Hunter reached in his pocket and handed Andrew a business card, said a few words. Andrew’s withering look said it all, and I felt a pang of sympathy for Hunter. Sure, he was a tool, but Andrew didn’t have to let him know it so publicly. Uncomfortable, I saw Dad at the bar.
“Excuse me.” I smiled and walked away. Hunter stayed behind, unwilling to separate from Andrew Gage so soon.
I asked for a refill, and Dad and I stood side by side, backs to the bar, enjoying the circus.
“I am so damn proud of you,” he said after a moment.
“Really? Why?” I asked, genuinely curious.
“I don’t know one other girl—young woman,” he corrected himself, “with the guts to come to a party like this looking like that.”
He raised his beer bottle.
“Here’s to you, Megan McKnight, the brassiest woman I know.”
I accepted his toast. Clink. My evening brightened, until I caught Mom scowling at us from across the room, resentful that we might be having a good time in this moment of family tragedy.
“I’m not sure Mom feels quite the same way,” I said.
“Look, you didn’t make her day, but she’s not really mad at you. She’s mad at me.”
“Why?”
“She found out I haven’t called that fellow back yet.”
“Why not?”
“’Cause I know what he’s gonna say.”
Hunter now looked over, and I saw the tumblers in his head fall into place: Rule 4. Must not leave date alone.
No, please, feel free, I thought, leave date alone.
He excused himself and walked our way.
“Dad, do something,” I whispered. “Anything.”
Hunter arrived.
“Would you like to dance, Megan?”
“Really, Hunter, you don’t have to dance with me. I know how I look.”
“But I want to.”
I did not. Taking classes had not blunted my opinion that ballroom dancing was silly and outdated, and I would gladly have skipped it altogether. Especially tonight.
“Of course, then, thank you,” I said, and gave my dad a “thanks a lot” glance, only to see him smile and raise his beer in mock salute.
Out on the dance floor Hunter gripped me like a ladder and waltzed me off at a good clip. Slow down, sailor, I’ve got a head injury, I thought as we lurched around, but Hunter plowed forward, oblivious to my misery.
“Zach and Andrew are business partners,” he said, breathless with excitement. “Rumor has it they’re engaged.”
“Zach and Andrew are engaged?” I asked, my brain all muddly. We flew past Julia and Zach dancing, and then Lauren and Andrew. I focused on the horizon, praying it would cure my nausea. I was now actively regretting my quixotic decision to mix booze with downers.
“No—Andrew Gage and Lauren Battle,” Hunter replied.
Engaged? I thought. He may be handsome and occasionally witty, but he must be deeply broken if he wants to spend the rest of his life with her.
“His great-grandfather was a steel tycoon, you know,” Hunter continued, “and his father was an advisor to President Clinton—he died a few years ago and left behind a fortune. His mother is practically the queen of New York. Even her dog, Mitzy, is famous. They go for walks in Central Park, with a bodyguard.”
“Imagine!” I said, but Hunter again ignored my sarcasm altogether, still caught up in the thrill of the Gages and their first-class lifestyle.
“I gave him my business card,” he continued. “You think that’s all right?”
“I’m sure it is.” Lying to Hunter was becoming a regular habit.
“I think it went over well,” he said, his face a wall of concern over just how this chance encounter had gone.
The music stopped and Hunter slowed to a halt. I held on to him for an extra few seconds, waiting for my head to stop spinning. I took a deep breath, let go of his hands, and did not crumple to the floor.
“Thank you, Hunter, for such an . . . exuberant waltz.”
“My pleasure.” He smiled. Bless his overly earnest heart, all stink was lost on him.
“Would you excuse me for a moment?” Debutante code for “I gotta go pee now.”
“Of course. I’ll find our table.”
“Great,” I said, and took my first step. Teetering, I put my hand on Hunter’s shoulder, steadied myself, and set off. Just a little farther, and I would be alone. I hoped they had a chair in the bathroom. I needed to sit down.
Someone fell in beside me. Ann Foster. I served her my best smile and she returned a stern, unhappy look. God, what now? She held the door for me, and followed me into the empty hallway beyond.
Ambushed.
Nine
In Which Megan Takes a Long Look in the Mirror
“THIS,” ANN SPAT, INDICATING MY FACE, “IS NOT WHAT I meant by surprise me.”
“This was an accident—I got punched in the face in a soccer game this afternoon.”
“How interesting. Because eight hundred party guests believe you were carjacked by a gang.” Ann was seething, a lioness on the attack.
“I said that as a joke!”
“I am not amused.”
“Well, I had no idea my clueless date would take it seriously and tell everyone.”
A long look of reproach.
“We are rarely in control of other people’s actions, Megan. We are, however, in absolute control of our own. And so, with your ridiculous appearance and this fantastic story, you have made yourself the talk of the party. I do hope you are proud of yourself.”
“I scored the winning goal,” I ventured.
A sharp intake of breath.
“I should have followed my instincts,” she said, shaking her head. “You are simply not cut out for this. I expect your written withdrawal in the morning.”
“You said I had a month. I have a week left!” I blurted. “I’m sorry, but I’m—well-rounded . . .” I wasn’t entirely sure where this was going, but it felt good to try and defend myself. “I’m smart. And athletic. And I think it’s a good thing that I can play soccer and go to school full-time and do this too. These other girls would wilt in a week with my schedule. I don’t deserve this, so if you want me gone now, kick me out. Otherwise I still have a week to surprise you!”
Ann considered this outburst, but for a long moment made no reply. She was harder to read than symbols on a crumbling Assyrian temple.
“I agree that your varied interests are an asset,” she said finally. “To a point. And I do admire your spirit. But your judgment is deeply flawed. Why didn’t you just call me? If you had told me about the black eye and how it happened, I would have told you to do a good job on your makeup, and for God’s sake make sure your cousin knows you’re all right ahead of time. Do your best not to take attention away from her on her big night, but be there in support. I could have spun you to the guests as one of our most accomplished, dedicated debutantes, and this whole mishap would have turned in your favor. Instead you lied and made it an offensive joke, and in the process damaged an evening your cousin worked tirelessly to perfect.”
“I’m sorry—again. That was not my intention.”
“Whether intended or not, you have fallen further than even I expected, Miss McKnight. You may have your week, but I suggest you fill it with fervent and regular prayer.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She left me there with my aching head and my big fat black eye, feeling like I’d been punched in the face for the second time that day.
Getting dressed for the evening had been an adventure. It started with my underwear, or what Margot offered me for underwear.
“What is that—a washcloth?” I asked.
“Spanx,” she replied. “They will make you look smooth and perfect, and give you a nice silhouette.”
They were the tiniest pair of shorts I had ever seen. I protested that they would never fit, but Margot coaxed and Julia nodded, so I pulled, hopped, crammed, and finally got them halfway up. Then I lay on the bed and kicked and squirmed and heaved until they somehow cleared my hips. With Margot’s help, we yanked and smoothed some more, and at last they were on—an iron vise from mid-thigh to just under my boobs.
I walked slowly around the room, then felt an unexpectedly cool rush of air down below.
“Oh great, mine are ripped,” I said to Margot, showing her the split in the crotch. Julia and Margot giggled at my ignorance.
“That’s for going to the bathroom,” Julia offered, already comfortably ensconced in hers.
“You’ve got to be joking,” I said. “I would need an Air Force bombsight to accomplish that, and there would definitely be collateral damage. Besides, I’m not hanging out like this for the whole party.”
“Nobody will know,” Julia said.
“I’ll know.”
“You can wear panties underneath if you like,” Margot offered.
With a great deal of effort I somehow got the Spanx off, slid on the tiniest thong I had ever seen, then struggled back into the damn things. My central organs under siege, we moved on to my cleavage. Margot hooked me into an extremely tight strapless bra, then fit in two silicone cutlets to give me boost. Finally I stepped into my dress, and Margot zipped me in. Feeling like I was wearing a wet suit, I thought we were done. But no—next came the taping. Margot used double-sided toupee tape and sealed the edges of my dress to my skin to eliminate any gaping or crinkling. Twenty-five minutes of effort to get into a pair of man-trickers and fake boobs, and tape me to my dress. Sexy.
Now, an hour into the party, I had to pee. I raced up the stairs to the ladies’ room, and there realized that what I had done in a large room with assistance, I now had to undo in a closet alone, with a water hazard. I lifted and bunched material until I could hold my dress up in one hand, and with the other hand I wrenched and pulled at the Spanx. They wouldn’t budge. Gasping, sweating and desperate to go, I was finally able to roll them down below my ass. I collapsed onto the toilet seat in joyous relief.
Choosing maneuverability over modesty, I went outside the little tinkle cabana to get them back up again, only to discover that I’d popped my tape. I spent a good three minutes hoisting my bra back into place and smoothing and retaping myself. I should have tried to pee through the hole.
I went to the sink to mop my sweat and wash my hands.
Shutting off the tap, I had a good long look in the mirror. I turned my head from side to side. Not quite Dr. Jekyll and Ms. Hyde, but close. One half was a rather attractive and stylish young brunette who looked ready for a night on the town. The other half was a fearsome beast with swollen purple features who looked hungry for a live squirrel. I bared my teeth in the mirror—grrrrr.
I mentally replayed my run-in with Ann. The worst part was that she was right. I couldn’t avoid the beating I took that afternoon, but I could have handled it better. And why hadn’t I? I didn’t consider myself selfish and self-absorbed, but maybe I just wasn’t looking hard enough. I felt horrible about taking attention away from Abby, or spoiling her party in any way.
There was no getting around it—I had to apologize: to Abby and Aunt Camille and Uncle Dan and Hunter Carmichael—my, that was quite a list. I’d better get started. Figuring out just how to surprise Ann with only a week remaining would have to wait until my head cleared.
The ladies’ room was on the second floor, and as I neared the top of the staircase I heard voices below and the name “Julia.” Stopping, I peeked over the balustrade and saw Zach Battle and Andrew Gage below. The heavy carpet had muted my footsteps, and they had not sensed me above them. Like any girl would, I paused to listen, hoping to hear a few kind words about my sister.
“She’s freaking gorgeous, right?” Zach asked.
“Granted. But—”
“I really like her,” Zach went on.
“You just met her.”
“So? She came with her cousin—that’s a good sign.” Zach was on the hook! I couldn’t wait to tell Julia. “I’m gonna work it out to be her escort to the next thing.”
“I think you should.”
“And what about her sister?” Zach asked. “With that eye and that attitude? Total boss deb.” I’m a boss deb? Thanks, Zach.
“Lauren thinks she’s into chicks,” Andrew said.
What? Is that the way I came across?
“No way,” Zach countered. I glanced over the railing.
“She does play soccer,” Andrew continued. “And drives a Subaru. Just saying . . .”
Now I was pissed. I had been dealing with this stereotype my entire life—yes, there are lesbians in women’s sports, but playing sports does not make you a lesbian. And anyway, what if I was? I knew lots of lesbians—my coach, for starters, and Mariah, one of my best friends on the team. First he acts like we’ve never met and he can’t wait to get out of talking to a plebe like me, and now this? Andrew Gage was a snob who needed to be brought down a rung or two.
I started down the stairs—CLOMP, CLOMP, CLOMP. Their heads snapped up, and they knew they were busted. As I came down, taking my sweet time, the burning question lingered: just how much had I heard?
Let ’em squirm, I thought.
Andrew seemed particularly uncomfortable. Good. I’ll roast him on a spit with an apple stuffed in his mouth.
“Hey, Megan,” Zach managed. “I was just telling Andrew how much I like your sister.”
I paused on the last step, smiled wickedly at Zach.
“Really? What a coincidence.” I stepped down. “I really like your sister too.” I sauntered past him, then winked at Andrew with my good eye. “She’s smokin’ hot.”
I kept walking, determined not to look back. Behind me Zach laughed, and I’m pretty sure he punched Andrew in the arm.
Suck on that, I thought, and with the flame he’d lit a month before now firmly extinguished, I silently wished Andrew Gage good riddance.
When I returned to the table, Julia and Simon were eating. Hunter had waited for me. What a peach—he probably would make partner someday.
“So sorry. Ann Foster cornered me and wouldn’t let me go.”
“Is everything all right?” Julia asked.
“Fine. But I need to go talk to Abby. And Hunter,” I said, turning to him. “You do realize I was not really carjacked?”
“You weren’t?”
“No. I got punched in a soccer game.”
“Oh,” he said, pondering this new information. “But why would you say you were?”
“Because I’m psychotic. I knew we weren’t a good match.”
Hunter and I stopped by Abby’s table, where I performed an act of penance worthy of our savior Jesus Christ. I told them the truth and apologized profusely and sincerely, both for the way I looked and for causing a scene. Abby laughed it off, and everyone was relieved to know I wasn’t involved in a real felony, just a legal mugging. I told them again how wonderful the party was, and we went off to the buffet line.
Calling that spread a buffet was damning with faint praise. Casinos and cafeterias have buffets. This was a feast. Famished, I opted for everything. Smoked tenderloin? Yes, please! Grilled lobster tail? You betcha! Alaskan salmon? Don’t forget the sauce béarnaise! Chophouse salad? Extra bacon! The guys serving enjoyed watching this chick with a shiner load up her plate, but it left Hunter shell-shocked, not that I cared. I stopped for rolls and butter, noted the homemade ice cream sandwiches.
As I returned to our table, I saw Andrew Gage staring at me and my gigantic plate of food. He didn’t approach, made no gesture, said nothing, but just looked at me for a good ten seconds as I walked past. Weirdo.
For the next twenty minutes I ate steadily whi
le Hunter, Julia, and Simon kept up the small talk. Afterward I felt much better. My thoughts drifted and I realized the evening had turned out much as I had feared. I didn’t want to be here, didn’t fit in, and had little hope that things would improve in the near future. Maybe I should take Ann’s offer to withdraw while a shred of dignity remained.
“Would you excuse me, Hunter? I want to go browse the desserts.”
“Of course,” he said. His brow furrowed at the idea of me and more food, but he stood nonetheless and smiled gallantly as I marched back toward the buffet.
In fact, my dessert search was a ruse. I was beyond full, and I went straight past the buffet to the veranda doors and outside for some fresh air.
Texas nights in October run cool but rarely cold, and that night held to form. I wandered across the empty terrace toward a stone wall that held back Turtle Creek. Happy to be alone I kicked off my heels, hiked up my dress, sat down on the wall, and dangled my feet over the water. I took several deep breaths, exhaled, and for the first time since the game, my head really cleared. I stared into the black water below, where the round white moon floated like a china plate, and realized it really had been an action- packed eight hours.
As a little girl I never missed a chance to skip rocks, so I dug for a flat stone and skimmed it hard across the water. One, two, three hops and a “splash.” The moon shimmied in the ripples, and my mood brightened slightly. My fingers searched for another rock. It too danced out into the darkness. Another satisfying splash. I considered making a wish.
“Good arm.”
Startled, as I had neither heard nor felt anyone approach, I swiveled and found a guy standing behind me. He wore khaki slacks below a dark green military jacket replete with army buttons, epaulets, and a few decorations on his chest. He held his hat flat under his arm and stood straight without seeming rigid. He was cute enough if you go for crew cuts and spit shines, but jarheads aren’t usually my type.
The Season Page 8
