The Season (12 page)

“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.”

I took a deep breath in and imagined my head was filled with helium. To my surprise my head did just what it was supposed to do—rose slightly and floated.

“Good. Now, breathe from your stomach and just stand.”

Okay. I stood, and breathed, as did all the girls. Ten seconds. Fifteen. Ann didn't move.

Thirty seconds. Forty-five.

“Hannah, your chin is dropping.” Hannah raised her chin. “That is one minute. We are going to stand for five minutes.”

I ran for hours, lifted weights, rode my bike everywhere, and now this broad was threatening me with
standing
for five minutes?
Bring it on!

But a strange thing happened. Before two minutes were
up, my legs began to ache and I itched in places I didn't know I had places. By three minutes I was screaming inside my head, and the little girls were sweating.
This is ridiculous
, I thought.
It can't be that hard to stand for five freaking minutes
. By four minutes I was panicked, counting the seconds in my head as my ears buzzed and my ass went numb and my ankles quivered.

“Jayla.” The single word stabbed the little girl upright, as she had begun to wobble.

“Thirty more seconds.” Ann stood as still as we did, just watching us. My face flushed, my feet tingled, and my pupils dilated.
All of this just from standing?
It was agony and I was begging for it to end. The only thing that kept me from collapsing in a heap and scratching myself all over was pride. I refused to do worse than a room full of ten-year-olds.

“You may sit,” Ann said finally. I exhaled sharply, and happily sat down. “Don't flop—stay in control!” We all sat up straight. “Now, sit firmly on your bottom, with your spine still locked into your hips. Knees together, feet together. Head up, Miss McKnight.” I perked up. “Put your hands in your lap. Good. Now we will sit for five minutes.”

Sitting was worse. I didn't understand how, but it was worse. After two minutes my head felt like a bowling ball and my shoulders ached. After three I felt nauseated and clammy. Just sitting without moving was brutal. After four minutes my shoulders began to quiver and I was breathing through my mouth. I now had massive respect for
princesses and celebrities who stood stoically for hours at a time on balconies or the red carpet.

That first day all we did was stand for five minutes and then sit for five minutes. Stand for five minutes. Sit for five minutes. Stand. Sit. Don't fidget. Don't scratch. Don't sigh. Don't scream! Don't jump up and beat Ann Foster senseless with my chair! It was one of the hardest days I had ever endured. My calves were on fire, my feet ached, my shoulders throbbed, and I felt dizzy and queasy all at the same time. Ann did everything we did, and she didn't seem to mind at all—she looked as if she could sit and stand for a week. Occasionally, she would reprimand one of us for swaying, or leaning, and on the fourth round of standing, Isabelle locked her knees and nearly passed out. Ann gave us a talking-to about the dangers of locking your knees, and we went back to standing and sitting.

The entire hour Ann spoke of nothing but poise. Poise did not happen by chance, was not granted or gifted to you—it resulted from a strong mind and body bent to a purpose, and the hardest part was to achieve it
effortlessly.
As we neared the hour mark, on our fifth round of standing, I nearly cracked. Again, only cheap pride kept me in check.

As class ended Ann said simply, “I hope we all now have a little bit better understanding of poise, and I will see you next week.”

I stumbled toward the door with the other girls.

“Miss McKnight? A moment?” Her questions were not
really questions but statements. Carli gave me a last sympathetic look and the door shut and we were alone. I waited.

“I appreciate you coming here today, really, but—”

“No buts! Admit it, you were surprised.” My voice was slightly hysterical, but I stood firm.

“I was surprised—a little.”

Ann gathered herself, chose her words carefully.

“Miss McKnight, I can see that you are a very competitive person, but outside of
surprising
me, why are you here?
Why
do you wish to make your debut?”

“Because my dad begged me to and he never asks me for anything and I think it might help save their marriage,” I blurted out before I could stop myself. “And I promised him I would try, so I'm trying.”

Ann considered my outburst.

“Megan,” she said, and I noted that this was the first time she had ever called me anything but
Miss McKnight.
“That's the first honest thing I've heard you say.”

Afraid to ask if this meant what I thought it did, I stayed silent.

“I'll see you tomorrow at the museum lunch,” she said, and began to pack her bag.

“Okay, see you then.”

Tempted to run for the door and get out before she reconsidered, I held it together and walked with my head full of helium.

“And Miss McKnight?”

I turned, did my best not to huff. “Ma'am?”

“Now that you have righted the ship, try not to hit any icebergs.”

“Yes, ma'am.”

Once in the hallway with the door shut I crumbled and leaned against the wall and heaved and sniffled. At home I soaked in the bath, and Julia came and sat on the closed toilet and I bawled while I told her all about it. I bet I wasn't the only little girl who cried that night.

Twelve

In Which Megan Takes a Dose of Culture

PRACTICE ON SATURDAY WAS THE LAST THING ON MY
list before the Dallas Museum of Art picnic, and I was cruising a little, just going through the motions in our scrimmage, when I looked over and saw Hank sitting in the stands. He gave me a little wave, and I idiotically waved back. What the hell was he doing here? I mean, he was supposed to be here, but
after
practice, in thirty minutes!

Suddenly my legs felt weak and I had to think about how to run, which made me run funny. Then I hit a cross thirty yards too long and it sailed into the stands.

“Megan!” Coach Nash yelled, and I waved, letting her know it was my bad. It took all of thirty seconds for Cat to realize he was here for me.

“You got a brother?” she asked him as she ran by. He smiled and shook his head.

“Sorry!” he yelled back.

“You got a sister?” Mariah yelled, getting in on the fun.

“Only child!”

“Game's over here!” Coach Nash shouted, and that put an end to the overt stuff, but boys never came to practice. Ever. It was a thing, for sure.

When practice ended I walked over nervously, and he stood to greet me. He looked very handsome in a light gray checked suit. Cat, Lindsay, and Lachelle sidled over to listen.

“Hi,” I said.

“Hey.”

“You're early,” I said.

“Just thought I might watch a little.”

“Why?”

“Because I like you?”

Lachelle whimpered.

“Two-one-four-seven-six-two . . .” Lindsay started calling out her phone number.

“Lindsay!” I shouted, and she stopped. “Um, thanks,” I said to Hank.
Thanks?
C'mon, Megan, put some oomph into it.

“I looked you up. You're the star of the team.”

“Hardly,” I said, but I was warming to his unflappable enthusiasm.

“You scored nine goals last year,” he said. “I bought tickets to the Houston game.”

“You did?” He held up his phone—confirmation for two tickets to see us play the University of Houston next Tuesday. Cat and Lindsay sighed, swooned, and then fainted dead away in the grass.

“Are they always like this?” Hank asked, clearly amused at the general buffoonery.

“Ignore them. They're unused to royalty.” I smiled at him. “I should go change.”

“I'll wait for you.”

“You better,” I called over my shoulder, and then I bit my lip—sadly, and stupidly, as my back was turned to him so he didn't even see my lame attempt at sexual innuendo.

“Totally doable,” Lachelle said on the way into the locker room.

“Thanks,” I replied.

“I'll wait for you!”
Cat teased, and I punched her in the arm. “So he's the reason we can't watch TV on Tuesday nights.”

“Cat, you know how busy I am—I'm sorry, and it's just until January.”

“I know,” she said, but I could tell her feelings were hurt.

Twenty minutes later I exited the locker room with my hair blown out, wearing a strapless violet-and-cream Tory Burch dress and the cutest pair of sandals ever. Margot found them—they were Alexander McQueen and, best of all, they were flats. She was really looking out for me.

“Wow,” Hank said as I walked up. He was standing beside a very expensive-looking car.

“What—this old thing?” I said, holding out the hem of my dress.

He held the door and I got in. It was all leather and walnut, very grown-up and cool inside with the AC
already running. After a moment I felt air coming through my dress—were the seats air-conditioned? He backed the car out.

“Are you really coming to the game?” I asked as he shifted to drive. He nodded.

“You gonna score a goal for me?” he asked with a wicked tone. I figured since he was doing the heavy lifting in the flirting department, the least I could do was try.

“Just one?” I asked, trying out the flirtiest thing I could imagine. “Why not a brace?”

“A brace?” he asked.

“Two goals,” I replied, holding up two fingers.

“Why not a hat trick then?”

“Why not!” I said impulsively.

“Deal.” He drove out of the parking lot and onto campus. We reached the light at Mockingbird and waited for it to turn.

“Did I just agree to score three goals for you on Tuesday?”

He nodded slowly. “Is that a problem?” He smiled at me—again. I don't want to say his eyes twinkled, because that would be corny, but they did shine. And I was beaming.

“Well, only that I've
never actually scored a hat trick
in a college game.”

“Then I'll be there for your first one!”

There was no getting around it: Hank Waterhouse was persistently interested in me. It was, well, pretty sweet. Supersweet, actually.

“
Andrew!
Over here! Andrew! Mr. Gage! Andrew!
Andrew!
”

A dozen paparazzi crammed against a steel barrier shouted as Andrew Gage emerged from his Mercedes—the same car the valet had brought to him that first day. Even I knew these guys weren't hired for effect, as at Abby's party. No, they were the real deal, middle-aged scavengers firing away with their digital cannons. Andrew looked surprised, then annoyed, when he heard them. He ducked his head and hustled around the car to grab Lauren's hand. The photographers shouted and clicked, begged him to turn toward them. Lauren did, smiling, clearly relishing her moment, but Andrew never wavered, and moments later they were safely inside the Nasher Sculpture Garden.

Hank and I arrived for the Dallas Museum of Art luncheon right behind them, and enjoyed front-row seats to the spectacle—routine in Beverly Hills or NYC, but unusual in Dallas.

“Is he that big of a deal?” I asked Hank as we rolled to a stop. Valets opened our doors.

“He thinks so,” Hank said, stepping out.

The photographers showed zero interest in us as we walked up the steps, but I stole one more look before we went through the entrance. Some examined their shots and others were already on the phone. Hank stopped too, and his lip curled ever so slightly at them.

“What?” I asked, noticing Hank's expression.

“Nothing.”

I pulled on his hand.

“You know something—tell me.”

“He calls them—or his publicist does.”

“Really?”

Hank nodded.

“He makes out like he's surprised and doesn't want them there, but it's all a game—they're told ahead of time where he'll be, what time, what car he's driving.”

What kind of person does that?
I wondered. It was so . . . fake, so calculated.

“Gross,” I said, with some feeling.

“Come on.” Hank took my hand, and we went inside.

The Dallas Museum of Art gives an outdoor luncheon at the Nasher Sculpture Garden each year for the Bluebonnet debs, knowing many of them will become major donors. The Nasher has a small gallery building for exhibitions and some of the small stuff, and as we entered it was already full of heavy hitters, their wives, debutantes, and their dates. It was all very money.

“Diet Coke,” Hank said when we reached the bar.

“Not drinking?” I asked.

He shook his head, smiled at me. “Driving precious cargo.”

I smiled at him and realized that might be the most romantic compliment I had ever received.
Me—precious cargo?
“White wine, please,” I said to the bartender.

“Have you been to the Nasher before?” Hank asked as we waited.

“Um.” I squinted in embarrassment. “If I say no does that make me lame?”

“No, it means you're in for a treat!”

“Really?”

“Prepare . . . to be amazed!” he stated with the bravura of a circus barker. “May I?” He offered his arm and I took it. The sea parted, and he led me out the back doors and down the steps to see the big stuff—the permanent collection.

A chamber orchestra played on the veranda, and the music floated out over the grounds like a gentle mist. The garden itself was gorgeous, immaculate, all manicured lawn and shaded stone pathways. A phalanx of tables and chairs occupied the central green, but nobody was sitting or eating yet—everyone was strolling along admiring the very large sculptures. Many must have been placed by a crane.

“Now I realize that Dallas has its fair share of
culture—
a ballet, a symphony, many small theaters, even a fine aquarium,” Hank said, still holding my arm and leading me out along a path. He had taken on a humorous air of showmanship that was both charming and engaging. “There is also, of course, the Dallas Museum of Art, which is a solid if uninspiring home for assorted pre-Columbian pots and spoons, the odd Chagall, and an early Basquiat or two.”

“Pre-Columbian pots and spoons?” I asked, laughing.

“Okay, so I'm not wild about history,” he said. “I mean, it's all in the past.” He knew history was my
major
, right? “Anyway,” he continued, “add it all together and you have a rather pedestrian assortment—a crown perhaps, but lacking the crown jewels.” Now he stopped and held his
arms out expansively. “But fortunately there is the Nasher, which makes up the balance and then some. Yes, in these few paltry acres lies a king's ransom of world-class art—which I will be pleased to show you.”

“Lead on, sir,” I said, and relaxed a little. We walked down the pathway toward the first piece, three gigantic clubs of rusted metal perched on a forge.

“This,” Hank said thoughtfully, “this is Ulrich Ruckriem's
Three Cheetos Dancing.
” He paused dramatically to consider it, one hand on his chin. I played along, studying it too while fighting back the urge to laugh. “Notice how tempting, how tasty it looks—an excellent example from his afternoon snack period.”

We walked farther and reached another sculpture, a spiderweb of black metal that looked like a jungle gym that had partially collapsed.

“Ah,” Hank said. “This is”—and here he bent down to see the artist's name—“this is David Smith's
Something I Found in the Alley.
”

“Really?” I asked, barely holding back laughter.

“Yes, yes, this is one of his most famous pieces, inspired, or one might say cadged, by his regular morning walk through downtown Sacramento.”

Without prelude, he took my hand.

We passed Zach and Julia near a fountain, and then Ashley One and her date studiously reading a brochure. Typical, she was taking it all seriously. We kept on and
went into a far corner of the garden, where Hank showed me Schist's
Half Finished
, Picasso's
The Chisel Slipped
, and Giuseppe Penone's masterpiece—a ripped-open box called
After UPS Delivers.

On our way back we examined one of the larger pieces, two huge curved rectangles of metal the color of roasted cumin. I gazed at it mock-admiringly and waited for Hank to tell me about it.

“Oh, oh, oh,” he said. “This—words fail me.” I giggled. He took a step toward it, reached out as if to touch it, then withdrew his hand. He wiped at his eyes, as if wiping away a tear. My giggling increased. “This is Richard Serra's magnum opus, his final word—he calls it
My Curves Are Not Mad.
”

He said the title with a silly Spanish accent, and I burst out laughing. “Stop it!”

“I'm serious,” he said, and I looked at him.

“
My Curves Are Not Mad
?” I mimicked the accent.
“
No you're not.”

“Have a look,” he said, and I stooped to see the plaque. Sure enough, it was Richard Serra's
My Curves Are Not Mad.

“But you made up the other titles!” I said.

“Did I?” he answered, smiling mischievously. It was a conjurer's trick, and I felt like somehow it made it even funnier that he had somehow mixed and matched it all, and then ended with one that was just silly enough to catch me out. Hank Waterhouse was sharp—sharper than me.