“You shouldn’t have,” I said. I spent exactly three seconds trying to pry off the tiara she had superglued to the brim, then gave up and stuck it on my head. I didn’t even bother to try and remove the glittering streamers flowing off the handlebars.
“Have fun at the ball! Be home by midnight!” Mariah called.
“Let us know if you meet Prince Charming!” Lachelle shouted.
I waved and left to the sound of kazoos. Halfway across campus I noticed they had replaced my nasty old water bottle with a brand-new pink one.
And what I’d remembered as “a few blocks” from SMU to Turtle Creek Country Club turned out to be ten—a solid mile and a half. And there were two lights. Now I was sitting at the second. When I’d arrived at the first, the crosswalk was blocked by a column of toddlers returning from the park to their day care.
Recalling my dress blowing out behind me that morning, I suddenly wished I were Superman, that I could fly or instantly cool the entire world to subzero temperatures. Most of all I wished to spin the earth backward at hypersonic speed, thereby reversing the clocks by, say, an hour. Lacking all of these skills I smoldered, inside and out. One last glance at my watch—4:45 p.m. Best case scenario I would arrive twenty minutes late, flushed and sweaty.
The entrance to Turtle Creek Country Club was, naturally, uphill. Unable to quell the rising tide of panic, I stood on the pedals and cranked my bike up over the crest. Suddenly, as if she were right next to me, I heard my mother offer that “Megan, dear, you never get a second chance to make a first impression.” Thanks for that, Mom.
Ahead now I saw the shaded portico and the front doors. I imagined the other girls arriving before me—early of course—pulling up in their vacuum-sealed cars, the air- conditioning cranked so high they’d be wearing cashmere cardigans. Exiting oh so carefully—don’t muss your hair or chip a nail—they’d take the valet ticket and have a mere eight steps to the cool confines of the club. Not enough time to melt an M&M, much less mar their Kabuki makeup.
Lost in my bitter reverie I hurtled into the entrance, screeched to a stop, and locked eyes with the valet. He was young, dressed in black shorts and a white polo. He was also handsome, ridiculously so, with big brown eyes, wavy hair, and a dimple in his chin big enough to bathe in. I stood waiting, but he didn’t move, just hovered with a ticket in his hand.
“Well?” I said. He just stared at me, slack-jawed. Poor fella, got the looks but not the brains, I thought. “What, you’ve never parked a bike before?”
That got him. He stepped forward and held the handle bar.
“Sorry—good afternoon . . . ma’am,” he said. Now he smiled. And what a smile—brighter than the lights at Westcott Field. “Welcome to Turtle Creek Country Club.”
“Thanks.” I unbuckled my helmet and handed it to him. He noticed the tiara, and smiled again. He really was handsome. Must do well with the older ladies. I considered explaining about the tiara, but really, what plausible explanation could I offer?
And then, harried, and distracted by his looks, I caught the hem of my dress on the saddle and tore it as I dismounted. We both looked down at the sound of cloth ripping. My stylish red linen dress now had a tear from thigh to hip, a generous hole through which my sunflower panties and a decent amount of skin showed.
“Perfect,” I said. “Just—perfect.” He gave me a sympathetic look. I squeezed my dress shut, handed him five bucks.
“Oh, thank you very much, ma’am.” I sensed some private joke now, a gentle tease in his voice—probably the tiara.
“You’re welcome.” I quizzed his face for the answer, and his smile grew. Definitely the tiara. I nodded at my bike. “Keep it running?”
“Yes, ma’am,” he said, the smile widening. It made my heart thump. He was beyond cute. Typical—on the doorstep of fabulous wealth I swoon for the valet. I walked away holding my dress together.
“And no joyriding,” I yelled over my shoulder.
“No, ma’am.” As I opened the door I stole one last look. He leaned my bike carefully against the wall, and then a black Mercedes AMG roared in and an older man in a Turtle Creek Country Club polo hopped out. My “valet” went around to the driver’s door and gave my five dollars to the real valet.
He paused before getting in, looked my way. He smiled even more broadly and waved, clearly enjoying the moment. My shock gave way to amusement. Well, well, color me wrong. Handsome and sly. I waved back. So long, stranger, I thought as he drove away. Even his car had a great ass.
Inside the club it was dark and cold as an igloo, and I waited as my pupils dilated from midday Sahara to the warm, woodsy tones of high-dollar luxury. Feeling blowing air from an AC vent above, I raised my arms and let the cool draft rush over my wet armpits.
Sweet Jesus, that’s heaven.
Having been there a few times before, I knew I was in the main entrance. I looked around to gauge my vision. Gleaming parquet floor? Check. Taupe linen wallpaper and walnut wainscoting? Check. Large potted plants in brass bowls? Crystal chandeliers? Check, check. Woman sitting behind desk staring at me while I air my pits? That was new. Roger and out.
“May I help you?” she inquired, her tone as frosty as the room.
I slowly lowered my arms.
“Yes, hi—Megan McKnight. I’m here for the orientation tea.”
“That would be in the Magnolia Room. Down this hall and turn left. All the way to the end and you’ll see the double doors.”
“Thank you so much.”
“Not at all.”
“It’s very hot outside,” I offered.
“Yes, it is,” she replied. Well, I’m certainly glad we settled that.
I started walking, and clasped my dress.
Then inspiration struck. I turned back to the woman.
“Do you have a stapler I could borrow?”
“I do.” She pulled out a beefy stapler from the desk and handed it over. Holding the side seam in place, I squeezed the stapler three times in quick succession—thunka, thunka, thunka.
I let my dress fall and, hey, presto, the tear was nearly closed. A flash of yellow still showed, so I hammered in one more staple. Clunky as Frankenstein’s stitches, but at least the hole was gone, and with my hand by my side you almost couldn’t see it. I handed back the stapler, winked at the stunned receptionist, and ventured off in search of the tea.
The Magnolia Room. Soft, melodic words to be murmured, relished. Just saying it evoked images of all-white-meat curried chicken salad scooped on beds of butter lettuce, linen napkins, gilded china, heavy-gauge silver, and sweating goblets of iced tea garnished with fresh mint. Nothing really bad could ever happen in the Magnolia Room, I reckoned, as the soaring white doors loomed ahead.
They probably haven’t even started, I fantasized, squashing the urge to sprint the last twenty yards. I bet they’re still standing around, sipping tea, doing the “get-to-know-ya,” and nobody would notice I was now twenty-five minutes late.
Outside the doors I checked the seam of my dress. The staples were holding. I pulled my hair back tighter in my ponytail, blew air up from my mouth to dry the sweat still lingering on my brow, and reached for the brass handle on the giant door.
Everything is going to be fine, I told myself, and walked in.
Four
In Which Megan Discovers That Tea Can Be a Full-Contact Sport
THE MAGNOLIA ROOM WAS LARGE ENOUGH TO PARK a Gulfstream in, with room to spare. Instead of a plane, however, the only thing in the hangar was a single round table, surrounded by seven formal chairs. One was empty. Six young women filled the others, and a very tall, well-dressed woman stood beside them. At the sound of the door opening, all seven heads snapped my way. Apparently they had started.
“Yes?” This from the Amazon in charge. I recognized Ann Foster immediately. Her gaze was piercing, even from thirty feet.
&n
bsp; “I’m Megan McKnight. Is this the orientation tea?” Brilliant question, Megan. Your sister is sitting right there. What else could it be?
“It is.” Ann said nothing further. Instead, she measured me for a casket as I walked to the lone empty chair. I tried not to cringe openly as I sat. Julia gave me a hopeful look, and I smiled wanly as the woman started speaking again. My cousin Abby winked at me, and I rolled my eyes. The other four girls were stoic, fixated on our host.
“Now, as I was saying, it would be impossible to overstate the opportunity before you.”
Ann now looked intently at each of us, letting the words land first on the group and then individually. With her eyes on me, I felt my spine straighten as if pulled by a puppeteer’s strings. I’ll say this for her—she knew the value of brevity followed by silence. She let that sentence dangle for a good fifteen seconds, until long after the silence was downright uncomfortable. Now there’s a trick I need to remember. I willed myself not to fidget.
“You are on the cusp of an historic journey. This year just seven invitations were extended by the Bluebonnet Club for this, the 2016 Debut Season. In the past century and a quarter, perhaps eight hundred women in Texas have sat where you are now. Some are your relatives—mothers, aunts, grandmothers—the women and families who quite literally built this city through their industry, and their charity. And they have selected you to receive the torch of tradition and excellence and carry it forward.”
Ann Foster’s face was smooth save for fine wrinkles around her eyes, and I guessed she was sixty, but I could have been off by a decade in either direction. She wasn’t a pound overweight, and with her hair pulled back I thought she might have, long ago, been a dancer. She certainly had the posture and the attitude.
In under ten seconds I knew from her honeysuckle drawl she was from Houston, and I quickly filled in the rest: Camp Mystic or at least Waldemar; the University of Texas—either a Kappa or a Pi Phi; decades as a wedding planner and events coordinator for the rich and famous, always around the bubble but never quite inside it. Now she lived in or near the Park Cities, but as she was single (no ring) and still worked, this meant a town house on Northwest Highway or something small west of the Tollway.
“Make no mistake,” Ann continued. “Formal traditions demand rigor and sacrifice. Stamina and integrity. They are undertaken not to provide a window in which to display your wares but to prove to yourselves, your family, and others that you will be capable, dependable adults, women of great works—that you will be the very fabric of the next generation of society. If you have come here thinking this will be nothing but a series of silly parties, you are much mistaken. Yes, there will be balls, dinners, luncheons, and teas, and you will attend them all. You will shake hands and curtsy and smile until your cheeks ache—and when it is done you will know everyone in this city worth knowing, and they will know you. But first and foremost your debut will provide you with the means to leave a legacy, a great work of selflessness. Each of you, if you have not already, will select a charitable organization that you care passionately about, and by the close of the season you are expected to make a sizable donation to this organization.”
She paused again. I figured it might be lengthy, based on the last one. What with the heat, the bicycling, and the stress, I picked up the glass of iced tea in front of me and tried to take a sip. But when the cold liquid hit my mouth I just kept drinking—glug, glug, glug. Halfway through, I realized Ann had not said another word, and she and the other girls watched as I drained the entire thing.
“Sorry,” I said, setting the empty glass back on the doily. Ann closed her eyes, took a deep breath, reset, and focused again on the group.
“What do I mean by a sizable donation? Well, last year a young woman raised and donated more than four hundred thousand dollars to Habitat for Humanity, and used in concert with matching grants, those funds built ten new houses for families in need. A girl very much like you, last year managed to put ten families in new houses they now own. That is a gift worth giving, a true legacy, and more than most will do in their lifetime. Yet this young woman is just twenty-two and will graduate from college this year. Can you imagine what that’s done for her self-esteem? Do you think she will be capable of great works going forward? And wouldn’t we all like to have something like that on our résumé?”
She paused again to let this sink in.
“Now I imagine you’re wondering just how you will raise this money. The answer is that, in addition to parties given by relatives or prominent organizations such as the Petroleum Club, the Junior League, the Texas Bar Association, and so forth, each girl and her family will also host a party. These should be an expression of who you are, the face you wish to present to the world. They can have themes, they may be at different venues, but you are expected to sell tables to your party, and the money you collect will be the donation you give. The young woman last year sold more than one hundred tables of six to her debut, each at a cost of four thousand dollars.”
This caused all of us to look around. One hundred tables? Four thousand dollars each?
“So yes, there will be parties, but these parties serve a greater purpose.”
Several girls used this pause for a dainty sip of tea. Prissy bitches.
“Now please open the folders in front of you.” I had been so busy acclimatizing that I had failed to notice that on the table were seven linen binders arranged artfully on end—cream with gold accents. Embossed on the cover was The 2016 Bluebonnet Debutante Season. In the lower right corner of mine, in fancy gold script, was my name: Megan Lucille McKnight.
“This,” Ann said, holding hers aloft, “is your bible. Everything you need to know is contained in this folder. In the reference section you’ll find stylists, florists, caterers, event coordinators, stationers, dressmakers—all personally vetted by me. Under charitable organizations you will find a thorough, but not complete, list of suitable ideas. There is a section for portraits, and an address book. Familiarize yourselves with this; you will be writing a lot of thank-you notes. Now, please open the ‘Calendar’ tab, and we’ll go over it together.”
Books were opened.
“As you can see, I have chosen Abigail Lucas to host the first debutante party, which will be in late October. Lauren Battle will host the second ball . . .”
I breathed a sigh of relief. My aunt and uncle were loaded and had great taste, so the party was sure to be perfect. I glanced at my cousin Abby and she seemed excited. I flipped ahead in the calendar and found our party would be last, just before Christmas. Thank God. Any delay was welcome, as the thought of Mom planning and pulling off a debut party for six hundred of our nearest and dearest friends and family was something I wasn’t ready to contemplate yet. Plus, if we made the playoffs, soccer season would be over a week before.
As Ann droned on I tuned her out and had a cautious look around. Six other girls. Julia I knew. And to her left Abby. Abby’s dress was navy, with white trim—flattering, understated, geared to appear slimming, as Abby fought her weight. And then the faces went foreign. I tried to remember the names from the paper. A basic blonde—Ashley? An interesting brunette—Sydney somebody—looked vaguely familiar. Had we met somewhere once? I searched my memory to figure out where. She gave me a brief look and I saw something in her eyes—she was . . . uncomfortable. But I couldn’t place her. And to her left another brunette—weren’t there two Ashleys?
Directly across from me sat another blonde, but this one was somebody. Lauren Battle had Queen Bee written all over her. Her hair was curled, her makeup model perfect, and her pale yellow dress played great off a deep, rich tan that strangely brought to mind the Crayola color Burnt Sienna. The Battles had come into the limelight in the 1920s when the oil patch blossomed, and that original fortune had spawned a Texas shade oak of family wealth. They still owned about a third of Fort Worth, and while I had never met Lauren in person I had seen her and
her mother and various grandparents, uncles, and cousins in the paper or on the cover of vapid, glossy magazines like D.
One trait we all shared was that we were white. I went to public school in DeSoto with a Heinz 57 of kids, and soccer was a meritocracy. If you could put the ball in the back of the net, eggplant was an acceptable skin color. But the girls sitting at that table made it clear that even in 2016 a Bluebonnet debut in Dallas still meant white girls of privilege and wealth—or in the case of the McKnight girls, serious legacy cloaked in the appearance of wealth.
“The final ball, on New Year’s Eve,” Ann continued, “will be hosted by the Bluebonnet Club. They are, as you know, the founding sponsor of the season, and this ball has been held every year since 1882, an uninterrupted tradition that now spans one hundred and thirty-four years—nineteen years longer than the University of Texas has played the University of Oklahoma in the merry sport of football.”
She paused a moment to look around and let this sink in. And it did. Traditions don’t get bigger than the Red River Shootout, an annual border war fought on the gridiron. It’s held in Dallas, the neutral midpoint between Austin and Norman, Oklahoma, where every October legions of rabid fans in crimson and burnt orange converge for a weekend of boozing and brawling over serious bragging rights. And this Bluebonnet Debut thing trumped that by twenty years? Just kill me now.
“Dress for this event is white gown and white gloves—no exceptions. As each of you are presented, you will be required to bow formally—the Texas Dip. Every young woman who has ever made her debut in the state of Texas has done this, and it is the one skill you must absolutely master. Please remember you will perform this feat alone, at the edge of a runway on a stage under hot lights in front of the entire city—in heels.”
She examined each of us for the requisite fortitude.
“I will demonstrate it now.”
Ann drew herself up high and tall. And then she put her left leg back and began to bow. Her head reached her waist. Her knees began to fold and her head continued down, down, her face turned to avoid smearing her lipstick.
The Season Page 3
