The Season (10 page)

For the next twenty minutes I ate steadily while 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.

“Thanks,” I replied, and turned away, wondering just what I had done to attract his attention.

“Mind if I join you?”

“Free country,” I mumbled, “thanks to you, Captain.”

He sat down beside me.

“Lieutenant.” He pointed to his tunic. “One bar. Henry Waterhouse, ma'am,” he said formally as he offered his hand. “My friends call me Hank.”

“Nice to meet you . . . Hank. Megan McKnight.” We shook hands and I noticed his strong grip.

“Is that a real uniform or do you just like to play soldier?” I asked, indicating the cropped battledress jacket and matching serge trousers.

“Both. This is a genuine World War Two dress M44, with the Eisenhower jacket,” he stated.

“Natty,” I said. “So you're in . . . the army?”

“I was in the Corps at A&M.” He pointed to the Corps Stack medallions on his lapel. “I miss it sometimes, so thought this would be a good opportunity to bust it out.”

“Aggie, huh?” I asked, without enthusiasm.

“'Fraid so,” he answered. “You?”

“Pony,” I said, using the slang for SMU. “Majoring in history, but mostly playing soccer.” We rested there, both content to bask in the moon's glow and the cool draft off the water.

“You know,” he said, after a bit, “that eye is the talk of the party.”

“Really?” I answered. “I hadn't noticed.” This was an outrageous lie, of course, as pretty much everyone at the party had either stared or pointed at me.

“It's caused a good bit of speculation. Some have it that you were carjacked by a gang, and others are saying it was an alley fight over a boy. One lady told me she heard that you faked the whole thing and it's nothing but makeup.”

“People do talk.”

He laughed and I was surprisingly happy that I made him laugh—almost everything till now had been a
downer, and though he really wasn't my type, he was pretty cute when he smiled.

“So which is it?” His tone managed to walk a line between playful and curious.

“D. None of the above. Some girl I've never met punched me in the face.”

“Well, that's plain rude. What did you do to her?”

“I scored a goal. And she didn't like it.”

“Ah. Tough, sweaty girls running around smashing into each other,” he mused. “I gotta admit, that's a bigger turn-on than any of the other explanations I heard.”

“Plus, afterwards? We all shower together.” He raised his eyebrows.
Whoa, Megan, you just met the guy.
But I couldn't help myself—the words had just rushed out. It occurred to me that Hank Waterhouse brought out the flirt in me.

He grinned back and we sat beside each other in a comfortable silence.

“So, are you a deb or family?” he asked.

“Both. Abby is my cousin, and my sister Julia and I are both debs too.”

“Well, clearly you're a fighter. I think you'll make it,” he said.

“I appreciate the vote of confidence,” I replied. I thought about telling him how tenuous my hold on debdom was at the moment, but figured it would spoil the moment. “What about you?”

“Oh, you know, home on leave,” he deadpanned. “My
company's about to ship out for Germany, save the world from the Nazis and all. Just hoping I might meet some nice girl who'll take pity on me, maybe give me her picture. I don't wanna die a virgin.”

I busted up. He had such an open, honest look about him, so apple pie, that I hadn't expected anything so sly and downright funny. I looked closer and noted his gray eyes were full of humor and intelligence.

“Well I'm a patriot and all,” I managed a moment later, “but that's a pretty forward request, Lieutenant, seeing as we just met.”

“You're right. How about we start with a dance?” he asked.

“You really gonna dance with a bruiser like me? Could lower your reputation.”

“I'll risk it.”

“Then I accept.”

He stood, then helped me up. I put on my shoes and we walked back across the veranda. He held the door for me and as I stepped through I ran smack into Andrew Gage, on his way out.

“Oh, excuse me,” he said.

“That's all right,” I replied, and we locked eyes.

“I really wanted to talk to you, Megan.”

“Okay.” What could Young Master Gage have to say to me?

“I just wanted to tell you how—” He stopped as he
saw Hank come in. Hank stopped too. Clearly they knew each other, and not in a good way. Their clenched jaws dueled right there in the doorway.
What the hell?

“Um, Andrew, this is Hank—”

But Andrew turned and walked away before I could finish, without a further word to me or any explanation.

“Uhh, sorry,” I said to Hank. “I have no idea what that was about.”

“It's all right,” he said.

“Honestly, I just met the guy tonight and, well, he's a bit of an asshole.”

“I know,” Hank said. “We were friends for a while—but not anymore.”

“Lucky you.”

“You still want to dance?” Hank asked.

“I do.”

He took my arm and once on the dance floor held one hand and placed his other at the small of my back. Standing in front of me, gazing down with his dove-colored eyes, he seemed taller, and suddenly quite handsome. I felt a small surge pass between our hands as the band began to play “What a Wonderful World,” and we set off easily to the slow, romantic song. As we moved around in a lazy arc I was impressed by Hank's graceful, measured steps, and in contrast to Hunter's banter he seemed content not to talk.

I zigzagged between enjoying dancing close to Hank and a nagging curiosity about the scene between him and
Andrew. Andrew had been looking for me: why? And the look on his face when he realized I was with Hank—it was almost . . . protective. He looked like he wanted to hit him before he left. I considered asking Hank about it but knew it would break the mood.

“I love this song,” Hank said, interrupting my quandary. So he was good-looking, funny, a fantastic dancer—and a romantic too?
Lucky me.

“Me too,” I said softly, and smiled up at him.

I closed my eyes and listened to the music. I held on to Hank and let my feet go wherever he led. Thoughts of Andrew Gage skittered away like brittle autumn leaves in a brisk wind.

Julia and I slept in our old rooms at the ranch that night. Just as I turned out the light she crawled into bed with me. I knew she wanted to talk about Zach, but she was never one to be open about her feelings, even with me. Fortunately, I had just the tool to pry it out of her.

“I overheard Zach talking about you.” She bolted upright.

“Really?”

I nodded, and she waited expectantly.

“He was telling Andrew Gage just how gorgeous you were, how much he liked you—”

“He was not!”

“Was too,” I said. “So—do you like him?”

“I do,” she said. “He's funny and cute, and that cowlick—woof.”

“Well he's going to be your escort for the next dance.” Looking at her I could tell that hope bloomed, but Julia always kept her emotional cards close.

“We'll see,” she said finally.

A moment passed.

“How about you?” she asked, not so subtly changing the subject. “Any prospects?”

“Hmm,” I said. “The evening started out rocky with the brown-nosing, wife-hunting bore, then deteriorated with nasty insults from the scion of America's first family.”

Julia frowned at my unhappy tale. I smiled at her.

“But it ended with a handsome and intriguing young officer in uniform.”

“That doesn't sound all bad,” Julia said.

Not bad at all. For the first time since discovering my name and picture plastered across
The
Dallas Morning News
, I thought,
This whole debutante thing might not be a complete waste of time after all.

Ten

In Which Megan Nearly Tosses Her Cookies

WA-OO-GAH!
THE SOUND OF AN OLD CAR HORN WOKE me with a start.

“Megan.”

“What?” I said sleepily.

“It's your phone!”

I was hunkered down in my bed under a thick down comforter. Julia lay beside me, her head resting on her hand.

“Leave me alone,” I said.

Wa-OO-gah!

“Aren't you going to see who it is?” she asked, clearly not pleased that the sound had woken her. My phone was across the room on a chair, much too far away.

“No.”

“Are you really my sister?” She sank back down and rolled over. This drove Julia insane and was a long-running point of contention between us, as texts and calls from her often went unanswered for hours, even days. Like most
girls she was umbilically attached to her phone, and not reading and responding to a text immediately was inconsistent with life as she knew it.

But I was thirsty. I sat up very slowly, treating my head like a rare Fabergé egg. It ached, and my lip felt as big as a croissant, but I was alive. I stood and shuffled to the bathroom and poured a drink of water.

On my way back, I leaned over carefully, and retrieved my phone.

“It's from Hank,” I said, sitting on the bed.

“Who?”

“The Aggie jarhead.”

“Really?” Julia sat up, intrigued. “What does it say?”

“
I have a problem
,” I read off the phone. “Car trouble, I bet.”

Julia sighed, audibly, as if I were a dodo bird working a math problem in the sand.

“Megan, he's not texting you at nine in the morning with car trouble.”

“He's not? Then what's wrong?”

“Ask him.”

“I don't know how,” I whimpered.

“Seriously?” she asked. I nodded.

“You know I suck at this.” I offered her the phone, and she took it.

I looked over her shoulder as she quickly typed,
Oh no, what's wrong?
, then hit send.
Whoosh—
off it went. We waited, and in a moment we could see that Hank was typing.
Wa-OO-gah!

I can't stop thinking about you.

“Oh my,” Julia said, showing me the phone. I took the phone, read and reread the message. Julia smiled at me. I smiled back.
Wa-OO-gah!
indeed.

How's your head?
he wrote next.

“Okay, so just answer,” Julia coached.

I typed
Good
and showed it to Julia.

“Oh my God, Megan, you are hopeless.”

“Then what should I answer?” I whined. Julia sighed for the second time.

“Be playful.”

“How do you make
this
playful?” I asked, indicating my face.

She thought for a moment.

“Okay—tell him
Better than expected. But my lip is very tender.
”

My look said it all—“I am not writing that.”

“You want to flirt, right?” she asked.

“Yeah, but don't you think that's too . . . forward?” Cause for another sigh.

“If I'm not mistaken,
forward
is the direction you're trying to take things, Megan.”

“Okay, okay.” I typed. I checked with Julia one last time, then pushed send
.

“What now?”

“See if he comes back.”

In the bathroom I brushed my teeth, anxious to scrub off
the film left by the night before. I wasn't much of a drinker, and never did drugs, and I vowed that morning to be more cautious going forward. His next text arrived as I was rinsing, and I surprised myself by rushing back to see what he had written.

“
Tender lips—I like the sound of that
,” I read. “Julia, you are a genius! Now what? More about the lips?”

“Yeah, but not romantic,” Julia said. “Change the subject.”

“How?”

She considered. I waited. She looked at my lip.

“How about
Trust me, it's the wrong kind of tender.
”

“You're so good at this!” I exclaimed, tap-tapping away. I sent the message and looked at her.

“Now, before he texts back, ask him a question. Something basic, like
What r u up to?
”

I typed away happily, and pushed send.

I'm at the office working. :(

“Ask him what he's wearing,” Julia said.

“Are you sure?”

“Megan, he's at the office. He's fully dressed, and knowing what he's wearing will give you some insight into what kind of guy he is. Plus, you get points for spicing your text with a harmless but semi-sexy question.”

“Wow.”

What r u wearing?
I typed.

A suit.

Color?

Gray.

Tie?

“Why do I care about this?” I asked Julia, after I sent it.

“Just trust me, okay?” she said.
Wa-OO-gah!

Crimson.

So professional. I'm sure you look very handsome.

Come see! I'm in the crappy junior exec office.

“He wants me to come see him!”

“You can't go,” Julia said emphatically. I stopped typing.

“I can't?” She shook her head.

“It's too soon, and your lip looks terrible. And saying no will be teasing, and therefore perfect flirting.”

“I have no idea what you are talking about,” I said, but dutifully typed . . .

Can't. Too much homework. :(

But I want to see you!

You'll just have to wait!

:( do u have a date for picnic next
Sat?

“Bingo,” Julia said.

“That was magic.” I was genuinely impressed. “You are the puppet master.”

“It's not rocket science, Megan.”

“Maybe for you, but I just don't get this.”

“There's nothing to get. You just have to act interested, give him some clues now and then. You know, let him know he's on the right path.”

“Can't I just tell him he's on the right path?”

“No.”

“Give him a thumbs-up?”

“No! Megan!”

“Why not?”

“Because that's not the way the game is played. You have to, oh God, I don't know. Just smile at him, play with your hair, bite your lip, whatever. And text him when he texts you, and occasionally when he doesn't, but don't answer too quickly, and don't agree to anything too easily, especially in the beginning. Tease him, put him off—like today, you can't see him, even though you could, but agree to see him next weekend so he has something to look forward to, and so he'll think about you all week.”

“So . . . even though I'm interested, and he's interested, don't tell him directly I'm interested but act sort of interested and hope that he knows I'm interested by texting him back today but not agreeing to see him until next week?”

“Exactly!”

“I can't do this.”

“You just did!”

“No, you did. What if you're not there?”

“I will be. But you've got to make some effort because if you don't, you know what will happen—he'll stop trying, and go away.”

I didn't like the sound of that. Julia stood up.

“Where are you going?”

“To get some coffee.”

“But I haven't answered him yet.”

“Oh, right. What was the last thing?”

“Do I have a date for next Saturday's picnic?!”

Not yet

You do now. I'll pick you up at 2.

:)

Address?

That big stadium on Mockingbird. U can't miss it.

See u then!

:)

After Julia left I sat on my bed. With her help I suddenly had a date next week with a really cute guy I liked who seemed to like me. And last night he had seen me at my absolute worst, with a face left over from a cage fight, and then texted me the next morning.

As I chewed on all that had happened in the past twenty- four hours, the encounter by the stairs with Andrew Gage still burned. I now wished I'd mustered up something more self-righteous and crusading, something like, “How dare you act as if that's something to be ashamed of—I know lots of lesbians, and they're great people, not like you, you small-minded and prejudiced man! And let me tell you something else—Subarus are very dependable cars!”

I smiled to myself, happy to have it out with him once again, even if only in my mind. And then, in a flash, I realized just how I knew Sydney, the uncomfortable debutante from the orientation tea. She had dated Mariah last year—she came to all the games, they hung out, I'd even seen them making out once. They broke up sometime last year, and I hadn't seen her since, but it was definitely her.

No wonder she had looked nervous when she saw me. A lesbian debutante—I was pretty sure the dinosaurs at the Bluebonnet Club would not be down with that.

“Just coffee,” I said. Mom poured while I sat at the table. Next to me Julia worked on a bowl of cereal while Dad read the sports news on his iPad.

“I have eggs, bacon, fruit, bagels . . .” Mom offered.

“Not hungry, thanks.” She let this unusual reply pass without comment, but Julia glanced over.

“What?” I whispered.

“Nothing,” she said, and buried her smile in her spoon.
It made me think—why wasn't I hungry? Probably because my head ached, I had at least a mild concussion, and I drank far more last night than almost ever on top of pain medication. And this morning I flirted for half an hour with a cute guy who seemed to like me. It was a lot to digest, without adding in real food.

“Megan, we need to talk,” Mom said, sitting beside me.

“Sure—what's up?”

“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.”