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“Miss McKnight, I want to be frank," Ann Foster said. "I am retained by the Bluebonnet Club to plan and execute the debutante season. I have held this position of trust for more than twenty years, and they look to me to make absolutely sure everything comes off without a hitch. I host this tea so that I may, in an informal atmosphere, meet each young woman selected, and not only explain the significance of making a debut but also ascertain to my complete satisfaction that she understands, accepts, and is prepared for the ordeal ahead. Of the utmost importance is promptness—”
“Sorry about that,” I interjected. “Soccer practice went late.”
“Soccer practice does not concern me, Miss McKnight. What does concern me is your tardy and”—here she gestured to my gaping, sweat-stained dress—“tawdry appearance, which clearly demonstrate your lack of regard for myself and the other young women selected.”
“I’ve already apologized,” I said, feeling my cheeks flush. “I promise it won’t happen again, and I’m sure given the opportunity I can learn to curtsy just as well as the other girls.”
Ann’s nostrils flared and she tensed. She now looked less like a ballerina and more like a Siberian tiger eager for lunch. Her change so shocked me I nearly took a step back.
“Curtsy, Miss McKnight,” she said icily, “derives from the word courtesy, a word and concept clearly foreign to you.” Dang. “A proper curtsy is neither frivolous nor submissive—it is a posture of respect. Respect—there’s another word gathering dust on the shelf of your vocabulary.”
“Ms. Foster, I—”
“I see in you, Miss McKnight,” Ann went on, “nothing more than the selfish, self-absorbed child so common today. You have no thoughts beyond your own comfort, and what intellect you do possess you employ solely in cheap sport. This is not a game, Miss McKnight, not to myself nor to the people who attend, and I have no intention of working to change your obvious disdain for the institutions I represent and have little hope you will manage it yourself. Therefore, I think it best if you voluntarily withdraw.”
I was so derailed by this tart and targeted barrage that a good twenty seconds must have passed before I managed to speak. She waited patiently while I wobbled like a punch-drunk fighter, in danger of going down for the count.
“I think you’ve misjudged me,” I managed.
“I highly doubt it.”
My heart thumped against my chest, and my cheeks were red as cherries. Withdraw? We hadn’t even started . . .
“I don’t want to withdraw,” I began, cautiously. “This is important to my parents, and I am not, and never have been, a quitter. I’ll do whatever I have to do to prove myself.”
“Moxie,” she stated flatly, “while admirable, will not suffice, Miss McKnight.”
The Miss McKnight thing was starting to grate.
“It is abundantly clear that you cannot walk properly,” she continued, “so it would naturally follow that you are unable to dance—and I do not mean Zumba.”
“My Mom has already signed me and my sister up for dance lessons.”
“I wish it were that simple. You will need to learn to stand up straight, dress appropriately, and behave with some clear sense of modesty and decorum. You’re miles from a satisfactory Texas Dip, and frankly, given the time allowed and the list of requirements, I doubt you’re up to it.”
Suddenly I was not just insulted, but mad.
“You’d be surprised, Miss Foster,” I stated with reckless confidence, “what I can accomplish in a short amount of time.”
She looked me over again, still dubious. Why was I even fighting this? I had my chance right here to be gone. I could tell Mom that Ann felt I wasn’t up to it, that she knew, like I did, that I just wasn’t debutante material. But I thought of Dad begging me to do it, and while I wasn’t sure why, it was clear he needed me to stay.
“Please, ma’am,” I said, softening my tone and smiling at her with all the Texas charm I could muster, “I realize today did not start well, but I would very much appreciate you allowing me the opportunity to prove that I belong.”
She weighed my “ma’am” and the sentence that followed for a moment, unsure if they were mocking or sincere.
“Miss McKnight, you have a month,” she said. “Surprise me.”
(Continues…)
Excerpted from "The Season"
by .
Copyright © 2017 Jonah Lisa Dyer.
Excerpted by permission of Penguin Young Readers Group.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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