up cautiously, and took Ann’s hands for support.
“The key is maintaining your weight over your feet,” Ann said, holding Abby’s hands as she went three-quarters of the way down before stopping. Sydney went next, and did as well as Abby. Then the Ashleys. Ashley One was clearly a dancer, and with Ann’s help reached closest to the floor. Ashley Two appeared to have vertigo and barely budged. Julia came close, as did Queen Bee, but still holding Ann’s hands for support.
“Begin to practice right away,” Ann said. “Use a dance bar or the back of a chair for support, and try first for enough flexibility to reach close to the floor—then try it only holding on with one hand.” Satisfied that we had a newfound appreciation for the task ahead, Ann moved on. “Now please turn to the ‘Escorts’ section.”
Pages turned amid a quiet titter. One of the real perks of the debut was a guarantee of meeting a lot of (hopefully) cute guys over the coming months, and even I was curious to know who they might be. I skimmed a list of sixty or seventy names, read Bryson Alexander Perriman and Benjamin Francis Horton and my eyes glazed over.
“These young men range in age from early to midtwenties,” Ann said. “Some are still at college, but many have entered the world. Many are sons from well-regarded families, but you’ll also find attorneys, navy officers, entrepreneurs. Each has something to recommend him. For the formal balls and the debut itself I will match you with an escort, a different young man for each event. The only exception to my choosing your escort is if you are currently engaged, or become engaged during the season, and then of course you will be paired with your fiancé. Now the gentlemen do sometimes make specific requests, and I try to honor those requests when they are sincere, and appropriate. For other parties during the season you are always welcome to arrive with a date of your choice, and it may be that young men from this list will contact you. If so, you may rest assured that I have personally vetted them all. Is this understood?”
Nods all around.
“Good. Now finally, I want you all to understand that individually and collectively you represent a tradition, an ideal, and you will hold yourselves to the very highest standards of behavior. Failure in this regard will have swift and severe consequences. Do I make myself clear?”
Quick nods all around.
“Excellent. I know it will be a successful season. Now please enjoy the food, get to know each other, and I’ll see you in a few weeks’ time.”
Apparently cued by telepathy, the doors opened and several waiters entered with trays of sandwiches, which they arranged on the table. The scent of dill coming off the cream cheese and smoked salmon finger sandwiches caught me by surprise, and I realized I was famished. Instinct and raw hunger prompted me to make a grab and start throwing down the little suckers, and I was on my second when a voice called from behind me.
“A moment, Miss McKnight?” Damn, snackus interruptus.
I looked back, and sure enough, Ann Foster was speaking to me. She indicated that I should follow her, so I swallowed and stood. In step behind her, I looked back at Julia. Her look, all earnest concern, bucked me up till I noticed Queen Bee smiling to herself. Petty bitch is probably sad she’s gonna miss the barbecue, I thought. Ann stopped by the massive bay windows across the room. The panorama was all mounded and manicured fairways, pecan trees, water hazards, and flagsticks.
We stood far enough away not to be heard by the others, but clearly in view—whatever was coming, every girl there would see.
“We haven’t been properly introduced,” she began. “I’m Ann Foster.” She held out her hand and I shook it, firmly. She was taller than I’d realized.
“Megan McKnight.”
“So nice to meet you, Miss McKnight.” She could mean it.
“Nice to meet you too, Ms. Foster.” I masked my fear with my most wholesome smile.
“I know your mother and aunt, of course. And I am well-informed about your family’s history,” she said. “Your sister Julia seems delightful.”
She paused and we both understood the distinction she was drawing. I stayed silent, didn’t take the bait.
“Miss McKnight, I want to be frank. I am retained by the Bluebonnet Club to plan and execute the debutante season. I have held this position of trust for more than twenty years, and they look to me to make absolutely sure everything comes off without a hitch. I host this tea so that I may, in an informal atmosphere, meet each young woman selected, and not only explain the significance of making a debut but also ascertain to my complete satisfaction that she understands, accepts, and is prepared for the ordeal ahead. Of the utmost importance is promptness—”
“Sorry about that,” I interjected. “Soccer practice went late.”
“Soccer practice does not concern me, Miss McKnight. What does concern me is your tardy and”—here she gestured to my gaping, sweat-stained dress—“tawdry appearance, which clearly demonstrate your lack of regard for myself and the other young women selected.”
“I’ve already apologized,” I said, feeling my cheeks flush. “I promise it won’t happen again, and I’m sure given the opportunity I can learn to curtsy just as well as the other girls.”
Ann’s nostrils flared and she tensed. She now looked less like a ballerina and more like a Siberian tiger eager for lunch. Her change so shocked me I nearly took a step back.
“Curtsy, Miss McKnight,” she said icily, “derives from the word courtesy, a word and concept clearly foreign to you.” Dang. “A proper curtsy is neither frivolous nor submissive—it is a posture of respect. Respect—there’s another word gathering dust on the shelf of your vocabulary.”
“Ms. Foster, I—”
“I see in you, Miss McKnight,” Ann went on, “nothing more than the selfish, self-absorbed child so common today. You have no thoughts beyond your own comfort, and what intellect you do possess you employ solely in cheap s
port. This is not a game, Miss McKnight, not to myself nor to the people who attend, and I have no intention of working to change your obvious disdain for the institutions I represent and have little hope you will manage it yourself. Therefore, I think it best if you voluntarily withdraw.”
I was so derailed by this tart and targeted barrage that a good twenty seconds must have passed before I managed to speak. She waited patiently while I wobbled like a punch-drunk fighter, in danger of going down for the count.
“I think you’ve misjudged me,” I managed.
“I highly doubt it.”
My heart thumped against my chest, and my cheeks were red as cherries. Withdraw? We hadn’t even started. . . .
“I don’t want to withdraw,” I began, cautiously. “This is important to my parents, and I am not, and never have been, a quitter. I’ll do whatever I have to do to prove myself.”
“Moxie,” she stated flatly, “while admirable, will not suffice, Miss McKnight.”
The Miss McKnight thing was starting to grate.
“It is abundantly clear that you cannot walk properly,” she continued, “so it would naturally follow that you are unable to dance—and I do not mean Zumba.”
“My mom has already signed us up for dance lessons.”
“I wish it were that simple. You will need to learn to stand up straight, dress appropriately, and behave with some clear sense of modesty and decorum. You’re miles from a satisfactory Texas Dip, and frankly, given the time allowed and the list of requirements, I doubt you’re up to it.”
Suddenly I was not just insulted, but mad.
“You’d be surprised, Ms. Foster,” I stated with reckless confidence, “what I can accomplish in a short amount of time.”
She looked me over again, still dubious. Why was I even fighting this? This was my chance to be gone. I could tell Mom that Ann felt I wasn’t up to it, that she knew, like I did, that I just wasn’t debutante material. But I thought of Dad begging me to do it, and while I wasn’t sure why, it was clear he needed me to stay.
“Please, ma’am,” I said, softening my tone and smiling at her with all the Texas charm I could muster, “I realize today did not start well, but I would very much appreciate you allowing me the opportunity to prove that I belong.”
She weighed my “ma’am” and the sentence that followed for a moment, unsure if they were mocking or sincere.
“Miss McKnight, you have a month,” she said. “Surprise me.”
And with that she turned and left the Magnolia Room.
I staggered over to the table. Julia and Abby stood.
“You look pale,” Julia said.
“That bitch is hard-core.”
“She is,” chimed in Ashley One. “Two years ago she gave my cousin a panic attack—she withdrew and ended up in the hospital.”
“Well, what did she say?” Abby asked.
“She asked me to withdraw.” An audible, collective gasp. “But I talked her out of it—for the moment. I’m on some sort of debutante probation.”
That made them laugh. Me too. I dropped into my chair. Desperate for solid food to calm the toxic cocktail of adrenaline and fear in my stomach, I tossed down a whole finger sandwich. Feeling better, I reached for another.
“It’s not too late to change your mind,” Lauren chimed in, her voice all singsongy. She smiled at me with emerald eyes and Chiclet teeth, but the effect was more north wind than welcome mat.
“Excuse me? Have we even met?” I asked.
“Megan, this is Lauren Battle,” Abby said. “Lauren, Megan McKnight.”
“So nice to meet you,” Lauren said, and stood halfway to stretch a hand across the table. I half rose too and shook it, resisting the impulse to crush it.
“I’m not trying to be mean,” Lauren said, gesturing at the table of girls, “but this is, like, extremely important to all of us. And, well . . . a chain is only as strong as its weakest link.”
“Seriously?” I said, looking to Julia. Then back to Lauren. “Well, then I will certainly do my best not to be the weak link.”
“Great,” she replied. “Honestly, I just want what’s best for the group.”
“Yeah, I can see that.” I resisted rolling my eyes.
She smiled at me and I smiled back. She smiled harder, and I did too, and pretty soon all that warm and fuzzy melted the ice in the tea glasses.
Outside I stood next to my bike, waiting with Julia and Abby as valets retrieved cars. Ashley One and Sydney were gone, and Ashley Two and Lauren stood “apart” talking quietly, but loudly enough for us to hear.
“She rode her bike?” Ashley Two looked askance. “Like, what is she trying to prove?”
“Who cares?” asked Lauren, glancing at me. “She’s already on probation. Bet you she’s gone by Halloween.” Now she smiled. “Love the helmet!” she said too loudly. The damn tiara!
“Just ignore them,” Julia said.
Ashley Two’s car pulled up—a Land Rover, natch. She gave the valet a single dollar, and Lauren stepped into the passenger seat.
“Bye, Julia. Bye, Abby. Bye, Megan. See you soon!” Lauren said, waving.
We all waved back with a good deal more enthusiasm than I felt.
“Okay, bye, Lauren! Bye, Ashley!” we replied. The valets shut the doors—thump.
“Drive fast and take chances!” I shouted, knowing they couldn’t hear me now with the windows closed.
“That is why I love you so much,” Abby said.
“Megan!” Julia admonished. “You can’t say things like that.”
“I can’t?”
“No. Because we understand you’re joking. But other people don’t know you that well.”
“Who’s joking?”
“Never change, Megan,” Abby said.
Our car arrived. Julia hesitated.
“This is good, right?” She meant eluding my near-death experience.
“Of course,” I said. “Now go.”
“Dinner at Cafe Express?”
“I already know what I’m having.”
Julia drove off.
“I’m glad you’re staying,” Abby said. “It’s going to be a lot more fun.”
“That’s what I’m here for—to set the bar so low that you and Julia will just step over it.”
Her car arrived, and she gave me a hug, then drove off.
The last to leave, I rode my bike lazily out of Turtle Creek Country Club, then stayed on the sidewalk, just taking my time, thinking about my run-in with the “valet” and then about my run-in with Ann. On the one hand, I was glad not to be telling Dad I got booted on the first day. On the other, I was legitimately frightened at the prospect of what lay ahead.
After all, this was just the orientation tea. The real season hadn’t even started.
Five
In Which Megan Puts Away Serious Groceries
“JUST BE OPEN-MINDED,” JULIA SAID. “WHO KNOWS what might happen, or who you might meet? You might even have fun.”
“Please—it’s a dog show,” I answered, wolfing down a turkey burger.
“God, you’re so judgmental.”
“But is it really judgmental . . . if I’m right?” I dipped a bouquet of fries in ketchup, then stuffed them in. She rolled her eyes at my question, but I was semiserious. What was the difference between sound judgment and outright prejudice anyway? Wasn’t it a function of accuracy?
Cafe Express was crowded for a Tuesday night. This was a regular dinner haunt for us, as it was close to our apartment and not too spendy, and the food was good and came in large portions. Busy now demolishing said turkey burger, I had already polished off an entree of grilled salmon, green beans, and mashed potatoes, and I was eyeing the remainder of Julia’s Cobb salad.
Yes, I eat a lot, and with good reason. An average girl can eat
fifteen hundred to eighteen hundred calories a day and thrive, but I’m not an average girl. At five foot seven and 135 pounds, every week between workouts, practices, and games I incinerate an astonishing twenty-eight thousand calories. (I know this because the trainers tested me.) My metabolism hums 24/7 like a beehive, and four thousand calories a day just keeps me from losing weight—I need more to add muscle. Believe you me, it ain’t easy to find that much food, much less chew and swallow it all. Note to self: stop for chocolate milk on the way home.
“Look,” I continued, tossing down the last of the burger, “I get why you’re excited. But you’re good at this stuff. I’m socially . . . dyslexic.”
I reached for her salad, then stopped when I caught the look of shock on her face.
“Sorry, I thought you were finished,” I said, confused—I routinely finished off her plate.
“It’s not that,” she whispered back, with some urgency.
I followed her look and there, at the counter, was Tyler Stanton.
“Crap.”
“Right?” She used me as a shield, hoping he wouldn’t see her.
“How is he anyway?” I whispered.
“No idea. We haven’t spoken in a month.”
“Good,” I replied. “He’s a time bomb and you don’t want to be around the next time he explodes.” Julia stood as I finished speaking, and I sensed rather than saw his bulk behind me.
“Hi, Tyler,” she said evenly.
“How’s it going?” he asked. I stood and faced him, inserting myself neatly between them. Tyler, the middle linebacker on the SMU football team, was six foot two with bulging arms and a head the size of a microwave. Standing there in jeans and a T-shirt he looked like a cartoon superhero. But I held my ground even as he looked right over me to Julia.
“Great to see you, but we were just going.” I took Julia by the arm, and started to lead her away.
“I heard about your debut thing,” he offered. “Congratulations.”
The Season Page 4