before (a distant cousin had graduated from a local private school and their family had dutifully attended) only with the rows of folding chairs removed and replaced by tables and a dance floor. There was a raised stage at one end of the hall, with the wings curtained off (Matt and Brooke and all the other nervous couples were behind the left-side curtains, the ball’s hosts and presenters to the right). They’d added some curved steps, ornately decorated with ropes of white roses tied to the railings, leading from the stage to the floor level—the locally famous Presentation Stairs. At the base of the stairs was a large open area for the Debutante Line-up and Parade and, later, the Debutante Waltz. Surrounding the open floor were dining tables in a horseshoe-shaped arrangement—seating for the presentation and the formal dinner and dancing to follow.
Leah hated these moments alone in large open and bustling public places. She never knew which way to look—there were so many small and large dramas unfolding in the large room. Worse, the chances of someone sneaking up behind her or ignorantly calling to her and growing increasingly annoyed at her rude lack of response loomed large. To ward off both these insecurities, she assumed her most dignified, and surprisingly natural, public posture and focused her attention on the night’s program set at her place, scanning the order of events then the listing of debutantes and their escorts. She hoped her demure focus on the program would excuse her from any social obligation, even to the Houstons and her parents talking a few feet away, all the while watching, sensing, the full range of human theater being played out around her.
The lights on the main floor dimmed and the parents and guests took their seats at the tables. Momma sat next to her and Father just beyond, all three facing the stage and the empty seats where Brooke and Matt would eventually join them. The lights came up on the stage, the string quartet took their seats to one side, the presenters and the Deb Ball Committee to the other; and the night’s festivities began.
Freed of auditory distraction and misdirection, Leah saw and perceived and inferred details and nuances of behavior everyone else missed or failed to register. And what she saw during the presentations was just how nervous the girls were, as they strained to cover that nervousness with artificial actions and stances as stiff and unnatural as the thick make up plastered on their faces, and how generally oblivious their escorts, even the older ones, were—ill-at-ease in their rented tuxes, unfamiliar with the spotlight of attention, unprepared to evaluate let alone react to the queer behavior of their dates. Yet despite all this artifice, maybe because of it, the proceedings quickly assumed a staid and almost dignified identity—a ponderous presumption of place and purpose, Leah thought, priding herself on the appropriately stiff alliterative phrase. As much as she could chuckle at the thought, the phrase wasn’t derogatory.
Then, a little more than a third of the way down the list, Brooke was announced (Leah had counted the names plus felt Momma’s leg tense alongside hers under the table) and she and Matt emerged from behind the curtain and walked across the stage. Brooke moved a little faster than her brother, so she had to pause a half-beat at the top of the stairs for him to catch up. Then she took his elbow, he covered her hand with his opposite, and they walked down the stairs, greeted by clapping hands. To Leah’s certainly biased gaze, each cut a striking figure though in divergent styles. Brooke with her tan shoulders, makeup-free face, and bare legs peeking out from below the gown (Leah swore she could see her toenails shining), and straight long hair just starting to frizz as it dried, seemed the free spirit she was, just momentarily and scarcely restrained by the requirements of this stuffy tradition. Matt on the other hand appeared bookish and introverted though quite presentable, a budding author or artist recording the proceedings for future dramatization or satire, a glint of detached condescension in his eyes. Given their opposing styles, it seemed amazing that they not only were together but that they managed to hang together, not kill each other or fly apart, through the presentation, the long line up (as the rest of the debs were presented) and the Debutante Parade, as the entire group slowly marched around the dance floor to the applause and few tears of the observers.
And that was it. The march ended, the entire line of debs curtsied—nowhere near in unison, despite having practiced the moment countless times (Leah winced in sympathy with Mrs. Stafford, who sat stone-faced on the stage with the rest of the Ball Committee)—and the debs and their escorts were released to join their families at the tables for the serving of dinner. Brooke had made it!
Leah ran forward and hugged her as she wove her way between the tables, pressing the wide gown against her legs.
Brooke pretended to lose her balance at Leah’s embrace, but then steadied herself. She pressed her forehead against Leah’s, leaving their eyes just a fraction of an inch apart. This was their most intimate of public greetings, as each stared directly into the irises—Brooke’s gray, Leah’s deep brown—of the other. “Looking into your soul,” Brooke called it. Leah signed it as two links of a chain formed by thumbs and forefingers, locked together forever.
Then they parted. Brooke continued on to their table where she got a tearful and prolonged hug from Momma and a kiss on her forehead from Father (and were his eyes wet too?). Matt followed then Leah, and the five arrayed themselves all smiling around the table. They were for that moment one big happy family.
And they managed to preserve that impression through most of the dinner. Leah kept checking on her sister seated across the table next to Father. He was often speaking to her in words Leah couldn’t see, his face slightly turned away and speaking low. And Brooke was generally nodding in agreement or polite indulgence, as if to say “Sure, sure, anything you say.”
But then Matt said something that made Brooke grimace. Father was still smiling, so either he hadn’t heard or whatever Matt said hadn’t offended him. But from that moment Leah could practically count off the seconds till Brooke either lashed out or bolted.
Turned out to be bolted. Brooke picked at her meal—chicken, rice pilaf, peas and carrots—for a while, leaving most of it uneaten. Toward the end she stood and said she was going to the restroom. Leah started to rise to accompany her, but a quick glance from Brooke and a near invisible shake of her head kept Leah in her seat. Father nodded, still smiling; and Brooke sauntered off toward the restrooms behind the stage.
They cleared the dinner then served the Debutante Cake—fat wedges of dry and rather bland white cake piled high with lots of equally tasteless fluffy white frosting (don’t even get Brooke started on the apt metaphor of the cake) that was supposedly made from an antebellum recipe. The cake would be followed by the Waltz, the presentation of individual awards and recognitions, then open dancing “for the old timers” Momma joked as she made eyes at Father. The four dug into their cake—Matt seemed especially happy for the dose of sugar—while trying to ignore the fifth piece sitting in front of an empty chair. Fifteen minutes passed, then twenty. Momma finally caught Leah’s eye at a moment when Father was looking away and made a very subtle nod toward the restrooms. Leah folded her napkin and set it beside her barely nibbled cake before rising from her seat. Father may not have noticed Momma’s gesture but Matt had, and Leah noted his snicker just before she turned from the table.
She got out of sight beyond the stage curtains before a hunch made her turn toward the door to the parking lot rather than continuing on to the ladies room. Once outside she walked toward the back of the lot. Sure enough, there was Danny’s red pickup with gleaming chrome trim, almost exactly where she’d guessed it would be—off by itself at the far end, backed by woods of tall pines just turning to slate gray in the new dusk. Leah marched across the wide expanse of asphalt in the dim glow of a distant streetlight, not sure what she’d find or what she’d do once she found it.
She saw Brooke’s brown hair plastered against the passenger-side window of the truck. She rapped hard on that window.
Brooke turned quickly and a big smile spread across her face as she cranked down the window. “Leah,
we were just talking about you!” she said, her words mumbled between giggles. Even in the dim light, Brooke’s eyes looked funny—all squinty and evasive.
Then the smell struck Leah like a slap. It was the first time she’d ever smelled marijuana smoke, but she immediately knew what it was and why Brooke was acting so foolish. She signed for Brooke to come back to the Ball, that Momma and Father were worried.
Brooke said, “What?” Then her face convulsed into a series of uncontrolled giggles.
Leah walked up to the window. The strong smoke was almost more than she could stand. She saw Danny’s shadowed face and body leaning against the driver’s side door. The glowing ember at his lips moved up and down in her direction.
Brooke said, “Come on in, Leah. Join the party!” Brooke’s door swung open.
But instead of sliding toward the center to let Leah in, Brooke fell out into the parking lot! Leah caught her sister under the armpits to keep her from slamming into the pavement, but her dress caught on the door handle and tore.
Brooke finally managed to get her feet under her and stood beside Leah. But then she started swaying from