The Season (3 page)

“I'll offer terms to your mother.” He gave me that rueful smile I loved so much.

“Good luck,” I croaked.

Dad waved as he walked toward his truck, a mud-stained F-350. He put the shotgun back on the rack and then, with the door half-open, he looked back.

“Hey—thanks.” Straightforward. Honest. That was Dad.

I choked back tears as he drove
off.

Three

In Which Megan Reveals a Good Deal More Than She Intended

I WAS FLYING DOWN MOCKINGBIRD LANE ON MY BIKE
just inches from a red light at Fairfield when I realized the black sedan beside me was an unmarked patrol car. I clamped both brakes and the back tire skidded in gravel and I ended up sideways ten feet into the intersection. I put a single Coach slingback sandal down on the gooey asphalt, backed up, and casually glanced at the cop beside me. He looked over, and chuckled. Really, who could blame him? It's not every day you see a girl on a mountain bike in a Ralph Lauren dress, three-hundred-dollar sandals, and a bike helmet crowned with a giant plastic tiara plastered with rhinestones.

Sweating like Seabiscuit in the final furlong of the Preakness, I blinked at the clots of mascara clouding my vision and worried my heavily made-up face might suddenly fracture and descend in a mudslide of Malibu proportions. Positive I looked demented, but determined to show a brave
face, I smiled sweetly at Officer Jenkins in his air-conditioned cruiser and he, being a generous sort, turned away.

I had, of course, planned to blow through the light without a second thought, but a split-second calculation told me the time spent defending a ticket from Highland Park's finest was greater than the duration of the light, so I dutifully paused. That is, if you call jackknifing your bike halfway through an intersection “pausing.”

Unable to stop myself, I checked my watch. Again. 4:43 p.m. Yikes.

Just how, I wondered, had I found myself so very late and so very stuck to the seat of my bike? The painful answer was that sadly, all my wounds were self-inflicted. Beginning early that morning I had made a critical error in judgment.

“No, you take the car,” I said stupidly at 5:20 a.m. Julia and I shared a blue Subaru Forester. It wasn't flashy, but it was dependable, and Dad chose it based on its impressive safety record.

“You sure?” Julia murmured. Standing in her doorway, I nodded. Turns out sleep deprivation really does affect decision making.

“Practice ends at four, and the orientation isn't until four thirty,” I said. “That'll give me time to shower, dress, and make it over to the club—it's only a few blocks.”

That Tuesday marked the unofficial start of the Season. Julia and I and the other girls were invited to tea at Turtle Creek Country Club with our governess, Ann Foster.
She would look us over, tell us what to expect and how to behave.

“You won't be hot?”

“The weather's cooled off,” I said breezily. “And practice is just a walk-through and drills. Besides, if anything does happen, I don't want us both to be late.”

“Okay,” she replied, falling back onto her pillow. “I'll save you a seat.”

Stifling pangs of jealousy—I never get to sleep in—I closed her door softly, went downstairs, and rode to the gym, my sandals hooked over the handlebar and my then unwrinkled, immaculate, and bagged red dress billowing out behind me like Superman's cape.

Alas, things did not go as planned. First, it was hot—blast furnace hot. Summers in Texas are always steamy, but by September the weather usually backs off from freaking unbearable to nearly tolerable. But not that day. By 2 p.m. the temperature hovered at 102 degrees, with rain forest humidity.

Then a series of sloppy passes and general buffoonery sent Coach Nash over the edge, and the whole “drills and a walk-through” was replaced by running the stadium stairs.

“Push it, push it, push it!” Coach Nash screamed as a pack of girls climbed up, up, up. At the top I turned left and sprinted for the next aisle. Then down, down, down the stairs. Up one flight, down another. Rinse and repeat. “It's overtime, you've been running for two hours, you're exhausted, and so are they. Now it's just about will. Who wants it more?”

“Not any harder than climbing Mount McKinley,” I managed to wheeze to Cat as we climbed the top section, using three breaths to get out the seven words.

“At least it's cold in Alaska,” Cat gasped back.

Word. The metal bleachers were scalding hot to the touch, the stadium was damp as a terrarium, and the sun roared down like a blow torch. When Coach finally released us at 4:15 I was drenched. Worse, my core was hot as a pizza oven.

I entered the shower at 4:19 and blasted myself with ice-cold water for five straight minutes. This wasn't nearly enough to cool off, and as I stood in front of the mirror at 4:28 applying mascara, beads of sweat popped out on my beet-red forehead. I left the locker room, unstuck my dress from my moist ass, and stole a quick peek at my watch. 4:37—I willed myself to stay calm.

“Your highness! Oh your highness,” Mariah squealed as I turned the corner by the bike stall. Lindsay and Lachelle immediately started blowing on pink-and-white “princess” kazoos and genuflecting while Cat stood at attention and set off a child's confetti cannon. It went off with as much oomph as a good fart, and the confetti flew up six inches before falling pathetically in the grass.

“Fail,” Lachelle said.

“Right? So lame,” Cat said, looking at the empty canister. “This thing cost four ninety-nine.”

“Funny, guys, thanks,” I said. I wasn't that surprised
by the Prank Brigade, as news of my debut had spread quickly through the team. As I unlocked my bike, Cat ran over and handed me my bike helmet.

“Your crown, milady,” she said, and then she too bowed before breaking into peals of laughter.

“You shouldn't have,” I said. I spent exactly three seconds trying to pry off the tiara she had superglued to the brim, then gave up and stuck it on my head. I didn't even bother to try and remove the glittering streamers flowing off the handlebars.

“Have fun at the ball! Be home by midnight!” Mariah called.

“Let us know if you meet Prince Charming!” Lachelle shouted.

I waved and left to the sound of kazoos. Halfway across campus I noticed they had replaced my nasty old water bottle with a brand-new pink one.

And what I'd remembered as “a few blocks” from SMU to Turtle Creek Country Club turned out to be ten—a solid mile and a half. And there were two lights. Now I was sitting at the second. When I'd arrived at the first, the crosswalk was blocked by a column of toddlers returning from the park to their day care.

Recalling my dress blowing out behind me that morning, I suddenly wished I were Superman, that I could fly or instantly cool the entire world to subzero temperatures. Most of all I wished to spin the earth backward at hypersonic
speed, thereby reversing the clocks by, say, an hour. Lacking all of these skills I smoldered, inside and out. One last glance at my watch—4:45 p.m. Best case scenario I would arrive twenty minutes late, flushed and sweaty.

The entrance to Turtle Creek Country Club was, naturally, uphill. Unable to quell the rising tide of panic, I stood on the pedals and cranked my bike up over the crest. Suddenly, as if she were right next to me, I heard my mother offer that “Megan, dear, you
never
get a second chance to make a first impression.” Thanks for that, Mom.

Ahead now I saw the shaded portico and the front doors. I imagined the other girls arriving before me—early of course—pulling up in their vacuum-sealed cars, the air- conditioning cranked so high they'd be wearing cashmere cardigans. Exiting oh so carefully—don't muss your hair or chip a nail—they'd take the valet ticket and have a mere eight steps to the cool confines of the club. Not enough time to melt an M&M, much less mar their Kabuki makeup.

Lost in my bitter reverie I hurtled into the entrance, screeched to a stop, and locked eyes with the valet. He was young, dressed in black shorts and a white polo. He was also handsome, ridiculously so, with big brown eyes, wavy hair, and a dimple in his chin big enough to bathe in. I stood waiting, but he didn't move, just hovered with a ticket in his hand.

“Well?” I said. He just stared at me, slack-jawed.
Poor fella, got the looks but not the brains
, I thought. “What, you've never parked a bike
before?”

That got him. He stepped forward and held the handle bar.

“Sorry—good afternoon . . . ma'am,” he said. Now he smiled. And what a smile—brighter than the lights at Westcott Field. “Welcome to Turtle Creek Country Club.”

“Thanks.” I unbuckled my helmet and handed it to him. He noticed the tiara, and smiled again. He really was handsome. Must do well with the older ladies. I considered explaining about the tiara, but really, what plausible explanation could I offer?

And then, harried, and distracted by his looks, I caught the hem of my dress on the saddle and tore it as I dismounted. We both looked down at the sound of cloth ripping. My stylish red linen dress now had a tear from thigh to hip, a generous hole through which my sunflower panties and a decent amount of skin showed.

“Perfect,” I said. “Just—perfect.” He gave me a sympathetic look. I squeezed my dress shut, handed him five bucks.

“Oh, thank you very much, ma'am.” I sensed some private joke now, a gentle tease in his voice—probably the tiara.

“You're welcome.” I quizzed his face for the answer, and his smile grew.
Definitely the tiara.
I nodded at my bike. “Keep it running?”

“Yes, ma'am,” he said, the smile widening. It made my heart thump. He was beyond cute. Typical—on the doorstep of fabulous wealth I swoon for the valet. I walked away holding my dress together.

“And no joyriding,” I yelled over my shoulder.

“No, ma'am.” As I opened the door I stole one last look. He leaned my bike carefully against the wall, and then a black Mercedes AMG roared in and an older man in a Turtle Creek Country Club polo hopped out. My “valet” went around to the driver's door and gave
my five dollars
to the real valet.

He paused before getting in, looked my way. He smiled even more broadly and waved, clearly enjoying the moment. My shock gave way to amusement. Well, well, color me wrong. Handsome
and
sly. I waved back.
So long, stranger
, I thought as he drove away. Even his car had a great ass.

Inside the club it was dark and cold as an igloo, and I waited as my pupils dilated from midday Sahara to the warm, woodsy tones of high-dollar luxury. Feeling blowing air from an AC vent above, I raised my arms and let the cool draft rush over my wet armpits.

Sweet Jesus, that's heaven.

Having been there a few times before, I knew I was in the main entrance. I looked around to gauge my vision. Gleaming parquet floor? Check. Taupe linen wallpaper and walnut wainscoting? Check. Large potted plants in brass bowls? Crystal chandeliers? Check, check. Woman sitting behind desk staring at me while I air my pits? That was new. Roger and out.

“May I help you?” she inquired, her tone as frosty as the room.

I slowly lowered my
arms.

“Yes, hi—Megan McKnight. I'm here for the orientation tea.”

“That would be in the Magnolia Room. Down this hall and turn left. All the way to the end and you'll see the double doors.”

“Thank you so much.”

“Not at all.”

“It's very hot outside,” I offered.

“Yes, it is,” she replied.
Well, I'm certainly glad we settled that.

I started walking, and clasped my dress.

Then inspiration struck. I turned back to the woman.

“Do you have a stapler I could borrow?”

“I do.” She pulled out a beefy stapler from the desk and handed it over. Holding the side seam in place, I squeezed the stapler three times in quick succession—
thunka, thunka, thunka
.

I let my dress fall and, hey, presto, the tear was nearly closed. A flash of yellow still showed, so I hammered in one more staple. Clunky as Frankenstein's stitches, but at least the hole was gone, and with my hand by my side you almost couldn't see it. I handed back the stapler, winked at the stunned receptionist, and ventured off in search of the tea
.

The Magnolia Room.
Soft, melodic words to be murmured, relished. Just saying it evoked images of all-white-meat curried chicken salad scooped on beds of butter lettuce, linen napkins, gilded china, heavy-gauge silver, and sweating goblets of iced tea garnished with fresh mint. Nothing really bad could ever
happen in the Magnolia Room, I reckoned, as the soaring white doors loomed ahead.

They probably haven't even started, I fantasized, squashing the urge to sprint the last twenty yards. I bet they're still standing around, sipping tea, doing the “get-to-know-ya,” and nobody would notice I was now
twenty-five minutes late
.

Outside the doors I checked the seam of my dress. The staples were holding. I pulled my hair back tighter in my ponytail, blew air up from my mouth to dry the sweat still lingering on my brow, and reached for the brass handle on the giant door.

Everything is going to be fine
, I told myself, and walked
in.