The Season (5 page)

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 sport. 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.”

Julia stopped, looked back. I pulled on her arm. She resisted.

“Thanks,” Julia replied. I could see she wanted to talk to him, though I couldn't fathom why. “How are you?” she asked. I huffed audibly.

“Fine. Good. You know . . .” he replied, his voice dripping with self-pity.

Unhappy that she had stopped, but content that they were now ten feet apart, I gave her some space.

“I'm gonna get a to-go container,” I said, and
started toward the counter, eyes locked on Tyler, warning him not to get any closer to her. They kept talking.

Julia and Tyler started dating the first week of senior year in high school. Tyler, a heady brew of clean-cut good looks and imposing brawn, was a consensus all-American on the field as well as a straight-A student, and that fall he graced the cover of
Texas High School Football Magazine—
a sure step on the path to sainthood. The students voted Julia homecoming queen, and as proof that she was more than a pretty face, she gave a commencement speech as the salutatorian in a class of six hundred. Awash in scholarship offers, inseparable, and in love, they were the envy of the school and pretty much every parent who knew them. They chose SMU together, and it was widely assumed they would reign there as before until they graduated, married, and went off to end world hunger.

The first year went according to plan, but last fall Tyler tore his ACL, and during the long rehab he grew moody, often downright angry, and month by month began to shut her out. By May their relationship was on the shoals. Desperate, sure something bigger was going on, she confronted him, begged him to let her in, to trust her, confide in her. For an answer he grabbed her by the shoulder, shouted “Leave me the fuck alone!” and slung her away. Her journey across the room stopped when her head connected with his bedroom door.

Both in tears, they showed up at our apartment and woke
me. After one look I screamed at him to get away, then drove her to the ER. The doctor sewed the three stitches, and I pleaded with her to press charges. She refused, but did break it off with him. That was four months ago, and as far as I knew they hadn't seen each other since, though they texted occasionally and he had called a couple of times.

I returned with my to-go container, dumped everything with calories in, and closed the lid.

“. . . so, I don't know, maybe we could get a coffee sometime,” Tyler said. Then he went all misty. “I miss you . . . I'd really like to see you, just—catch up.”

“Thinking it's gonna be hard to squeeze you two into a booth big enough for the restraining order,” I said, again moving between them.

“Megan—” Julia said, but Tyler interrupted.

“Same old Megan,” he sneered. “How's your love life?”

“Anxious about prison?” I responded, not giving an inch.

“Megan, let's go,” Julia said. I didn't need to be asked twice.

“Look.” Tyler softened, casting back to Julia. “I just really care about you, and I don't want to lose touch. Okay?” His eyes pleaded his case.

“We'll see,” Julia offered.

“Okay, then, fun catching up,” I said breezily, and pulled Julia firmly toward the door.

“See ya,” Tyler called after us.

“Hope not,” I whispered, to myself but loud enough for Julia to
hear.

Outside, I marched Julia to the car.

“Are you insane?” I asked. “That maniac sent you to the hospital, remember?”

“He feels terrible about—”

“He should. And he got off easy.”

“I just hope he finds a way to turn this into a positive. He's really a good person.”

I looked at her. She meant it.

“You're the good egg, Julia.” I held her by the shoulders. “And I know that you want to think the best of him, but trust me when I tell you that Tyler did a very bad thing and deserves whatever grief comes his way. Promise me you won't see him alone?”

“Promise.” I hugged her, and she hugged me back.

“I love you and I don't want to see you hurt. Ever.”

“I know. I love you too.”

We got in and I started the engine. Glancing over I noticed the slump in her shoulders, her downcast eyes. The last few months had been tough on her, and seeing Tyler clearly brought back the misery.

“Hey, this deb thing is gonna be great for you,” I said, brightly. “Four months of shopping, dates, and parties . . . just what you need to forget all about him.”

Tyler had done us one solid. He was responsible for our awesome two-bedroom apartment less than a quarter mile from campus. When two football players, Quinn and Brady, had
pulled a midnight move, Tyler gave us the heads-up, and we ran over, checkbook in hand. We found it a wee bit less than awesome when we opened the door.

“Oh God!” Julia screamed. She stepped back as the stench hit her.

Picture this: an enclosed space where two large offensive linemen and their copious clones ate frozen pizzas and Chinese takeout, drank Lone Star, and never cleaned the bathroom or really any surface for two years. Add in various native bugs and fetid laundry cooked by seven months of summer, multiply by a thousand, and you have a filthy crockpot of stale and crusty testosterone—aka our new home.

“I can't,” Julia said.

“But we can stay three years,” I pleaded.

We called the landlord and set off for Home Depot, where we bought rubber gloves, industrial cleaner, sponges, a bucket, a mop, bug bombs, and a box of paper masks. We bombed every room, then scraped food from the baseboards, washed the walls, the floors, the windows, and even the ceiling fan. Quinn's bedroom was empty and in need of nothing more than the same routine we'd given the living room. Brady's was a post-apocalyptic toxic waste site doubling as a location for
Mad Max: Fury Road
.

“This is your room,” Julia said, sniffing the air.

Two contractor bags to the Dumpster later, and we were nearly done. The last item was a futon, which rested on the floor. We hiked up the rubber gloves and each grabbed
one side and lifted. Gasping, we heaved it toward the door, and that's when we saw it: the March 2015 issue of
Pistol
magazine hiding underneath.

“Is that . . .” Julia asked, staring at the cover. A very muscular and very naked man stared up at us. In one hand he held a pipe wrench, and in the other . . . well.

“Oh my,” I said, dropping my end and bending down to pick the magazine up.

“Don't touch it!” Julia screamed, but I ignored her. I was wearing rubber gloves, after all. I leafed through a few pages.

“Brady, Brady, Brady,” I said, thinking of the football player who had lived here. “What a naughty boy you are.” I offered it to Julia but she declined.

We manhandled the futon down to the Dumpster and shoved it in, along with the magazine.

Julia shuddered. “We will never speak of this again.”

“Agreed.”

After an IKEA run with Dad, we bought linens and a woven rug at Target, hung some pictures, and put Fiestaware in the cabinets, and the place felt like ours. That first night we were watching TV and I noticed Julia looking all sad.

“What's wrong?” I asked.

“I feel bad for him.”

“Who?”

“Brady.” The gay football player. “He must be so . . . lonely.”

Like I said, Julia's the good egg.

The night we saw Tyler at Cafe Express, Julia came and stood by my bed.

“Still thinking about Tyler?” I asked.

She nodded so I moved over and she crawled in and we lay there, back-to-back, each lost in our own thoughts. I had been thinking about him too. Not about what a dick he was, but about his snide comment regarding my pathetic love life. I would never admit it, but it burned.

I liked boys. I just had no idea how to attract them. Flirting was an absolute mystery to me. I was categorically incapable of the unspoken communication that drew boys in, piqued their curiosity, or flat out turned them on. I had several theories for this. The first was that Mennen Speed Stick deodorant, which I slathered on because it actually worked, neutralized female pheromones.