The Season

by Jonah Lisa Dyer

  “Last night was . . . a disaster.”

  “What?!”

  “You humiliated me, Megan. Publicly, to a group of people I’ve known my whole life, who haven’t seen you since you were a little girl, who saw you there looking like—like you had been in some kind of bar fight.”

  Speechless, my mouth hung open. In my version of events I was the hero. I scored the winning goal, overcame a head injury, and still managed to chat and dance my way through my cousin’s debut party.

  I wished Margot were here to provide a welcome buffer between me and Mom.

  “Now when this all began,” Mom continued, “I asked you to give up soccer for the fall—and under pressure”—here she glanced over at Dad, who did not look up—“I agreed for you to do both. If yesterday proved anything, it proved that was a mistake.”

  “Mom, I’m not giving up soccer. I’ll give up the debut,” I said. “Gladly.”

  “Megan, be realistic. It’s too much, and we are spending a fortune for you to put your best foot forward, and—”

  “I didn’t ask you to do this!” I nearly screamed. Julia, who hated conflict, picked up her cereal and left for the den. Before Mom could get back in, the phone rang. She picked it up without answering, looked at the number, then held out the phone for Dad.

  “Who is it?”

  “It’s Sam Lanham—about the offer.”

  “Tell him to call back,” Dad said, and went back to the news.

  “No, Angus—you tell him.” Mom’s tone had some real edge now. Dad looked at her.

  “It’s Sunday morning, Lucy, I’m not—”

  “Since you won’t call him back, he probably thinks it’s the only time he’ll reach you.”

  The phone rang for a third time—one more and it would go to voice mail.

  “I’m not taking it,” Dad said firmly. Staring right at him, Mom answered the call.

  “Hello? Yes, it is. Fine, Sam, thank you—how are you?” A pause here. Dad was staring daggers at Mom, but she didn’t care a whit. “Why yes he is—hang on just for a moment, will you?” She handed the phone to Dad, who grimaced.

  “Hello.” He stood and walked toward the hallway. “Real good, Sam, thanks. Mm-hmm.”

  Mom turned back to me. My parents’ tiff had given me time to plan my next move.

  “Ann Foster didn’t ask me to quit soccer.”

  “You spoke to her?”

  “Of course. She agreed that this was . . . unfortunate. But she thinks soccer makes me well-rounded.”

  “Really?”

  “Mm-hmm.”

  I heard a series of mumbles, the occasional “Yep” or “I understand” and now a final “I sure will” before Dad hung up.

  As Mom had chosen this morning to fight a war on two fronts, she now turned to Dad, who handed back the phone.

  “Well, what did he say?”

  “Just what I thought.” Mom waited impatiently for the details.

  Dad walked to the kitchen window, which provided a magnificent view across the Aberdeen to the west. He looked out.

  “That’s right, Lucy, for a truckload of cash, XT Energy will happily put up their wells and pipelines, pump it full of sand and water, and blow it to all to kingdom come.” He turned back to her. “Is that what you want?”

  “No, of course not. Nobody wants to see our family’s land destroyed,” she said hurriedly. “But we are stuck. You already sell off little pieces of land every few—”

  “Little pieces! Not the whole thing! And not to vultures!”

  “I’m tired of this, Angus. This cycle is wearing me down. Feed bills come in, we sell thirty acres; tuition’s due, we sell some more; can’t meet payroll—”

  “I get it!” He cut her off. By now Mom was crying, and Dad’s jaw tightened.

  “I can’t keep living this way,” she sobbed.

  “I’m not taking the deal. We’re not taking it. And knowing it’s out there just makes it worse.”

  “Well, I’m sorry you feel that way,” Mom said.

  “Well, I’m sorry you answered the phone.” Dad left without another word.

  Nauseated at what I’d just seen, I took my coffee and went upstairs. My parents never fought like this—they bickered, sure, but this was something new.

  I remembered my dad asking me to “do this debut thing” in the barn, telling me how much it meant to Mom, and when I’d asked why, his cryptic reply was, “You have no idea.” Since Julia and I had gone off to college, Mom had definitely seemed out of sorts, but I hadn’t known just how unhappy she was. They were fighting like never before, and I worried their marriage was in real trouble.

  Last night Ann had made it clear that short of a miracle, I was out in a week. But Dad was depending on me—when he’d asked me to do it for him, he meant for them.

  I took a sip of coffee, and my stomach clenched.

  I had to make this work.

  Eleven

  In Which Megan Throws a Hail Mary

  THE PROBLEM WITH JULIA’S BRILLIANT PLAN TO MAKE Hank wait a week to see me was that I had to wait a week to see him too. And I am not good at waiting—I’m more of an instant-gratification girl. Fortunately, it was beyond a busy week: I had two tests, morning workouts and practices, and a game Wednesday afternoon, and while dance class was finished, the Season had officially started and events were lined up on the horizon like planes on approach to DFW airport. Monday, the Junior League hosted a lunch at Brookline, and I barely made it back to practice. Tuesday, the Petroleum Club held a dinner in Renaissance Tower, which meant I had now missed six Tuesday nights watching TV with Cat. And Thursday, Highland Park Presbyterian Church put on an afternoon “social,” and I do mean social. The church boasted three thousand members. My right hand felt blistered from greeting so many new people, and my cheeks ached from smiling nonstop for three hours.

  Worse, my week to “surprise” Ann Foster was a day from over, and I had yet to think of one decent idea. I wondered if she would accept a cow as a bribe—I figured, given the stakes, Dad would let me have one, and delivery of a live cow to her door had to qualify as a surprise, though perhaps not the kind that would impress her. Desperate and exhausted, I scoured my deb bible at midnight on Thursday with Julia, but couldn’t find anything helpful. I was doomed.

  And then, on page 16, buried deep in the details, Julia found the answer: Young Ladies’ Etiquette & Decorum with Ann Foster.

  “Deportment class?” I asked. “She said surprise me.”

  “It’s the best you’re gonna do—you’re showing willingness. And initiative,” Julia said. “And how can she kick you out if you’re her student?”

  I was impressed. This was socialite judo at its finest.

  “It starts tomorrow afternoon,” I said, after looking it up online.

  “Perfect, just in time,” Julia said.

  So at 2:30 Friday afternoon I stood in a silk bra and panties in our apartment contemplating just what to wear to Young Ladies’ Etiquette & Decorum. Julia and I had so many outfits, along with instructions from Mom and my debutante field manual to never, ever wear the same thing twice, that we had transformed our living room into a vast closet. We had pushed the couch back against the wall, removed the coffee table, and installed two dress racks, one “to be worn” and one “already worn,” each labeled half “J” and half “M.” The shoes were stacked in boxes, each with a picture of the shoe inside pasted to the outside, because Julia was obsessive about this kind of thing. Handbags, scarves, and various accoutrements hung from a hat rack made from native cedar and longhorns we had cadged from the ranch.

  I considered the gently used “already worn” rack. I tallied the cost for that first week alone and decided it would feed a Kansas family of four for a year—and they could shop at Whole Foods. In the developing world it would feed an entire village and their c
attle too.

  Disgusted, I focused on what to wear for Ann Foster and chose the full armor: an ivory merino wool Calvin Klein top, a mocha silk skirt that ended decidedly below the knee, and matte black pumps with conservative two-inch heels. I accented the demure ensemble with Julia’s diamond earrings and a string of freshwater pearls I’d inherited on my sixteenth birthday. Everything except a bulletproof vest, I thought.

  Next I worked on my face. The swelling around my eye was nearly gone, and to mask the latent bruising, now delicate shades of green and yellow, I put on a coat of base and smudged in some rouge. I swept my hair back and up, brushed a thin film of Vaseline and an overcoat of reddish-brown lipstick on my cracked lip, dabbed my eyes with mascara, and squirted myself with Jo Malone Vanilla & Anise. Wide Prada sunglasses provided the final touch. I looked in the mirror and thought, Perfect.

  I arrived at the Crescent Hotel at precisely 3:45 p.m., cool, crisp, and fifteen minutes early. I smiled at the doorman, and passed through the lobby to the concierge desk.

  “May I help you?” she asked.

  “Yes, hi, I’m here for the—young ladies’ etiquette class.”

  The woman paused, seemed about to say something, then changed her mind.

  “Is something wrong?” I asked. “Has it been canceled?”

  “No, no,” she said. “That will be in the Bordeaux Room. Left past the front desk and then down the hallway to the end.”

  “Thank you.”

  “You’re very welcome.”

  The Bordeaux Room? What was it with all the fancy-sounding rooms at these places? The Crescent complex was built on a Parisian theme, great soaring blocks of graying concrete with slate mansard roofs, so I guess they took the French thing seriously. As I walked down the hallway I laughed to myself—If I had asked for the bathroom, she would have directed me to the Salle de Poo Poo.

  Outside the Bordeaux Room I smoothed my skirt, checked my sweater for lint, and glanced at my watch. I was early and dressed impeccably, and I opened that door with confidence, not a bead of sweat on me.

  “Hi,” a girl said, standing and smiling and smoothing her dress just as I had done outside the door. She had a pile of blonde curls and wore a red silk dress embossed with roses, white leggings, and shiny black Mary Janes. She can’t be a day over ten, I thought, and all my plans for surprising Ann and saving my bacon crashed down around me. Clearly I had misunderstood the definition of “Young Ladies.”

  “Hello,” I replied.

  “I’m Carli!” She held out her hand gamely. I smiled to mask my panic and we shook hands.

  “I’m Megan, Megan McKnight.”

  “It’s very nice to meet you,” Carli said politely.

  “It’s very nice to meet you too.”

  Another girl, of a similar age, smiled eagerly. She was dressed in a shiny white frock with a lace petticoat and glittering white sandals festooned with Diamelles.

  “I’m Hannah. It’s very nice to meet you.”

  “Megan McKnight. It’s very nice to meet you too, Hannah,” I replied, and we shook hands demurely. There were three more—Isabelle, Jayla, and Paige.

  “Are you the teacher?” Carli asked.

  “No, I’m not the teacher.” I looked back at the door, thinking there was still time to split before Ann arrived. She was going to think me the dumbest person she’d ever met if I didn’t get out now.

  “So you’re here for the class?” Carli continued pressing.

  “Um, well . . .”

  “Are you doing Junior Cotillion?” Carli couldn’t stop the questions.

  “No, I’m making my debut.”

  “Really?” Hannah asked. “At the symphony?”

  “No, I’m in Bluebonnet.”

  All the girls gawked at me.

  “Really?” Paige asked, in awe.

  Somewhat surprised that they knew the difference, I nodded. This was the great divide in Dallas debuts. The Dallas Symphony Orchestra debut was a much shorter season—far cheaper and more of an application than an invitation—while the Bluebonnet debut was known as “the One.”

  “How did you get chosen?” Carli asked, agog. She said the word chosen pretty much the way someone would refer to Jesus.

  “Ah, well, my mom debuted, and so did my grandmothers, and an aunt, and my great-grandmother. My family’s been part of it for a long, long time.”

  “Cool,” Hannah said.

  “So you’re doing Junior Cotillion?” I asked.

  All the girls nodded.

  “My sister Julia did Junior Cotillion.” In fact, probably Lauren and the two Ashleys and all of the other debutantes except me had done Junior Cotillion. I had to admit, the pictures were the cutest ever—all the girls in white dresses dancing with boys in tuxedoes, so deliciously awkward. Half the girls were taller than the boys.

  “Did she make her debut too?” Carli asked.

  “We’re doing it together this year—we’re twins.”

  “Both of you were chosen?” Paige asked.

  I nodded.

  “Your family must be a really big deal,” Jayla said.

  “Well, we have been in Texas for a long time.”

  “What happened to your eye?” Carli asked now. She had been looking at my face.

  “I play soccer for SMU, and a girl hit me in the face in a game last week.”

  “You play college soccer too?!” Isabelle asked. Apparently, I was now the coolest person on earth, and it gave me a jolt of pride and confidence. At least I had impressed someone, if only a pack of tweens.

  “I play soccer!” Isabelle said.

  “Me too,” Carli added. “Do you love Alex Morgan?” She looked at the ceiling as she said her name—Alex Morgan was a religion with little girls.

  “I do. She’s great,” I said.

  “I want to be her,” Isabelle said with nary a trace of hesitation.

  “Work hard,” I advised.

  I checked my watch. It was one minute to four. I started for the door, but before I could move, it opened and in walked Ann Foster. She saw the little girls first and then her gaze fell on me. She stopped cold.

  “Miss McKnight. What are you doing here?”

  I had been planning to cut and run. This class was clearly not meant for me and I had no intention of looking more like a fool to Ann, but the look on her face right now, that was the look I needed—a delicious swirl of shock and astonishment. I pushed my chips in right then.

  “Surprise!” I said, vamping a little. She quickly composed herself.

  “How nice of you to join us,” she said very formally, and turned now to the girls. “Good afternoon, ladies. Let’s begin with introductions, shall we? Miss McKnight I already know.”

  I watched her introduce herself to each of the girls—first Hannah, then Carli, Isabelle, Jayla, and Paige. She was hiding it well, but I had definitely surprised her, and I loved it.

  “Now, who can tell me what deportment means?” Ann asked.

  “Um, it means, like, how you act,” Jayla offered.

  “It does. And more so how we carry ourselves, the image we project to the world through our bearing and behavior. Proper deportment can be summed up in one word: poise.”

  Here she looked at us.

  “Poise is from the French ‘to weigh.’ It signifies a state of balance, or equilibrium, like two things of equal weight. Think of a scale.” Now she held out her hands like scales. “Poise is characterized by composure, steadiness, and stability, but do not confuse this with a lack of effort. We are not slack or lazy when we are poised. Rather, we are in balance, in perfect control of our emotions and our actions, our thoughts, and especially our bodies. Imagine a ballerina.” Ann stood on one leg, and let the other rise effortlessly behind her—now I was sure she had been a dancer. “When she stands on her toes on one leg, and
maintains that posture, we say she is poised. But attempt it and you will find it takes maximum effort to remain so, and to keep your face calm and not waver is most difficult.” She returned to both feet. “This talent does not come easily—it is the result of hard work and long hours of practice. So poise is a muscle that must be exercised. And that is the purpose of deportment class—to exercise poise in all of its variations until you have built the confidence to carry that composure out in the world.”

  My worlds had now officially collided. Ann’s sermon on poise might well have been given by Coach Nash, if you added a Euro tracksuit and occasional spitting. Coach lectured us about composure pretty much every day. In a game we had only a millisecond to make decisive plays, so success demanded the utmost poise and absolute control, no matter the circumstances. Regardless of fatigue or injury, when the moment presented itself you had to be prepared for it. Coach had made it clear that my missed goal at the end of the University of Oklahoma game had shown a tragic lack of poise, not unlike my late arrival and ripped dress at the first tea.

  “Today, however, we will focus on the basics. Please stand in front of your chairs.” We did.

  “Most people believe that good posture involves pulling your shoulders back and raising your head, which is true. But that begins with your feet and flows through your hips. Now I want you all to stand with your feet solidly underneath you, right below your hips.”

  We all stood and checked our feet. Ann made minor adjustments.

  “Good. Now turn your left foot out slightly. And here is a most important thought: our shoulders are not back because we hold them there with our muscles, our shoulders are naturally back and our head sits on top of our shoulders when our spine is properly placed in our hips. So now, I want you to let your spine sink into your hip sockets, and that will allow that gentle curve in the small of your back. Can everyone feel that?”

  Nods all around. As a sloucher this was uncomfortable, but when I did it, right away I felt my shoulders retreat comfortably and my butt naturally pooch out behind me. Who knew? I bet that looks good from back there!

  “Now, with your feet solidly below you and your spine in alignment, I want you to imagine your head is a balloon, filled with helium. It rises effortlessly, as if on a string, and hovers.”