The Season (4 page)

Four

In Which Megan Discovers That Tea Can Be a Full-Contact Sport

THE MAGNOLIA ROOM WAS LARGE ENOUGH TO PARK
a Gulfstream in, with room to spare. Instead of a plane, however, the only thing in the hangar was a single round table, surrounded by seven formal chairs. One was empty. Six young women filled the others, and a very tall, well-dressed woman stood beside them. At the sound of the door opening, all seven heads snapped my way. Apparently they had started.

“Yes?” This from the Amazon in charge. I recognized Ann Foster immediately. Her gaze was piercing, even from thirty feet.

“I'm Megan McKnight. Is this the orientation tea?” Brilliant question, Megan. Your sister is sitting right there. What else could it be?

“It is.” Ann said nothing further. Instead, she measured me for a casket as I walked to the lone empty chair. I tried
not to cringe openly as I sat. Julia gave me a hopeful look, and I smiled wanly as the woman started speaking again. My cousin Abby winked at me, and I rolled my eyes. The other four girls were stoic, fixated on our host.

“Now, as I was saying, it would be
impossible
to overstate the opportunity before you.”

Ann now looked intently at each of us, letting the words land first on the group and then individually. With her eyes on me, I felt my spine straighten as if pulled by a puppeteer's strings. I'll say this for her—she knew the value of brevity followed by silence. She let that sentence dangle for a good fifteen seconds, until long after the silence was downright uncomfortable.
Now there's a trick I need to remember.
I willed myself not to fidget.

“You are on the cusp of an historic journey. This year just seven invitations were extended by the Bluebonnet Club for this, the 2016 Debut Season. In the past century and a quarter, perhaps eight hundred women in Texas have sat where you are now. Some are your relatives—mothers, aunts, grandmothers—the women and families who quite literally built this city through their industry, and their charity. And they have selected you to receive the torch of tradition and excellence and carry it forward.”

Ann Foster's face was smooth save for fine wrinkles around her eyes, and I guessed she was sixty, but I could have been off by a decade in either direction. She wasn't a pound overweight, and with her hair pulled back I
thought she might have, long ago, been a dancer. She certainly had the posture and the attitude.

In under ten seconds I knew from her honeysuckle drawl she was from Houston, and I quickly filled in the rest: Camp Mystic or at least Waldemar; the University of Texas—either a Kappa or a Pi Phi; decades as a wedding planner and events coordinator for the rich and famous, always around the bubble but never quite inside it. Now she lived in or near the Park Cities, but as she was single (no ring) and still worked, this meant a town house on Northwest Highway or something small west of the Tollway.

“Make no mistake,” Ann continued. “Formal traditions demand rigor and sacrifice. Stamina and integrity. They are undertaken not to provide a window in which to display your wares but to prove to yourselves, your family, and others that you will be capable, dependable adults, women of great works—that you will be the very fabric of the next generation of society. If you have come here thinking this will be nothing but a series of silly parties, you are much mistaken. Yes, there will be balls, dinners, luncheons, and teas, and you will attend them all. You will shake hands and curtsy and smile until your cheeks ache—and when it is done you will know everyone in this city worth knowing, and they will know you. But first and foremost your debut will provide you with the means to leave a legacy, a great work of selflessness. Each of you, if you have not already, will select a charitable organization that you care passionately about, and
by the close of the season you are expected to make a
sizable donation
to this organization.”

She paused again. I figured it might be lengthy, based on the last one. What with the heat, the bicycling, and the stress, I picked up the glass of iced tea in front of me and tried to take a sip. But when the cold liquid hit my mouth I just kept drinking—
glug, glug, glug
. Halfway through, I realized Ann had not said another word, and she and the other girls watched as I drained the entire thing.

“Sorry,” I said, setting the empty glass back on the doily. Ann closed her eyes, took a deep breath, reset, and focused again on the group.

“What do I mean by a sizable donation? Well, last year a young woman raised and donated more than four hundred thousand dollars to Habitat for Humanity, and used in concert with matching grants, those funds built ten new houses for families in need. A girl very much like you, last year managed to put ten families in new houses they now own.
That
is a gift worth giving, a true legacy, and more than most will do in their lifetime. Yet this young woman is just twenty-two and will graduate from college this year. Can you imagine what that's done for her self-esteem? Do you think she will be capable of great works going forward? And wouldn't we all like to have something like that on our résumé?”

She paused again to let this sink in.

“Now I imagine you're wondering just how you will raise this money. The answer is that, in addition to parties given
by relatives or prominent organizations such as the Petroleum Club, the Junior League, the Texas Bar Association, and so forth, each girl and her family will also host a party. These should be an expression of who you are, the face you wish to present to the world. They can have themes, they may be at different venues, but you are expected to sell tables to your party, and the money you collect will be the donation you give. The young woman last year sold more than one hundred tables of six to her debut, each at a cost of four thousand dollars.”

This caused all of us to look around. One hundred tables? Four thousand dollars each?

“So yes, there will be parties, but these parties serve a greater purpose.”

Several girls used this pause for a dainty sip of tea. Prissy bitches.

“Now please open the folders in front of you.” I had been so busy acclimatizing that I had failed to notice that on the table were seven linen binders arranged artfully on end—cream with gold accents. Embossed on the cover was
The 2016 Bluebonnet Debutante Season
. In the lower right corner of mine, in fancy gold script, was my name:
Megan Lucille McKnight.

“This,” Ann said, holding hers aloft, “is your bible. Everything you need to know is contained in this folder. In the reference section you'll find stylists, florists, caterers, event coordinators, stationers, dressmakers—all personally vetted by me. Under charitable organizations you will find
a thorough, but not complete, list of suitable ideas. There is a section for portraits, and an address book. Familiarize yourselves with this; you will be writing a lot of thank-you notes. Now, please open the ‘Calendar' tab, and we'll go over it together.”

Books were opened.

“As you can see, I have chosen Abigail Lucas to host the first debutante party, which will be in late October. Lauren Battle will host the second ball . . .”

I breathed a sigh of relief. My aunt and uncle were loaded and had great taste, so the party was sure to be perfect. I glanced at my cousin Abby and she seemed excited. I flipped ahead in the calendar and found our party would be last, just before Christmas. Thank God. Any delay was welcome, as the thought of Mom planning and pulling off a debut party for six hundred of our nearest and dearest friends and family was something I wasn't ready to contemplate yet. Plus, if we made the playoffs, soccer season would be over a week before.

As Ann droned on I tuned her out and had a cautious look around. Six other girls. Julia I knew. And to her left Abby. Abby's dress was navy, with white trim—flattering, understated, geared to appear slimming, as Abby fought her weight. And then the faces went foreign. I tried to remember the names from the paper. A basic blonde—Ashley? An interesting brunette—Sydney somebody—looked vaguely familiar. Had we met somewhere once? I searched my memory to figure out where. She gave me a brief look and I
saw something in her eyes—she was . . . uncomfortable. But I couldn't place her. And to her left another brunette—weren't there two Ashleys?

Directly across from me sat another blonde, but this one was
somebody
. Lauren Battle had Queen Bee written all over her. Her hair was curled, her makeup model perfect, and her pale yellow dress played great off a deep, rich tan that strangely brought to mind the Crayola color Burnt Sienna. The Battles had come into the limelight in the 1920s when the oil patch blossomed, and that original fortune had spawned a Texas shade oak of family wealth. They still owned about a third of Fort Worth, and while I had never met Lauren in person I had seen her and her mother and various grandparents, uncles, and cousins in the paper or on the cover of vapid, glossy magazines like
D.

One trait we all shared was that we were white. I went to public school in DeSoto with a Heinz 57 of kids, and soccer was a meritocracy. If you could put the ball in the back of the net, eggplant was an acceptable skin color. But the girls sitting at that table made it clear that even in 2016 a Bluebonnet debut in Dallas still meant white girls of privilege and wealth—or in the case of the McKnight girls, serious legacy cloaked in the appearance of wealth.

“The final ball, on New Year's Eve,” Ann continued, “will be hosted by the Bluebonnet Club. They are, as you know, the founding sponsor of the season, and this ball has been held every year since 1882, an uninterrupted tradition that now spans one hundred and thirty-four years—nineteen
years longer than the University of Texas has played the University of Oklahoma in the merry sport of football.”

She paused a moment to look around and let this sink in. And it did. Traditions don't get bigger than the Red River Shootout, an annual border war fought on the gridiron. It's held in Dallas, the neutral midpoint between Austin and Norman, Oklahoma, where every October legions of rabid fans in crimson and burnt orange converge for a weekend of boozing and brawling over serious bragging rights. And this Bluebonnet Debut thing trumped that by twenty years? Just kill me now.

“Dress for this event is white gown and white gloves—no exceptions. As each of you are presented, you will be required to bow formally—the Texas Dip. Every young woman who has ever made her debut in the state of Texas has done this, and it is the one skill you must absolutely master. Please remember you will perform this feat alone, at the edge of a runway on a stage under hot lights in front of the entire city—in heels.”

She examined each of us for the requisite fortitude.

“I will demonstrate it now.”

Ann drew herself up high and tall. And then she put her left leg back and began to bow. Her head reached her waist. Her knees began to fold and her head continued down, down, her face turned to avoid smearing her lipstick.

She's going to fall over!
I thought, as she pretzeled herself practically level with the floor. But no, she held steady. And then, with nary a wobble, she began to rise back
up. I watched her face for any expression of effort but it was a blank slate. Having done a little core work in my time, I was impressed.

“Now I want you each to try it. Who will go first?”

Everyone looked around—who would dare?

“I'll go,” I said breezily, and stood up. Strength and flexibility were my stock in trade—I did sixty box jumps three days a week and could squat a buck fifty ten times. And by going first I was showing initiative, which might make Ann forget I'd arrived late. A twofer.

“Just relax,” Ann said. She held her hands out to me, palms up.

“I'm good.” I looked at her hands. Was she there to spot me? “Seriously, I got this.”

“You will need assistance.”

“I think not,” I said. Seriously, how hard could it be?

Ann reluctantly stepped back, but reserved judgment. I closed my eyes, took a breath. Tried to remember just how she had done it. I put my arms out to the side, then began to lower myself.

The first six inches went great, and I let my left leg drop behind my right. The next six inches went pretty well, until my right knee reached parallel. Then a strange thing happened. My left leg ground to a halt behind my right and refused to budge. I tried to force it down with my torso, and then my right leg quivered. I pushed harder, and my right thigh clenched and the muscle spasmed, and under extreme duress the staples in my dress popped. That caused
my hip to fly out and I went ass over elbows onto the floor. I had jujitsued myself. Abby died laughing—a full, infectious laugh.

“It's more difficult than it first appears,” Ann said drily. She offered me a hand up, but embarrassed, and confused by my failure, I refused. I stood up, held my dress together, and sat down. Julia patted my shoulder, and I grimaced. Lauren gave me the “so sad for you” look.