The Season

by Jonah Lisa Dyer

  “Hi, Julia—Megan, Merry Christmas,” Zach said. He held a small box.

  “Merry Christmas, Zach,” I said.

  “Merry Christmas,” Julia said. Awkward silence followed.

  “Would you like some breakfast?” Mom asked.

  “No—thanks. Um, I was wondering if I could have a moment alone—with Julia.”

  “Absolutely,” I said, and dragged Mom to the kitchen. We then snuck back to listen at the edge of the doorway.

  “I brought you something,” Zach said. He handed Julia the box.

  She opened it and pulled out a small dancing elf who said “Sorry” over and over.

  “First off, let’s get one thing straight. I am a jackass.”

  “I agree,” Julia said, stifling a smile.

  “I am more than sorry. I wanted to give you some breathing space, to work things out, and I went to New York. And then before I knew it three days had passed, and I felt like a jerk, and I thought maybe you didn’t want to talk to me, and then I waited so long I just got—paralyzed. Finally, Andrew called me and said, ‘Stop being a coward and go see her.’ I never, ever meant to hurt you and I really hope you can find your way to giving me another chance.”

  “I like you, Zach. And I appreciate the apology—it helps. And maybe we could have something. But not now. Not for a while. I need some time to work out my own stuff before I add a boyfriend back into the mix.”

  “I’ll wait,” Zach said.

  “It might be a long while,” Julia answered, grinning.

  “That’s okay,” Zach said. “I’ve got time!”

  Then she smiled. “I’ll make you a good-faith gesture,” she said.

  Zach looked up, expectant—hopeful.

  “I need a date for the Bluebonnet Ball this Saturday. How about we start the clock after that?”

  “I’m your man.”

  Mom spontaneously hugged me.

  As Julia waved to Zach, Dad came to the kitchen door. He looked thoughtful as he put his phone in his back pocket.

  “What is it?” Mom asked.

  “Sam Lanham called. We can have the Aberdeen back.”

  “You’re joking,” Mom said. But he wasn’t. We really looked at each other then. Were we willing to give back the money and take back the ranch, with all the debt, and the work, and the cows, and the worry? No-brainer, I thought.

  “Well, I say Merry Christmas!” I shouted. Dad hugged Mom, and then me, and Julia came in and made it four.

  Zipped into my tight beaded bodice with yards of flowing tulle skirt, with tiny yellow roses woven in my hair, and my makeup model perfect, I struggled, working to get a long white glove over the cast on my broken right hand. I pulled. I pulled again. I stretched and pulled. But it would not go on.

  “I can’t do this!” I said.

  “Leave it,” Margot said casually.

  “I have to wear gloves!” I cried. By this time, after more than two hours primping to get ready, with the limo waiting downstairs, I was a wreck. I just wanted it to be over.

  “But your cast—it looks enough like a glove. I think it’s emblematic of your struggle.”

  “I was planning for my Texas Dip to be emblematic of my struggle.”

  “Stop worrying about this dip. Who cares? What if you only go three quarters, or everyone can see you put down one knee—what happens? Prison?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Will you be less of a woman?”

  “No.”

  “Forget it, then. Do your best and be satisfied. Being a grown woman means embracing who you really are, your true self—flaws, mistakes, all of it. Look at me.” Here she gestured to her hippie getup du jour—a calico blue-and-white flowered prairie dress that ended just below her knee. She wore creased combat boots with red laces, and I could see the hair on her legs. “Is it for everyone? No. But it is me—and it makes me happy. You be you.”

  Twenty-Seven

  In Which Megan Does Her Version of the Texas Dip

  THE FORMAL BLUEBONNET DEBUT BALL TOOK PLACE AT eight o’clock on December 31 in the ballroom of the Mansion on Turtle Creek. The themes were evergreen—tradition, prestige, and wealth. The linen draping the tables was thick enough for a tapestry. The heavy silver gleamed. The goblets shone. The crystal sparkled. Each table featured a spare and simple yellow rose centerpiece. Women wore classic, formal gowns. Their husbands and dates wore white tie.

  From the stage a walkway extended out into the tables, and soon each of us would emerge, move across the stage with our father as an escort, then leave him and walk to the end of the catwalk. There we would pause, perform the Texas Dip, acknowledge the guests on both sides, and when we returned our debut journey would be over.

  Backstage we waited in the greenroom like fighters before a title bout, the atmosphere tense and fueled with adrenaline. Sydney and Abby adjusted their elbow-length white gloves. Ashley One smoothed a wrinkle from her gown, and Ashley Two checked her hair and makeup one last time in the mirror. I sat by myself, calm and reserved. My gown was perfect, my hair and makeup too. I looked down at the one elbow-length white silk glove on my left hand, and then at my right—from the fist to the elbow just my sparkling white plaster cast. I wiggled my fingers.

  The one anxious person backstage was Ann Foster. She was on her phone trying to find out just why Lauren Battle had not yet arrived. It was very close to showtime, and nobody, not even Ashley Two, knew where she was. Ann had spoken to her mother, who said she had left hours before. Ann was now leaving Lauren a message.

  “So please call me the instant you receive this message,” Ann said. She ended the call.

  “A no-show?” I asked hopefully. “Has that ever happened before?”

  “Never,” Ann replied.

  “Where is she?” Ann turned toward the words, spoken from the door. I knew that voice the second I heard it.

  “I need to see Megan McKnight!” Mrs. Gage said.

  Ann stepped in her way.

  “I’m very sorry, Mrs. Gage, but this is completely inappropriate. She’s—”

  “Do you not hear well?” Ann recoiled. I felt pretty sure nobody had ever asked Ann that before tonight. “I am not here to speak with you—I am here to speak with Megan McKnight.”

  She saw me and blew past Ann. Lauren Battle, in her gown and gloves, followed her in. She had been crying, and her makeup was a mess.

  “Well? What do you have to say for yourself?” Mrs. Gage peered down at me.

  “How about, ‘I’m a dirty backstabbing boyfriend-stealing bitch’?” Lauren put in.

  “I’ll handle this,” Mrs. Gage said to Lauren.

  “Mrs. Gage, this is really not the time.” Ann again stepped between us. “Now, I’m sorry, but you will have to leave. And Lauren, you need to clean up—we start in fifteen minutes.”

  “It’s okay, Ann,” I said, and stood up. “You help Lauren.” I stepped past Ann till I was toe-to-toe with Mrs. Gage. We were in a similar weight class, she and I. “Now how may I help you?” I asked.

  All the girls drew closer.

  “Andrew has broken it off with Lauren, and there are rumors,” Mrs. Gage said. “Not that I believe them, but there are rumors that he is seeing you.”

  “It seems to me, Mrs. Gage, that you coming all the way down here is more likely to support those rumors than dispel them.”

  Gotta hand it to the broad, she could take a punch. I hit her right in the face with that, and she didn’t flinch. Word of her arrival had spread, and several mothers appeared now—Mom and Aunt Camille among them. They too moved closer.

  “Cheeky girl. Do you know who I am?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “I know who you are.”

  “Then you know Gages sailed on the Mayflower. We have been governors, senators, and statesmen for hundreds of years. Andrew will join this l
ine. He will be a very important man one day, and I can say categorically that you are not the girl for him.”

  “Does your son know you’re here?” I asked.

  “My son does not always know what’s best for himself—or his family. But trust me when I say I do.”

  “And that includes paying off Hank Waterhouse and allowing him to prey on others?” Several girls gasped, and Ann narrowed her eyes at Mrs. Gage.

  “Enough! Just tell me, in simple English—are you seeing my son?”

  I rose to my full height and stared down Mrs. Gage, but remembered Ann’s maxim: You don’t have to say everything you think.

  “No.”

  “Well, thank God for that!” Mrs. Gage said, and Lauren cried in relief. But rather than leave it at that, she bared her teeth at me again. “You are never to see him again. Do I make myself clear?”

  “I beg your pardon, Mrs. Gage, but Andrew is my friend. He’s helped my family and supported me, and I intend to do the same for him whenever he needs me to. Now please—leave.”

  The vein that ran from her temple bulged and pulsed. Her eyes dilated and her nostrils flared. I hoped she would keel over right in front of me.

  “Mrs. Gage, you have insulted me in every possible way. But trust me that I will not only survive, I will endure. I am a native Texan. My great-great-grandfather faced down wolves and cougars alone on the prairie, and if he can survive that, I can certainly survive an invasion from a Yankee blowhard in a wool suit. Now if you will excuse me, I have a debut to make.”

  Mrs. Gage didn’t move. Abby stepped to my left shoulder, in solidarity. Then Sydney moved to my right. Ashley One moved in beside Abby. A phalanx of Texas debutantes glared at Mrs. Gage.

  “She said leave,” Sydney said coldly.

  Mrs. Gage stayed.

  “You heard her—go on,” Abby added, a distinct twang in her voice.

  And then, with no cards left to play, Mrs. Gage huffed and walked out. I took a deep breath and looked at the faces around me.

  “Geez—thanks, y’all,” I said, and they whooped it up. I high-fived Abby and Sydney, and then, to my ever- lasting surprise, I high-fived Ann Foster. My mom and Aunt Camille all came in to give us a hug. Even Ashley Two threw me a look of admiration as she helped Lauren spackle her face.

  “You’re really not mad?” I asked Ann a moment later.

  “Gracious no, Megan. I am proud, so proud of you.” Tears formed in the corners of her eyes.

  “You are?”

  “Look at you now—everything you were and so much more.” She hugged me hard, her face pressing into my dress. “Oh shit!” she said, jumping back, worried that she had smeared my dress. It was the first curse word she’d ever said around us, and we all cracked up.

  “Megan, do you need a moment?” Mom asked softly. I took a breath.

  “I do. Thanks, Mom.” We looked to Ann—was that allowed?

  “We begin in ten minutes. Be back in five,” Ann said.

  Mom and I walked arm in arm down a hallway and outside onto a back veranda. It was a quiet space surrounded by oak trees. I took several deep breaths, then turned to her.

  “Thanks, Mom—for insisting I do this.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  “You were absolutely right. I made unforgettable memories that I will cherish for the rest of my life.” How would I ever forget Hank’s face as I drove my fist into it? Or the five little tweens oohing and aaahing in the locker room? Or Ann—at that first tea, the first deportment class, our graduation, and tonight? I would never forget Margot, or the women at Refuge. I certainly wasn’t going to forget Andrew Gage.

  “I’m so glad. I just felt sure that one day you would need skills beyond . . . dribbling. Every young woman does.” She hugged me, tight. “That’s what you are, you know—a lovely and beautiful and strong young woman.”

  “A lot like you, I bet,” I said.

  “Too much like me,” she agreed.

  “I love you, Mom.” I willed myself not to cry.

  “I love you too. It’s hard between mothers and daughters, isn’t it?” she asked.

  I nodded. “But we have the rest of our lives to work on it,” I said.

  “You take the time you need, honey. I’m going to find my seat.”

  She gave my shoulder a squeeze and blew me a kiss as she left. I walked to the edge of the low stone wall and looked out. Through the trees I could see the buildings of downtown Dallas, lit in white and green and red lights.

  I heard the sound of footsteps running. When I turned toward them, Andrew Gage was standing there. He wore jeans and a T-shirt and sneakers. His hair was windblown. He had never looked better.

  “Andrew? What are you doing here?”

  He was slightly out of breath. “My mom’s in Texas and I had to see you before she—”

  “She was already here.”

  “Oh, God. Look—whatever she said, it’s not true.”

  “She said you had broken up with Lauren.”

  His brow crinkled. “Oh. That’s true.”

  “I’m glad.” I smiled at him, and he smiled back. He came over to stand in front of me. He took my hand, and I felt the jolt of connection.

  “Look, the last time I tried to say this, in New York, it didn’t go very well,” he said quietly.

  “A lot’s happened since then.”

  “I really think I’ve fallen in love with you, Megan. And if you don’t feel the same way, I’ll understand, but if there is even one chance you do . . . I have to know.”

  What answer could I give? Only the truth.

  “I think about you every day,” I told him.

  He kissed me. Hard. And I kissed him back.

  “The Eyes of Texas” began to play and Ann stuck her head out the door.

  “Megan! We’re starting.” We broke our kiss, but he still held me.

  “I have to go,” I said. “Will you be here after?”

  “I’m not going anywhere.”

  Backstage, the six of us waited in the wings, in alphabetical order, to make our entrance. I was next to last, with only Sydney behind me.

  “Miss Ashley Harriet Abernathy!”

  Ashley One emerged, took her dad’s arm, and walked gracefully to the center of the stage. From there she walked steadily alone to the end of the catwalk and performed a very acceptable Texas Dip. Her legs folded slowly beneath her, and her head nearly touched the floor. Then she rose easily and walked back. Her dad brought her backstage.

  “Way to go, Ashley,” Abby whispered, and fist-bumped her, and all of us except Lauren stepped forward to congratulate her quietly. Ann gave her a long hug.

  “Miss Lauren Eloise Battle!”

  Lauren emerged to loud applause and took her father’s arm. She walked quickly, but on the catwalk she teetered ever so slightly. At the edge she gathered herself, and then began her Texas Dip. She bowed and folded and let her head fall to the side, and the crowd clapped loudly. She stayed down and they clapped harder, showing appreciation for the depths of her bow. The clapping slowed when she failed to rise, and stopped altogether when she lifted her head and mouthed “help me!” to her father. He hustled out and with an assist she rose and made her way backstage. Hot tears poured down her face, and though Ashley Two reached toward her, Lauren dodged and ran out, ignoring all of us too. We shared a look. So sad.

  “Miss Ashley Diann Kohlberg!”

  Ashley Two gathered herself, went out, and dipped just fine.

  “Miss Margaret Abigail Lucas!”

  “Go, Abby!” I whispered up to her.

  She beamed and went out to wild clapping. I would be next, and then Sydney. I still fretted over my Texas Dip. I knew I had never really dropped all the way down, and had never been able to really get my back leg out of the way. I was considering a radical new move
when Sydney spoke to me for the first time since the Nasher luncheon.

  “I never thought you’d keep it a secret,” she said quietly. I knew instantly what she was talking about.

  “Really, why?” I asked, glancing back. She looked thoughtful and earnest.

  “Just—your sister was in this, and your cousin. Not that you’d be mean about it, but I was sure you’d tell them, and three people can’t keep a secret. I spent the last four months just waiting for the shoe to drop, but you really never told anyone, did you?”

  “Not a soul. I didn’t think it was anybody’s business.”

  “I never thought I’d make it this far,” she said. “Once it came out I figured they’d dump me, or Lauren and Ashley would make it so hard on me I wouldn’t be able to stay. I was so freaked out that a month ago I came out to my parents—just to prepare them for what was coming.”

  “Wow. And?”

  “Best thing I ever did,” she said. “Anyway, just wanted to say thanks—and good luck.”

  “You’re welcome. You too.”

  Abby came back and gave me the big thumbs-up. We fist-bumped as she went to give Ann a hug. I smoothed my dress and wet my lips, stepped to the edge of the curtain.

  “Miss Megan Lucille McKnight!”

  I emerged into the hot, bright lights and heard the applause. I took Dad’s arm and he led me slowly, majestically to the center of the stage. I nodded to him politely and started down the catwalk. It seemed very long and the crowd dim and far away. You got this, I thought, and two steps from the end I decided to try a version of the Texas Dip I had never practiced, and never heard any other deb talk about. Out there exposed alone under the lights, I was on a tightrope without a net.

  I stopped and looked at the crowd, and began to bow. But instead of folding my right leg behind me, I simply let it stick straight out in front and did a pistol—a one-legged squat—on my left leg. I did them all the time in workouts, and with my wide skirt nobody could see which way my right leg was pointing. On only my left foot I lowered myself in one smooth and graceful and continuous motion all the way to the floor. The applause grew and my leg quivered slightly under the strain, but nobody could see it. I held my bow a full extra second. Just as the crowd thought I might be in trouble like Lauren, I flexed my left quad hard and squeezed my gluteus maximus tight and easily pushed myself back to standing. The crowd roared its approval at my devastatingly perfect Texas Dip. I smiled and waved in both directions, and scooted back to Dad, who led me backstage with a proud smile. I had arrived.