The Beau & the Belle
Page 6
“Lauren was one of the junior debutantes last year,” my mom says, drawing me back to the moment. “Beautiful. A little skinny, but if she takes after her mom, she’s going to be a real looker when she grows up.”
I glance over and see the twinkle in my mom’s eyes. She lives for this sort of thing—the prestige, the traditions, the glitz and glamour—and I’m reminded of why I’m working my ass off, why I’m investing every spare dime I have, taking on extra jobs so one day, she doesn’t have to watch that ball on TV anymore. She’ll be there.
“You watch, she’s probably going be something in this town one day.” She beams at me. “And when that happens, you’ll be able to say you knew her way back when!”
I’M HAVING A hard time focusing. Rose and I are up in my room studying for our Latin test next week. It’s a subject I usually find easy and interesting, but today my attention keeps slipping out to the back yard, where the groundskeepers are working on mowing the grass and trimming the shrubs. Today, and for the past few weekends, Beau has been out there with them.
It’s hot out, humid and stifling—so much so that Beau’s shirt is off, tucked in the back of his jeans. He yanked it off a few minutes ago, seemingly angry with the thing, and I don’t blame him. Even in September, it’s over 100 degrees out. I watch him use a towel to wipe his forehead and then he tosses it on a lounge chair by the pool, getting back to work. I have an intense urge to run down and steal it—er, just to be helpful…with laundry. Yup, don’t want him to run out of towels.
I bring my pen to my mouth and chew on the end, focused on him, on the fact that I’ve never seen a naked chest like his before. It’s tan and broad, sprinkled with just enough dark hair to assure me that I’m not looking at the body of a boy my age—not even close.
“Uh, you good there, Lou?”
Rose’s voice snaps me out of my daydreaming and I bite down on my pen so hard it splits open, spilling black ink all over me.
“Shit!”
I leap up, splattering more ink across my Latin homework. The words I’m supposed to be translating are now covered in a pool of blackness that’s seconds away from spilling onto my rug. Fortunately, Rose leaps into action, using one of my bathroom hand towels to mop up the mess before it gets even worse.
I toss the pen in the trash and Rose glances up from where she’s trying to dab ink from my homework, gets one good look at me, and falls back on my bed in a fit of laughter.
“Go…” she says, barely able to get out any words. She has to cram them in quickly before another laugh spills out. “Go-look-in-the-mirror!”
I sprint to my bathroom and sure enough, black ink is splattered across my face like I’m a Jackson Pollock.
“You better get all that off fast! Cotillion practice starts in fifteen minutes!”
No. No. No.
I’d completely forgotten about that. It’s silly, a tradition that attempts to mold high schoolers into fine, fleet-footed ladies and gentlemen. All the junior girls in my class at McGehee have to do it along with the boys from St. Thomas. Throughout the fall, we meet twice a month at the Junior League of New Orleans where we’re instructed in the arts of etiquette: table manners, proper conversational skills, and—worst of all—how to dance.
I bend down, twist the faucet, and start to scrub at my face as hard as possible, praying the ink will wipe clean quickly.
“Girls!” my mom calls from the first floor. “Are you about ready to go? I can drop you off on the way to my studio!”
“Just a second, Mrs. LeBlanc!” Rose shouts before hurrying into the bathroom. “C’mon, Lauren. It’s fine. Most of it’s gone now.”
I glance up at my reflection and groan. She’s right, the ink is gone, but what’s left behind isn’t much better.
My face is still red and raw by the time we walk into the ballroom at the League. I look like I’m having an allergic reaction.
Julie Robichaux, another girl from my grade, points it out almost immediately.
“Why is your face red and puffy?”
I shrug and try to play it off. “I washed it right before I came.”
She quirks a brow in disbelief. “You should probably switch cleansers. It looks like you just scrubbed your face with sandpaper.”
Noise behind our group draws my attention just as some of the St. Thomas boys filter into the ballroom. They’re always late, they always travel in a pack, and their leader is always, always Preston Westcott. There he is, dressed in jeans and a white polo with a baseball cap covering his blond hair. We’re supposed to dress up for these practices, white gloves and all, hence why I’m wearing one of my short, poofy church dresses, but the boys never follow the rules.
It’s been a few weeks since he messaged me.
Yo, what’s up?
He hasn’t messaged me since.
Our instructor, Mrs. Geller, claps her hands, impatient to start teaching.
The boys turn to Preston, awaiting his orders. He takes a moment to look her over then laughs and turns his back so he can make a joke to his group. They crack up and Mrs. Geller’s cheeks turn bright pink. I cringe. If it’s not already obvious, the boys from St. Thomas are less than enthused about being forced to attend cotillion practice.
“Enough, boys!” Mrs. Geller claps twice, the shrill sound piercing my ears. “Enough!”
They still don’t listen, and for a few moments, we all stand there at a loss for what to do. If they aren’t going to cooperate, this is going to take forever. I glance at Rose and see her glaring at the group with a hard stare. I open my mouth to say something, but she shakes her head and marches right over to them. With a few long strides, she reaches Preston, and then she smacks his baseball cap right off his head. It falls to the floor and a collective gasp sounds across the room.
My hands are shaking—SHAKING. Holy shit. Rose is the most outspoken of the McGehee girls, but no one ever messes with Preston Westcott—boy or girl, man or woman.
He turns slowly and his brown eyes narrow on her. I think…I think we’re about to witness a murder, though I’m not sure who exactly will be doing the killing, Rose or Preston. One thing is for sure though: there will be blood.
“We get it,” Rose says, sounding bored. “You’re too cool to be here. Newsflash: none of us really want to be here, so just shut up already so we can get started.”
With that, she spins on the ball of her foot and marches back over to the girls. Someone starts to clap and then quickly stops when no one else joins in.
Silence follows. Preston’s attention tracks Rose as she crosses the room, and then he slugs the arm of the smaller guy next to him. The sidekick hurriedly bends down and retrieves Preston’s hat.
Mrs. Geller, smart woman that she is, uses the silence to begin before another riot ensues.
“Very good. Girls, form a line across from the boys and listen up. We’ll be refreshing what we learned about the waltz last session.”
There’s a collective groan, as there always is, but she doesn’t let that stop her.
Two lines form, and somehow Rose and I end up smack-dab across from Preston—and by somehow, I mean I carefully push my way into position like a desperate bridesmaid going after a bouquet. He’s still obviously pissed, throwing hard glares at Rose every few seconds, but she just smiles overly sweetly. Her focus is on Mrs. Geller and there’s a ghost of a smirk across her lips. Every boy in that room is watching her, forming some kind of submissive schoolboy crush on her. She just Davided a Goliath and lived to tell the tale.
Mrs. Geller drones on about the step pattern for the waltz and I’m only half-listening, sneaking glances at Preston from beneath my lashes. He might be a tad immature, but he really is so cute. If he lived in LA or New York, he’d be modeling. I’m still staring when his attention flicks from Rose to me. The ice behind his eyes thaws just a little, and the corner of his mouth tips up in a little smile. My heart drops to my stomach and I turn away quickly, catching the end of Mrs. Geller’s last statement.
“…and then we’ll pick partners.”
My heart pounds.
It’s my least favorite part of cotillion practice, the part where the instruction is over and it’s time to try out the dance moves. The scene goes as follows: the one or two dating couples pop together like magnets while the rest of the shy boys and girls look to the ceiling, floor, and walls—anywhere but at the opposite sex across the room. We’re all too wimpy to march right up to our crush and ask them to dance. I hate it. I want to be courageous like Rose, so I decide on a whim that I’m going to ask Preston to dance. We’ve never danced together, never touched. Usually another girl gets to him before I even think to act.
I glance over and see the twinkle in my mom’s eyes. She lives for this sort of thing—the prestige, the traditions, the glitz and glamour—and I’m reminded of why I’m working my ass off, why I’m investing every spare dime I have, taking on extra jobs so one day, she doesn’t have to watch that ball on TV anymore. She’ll be there.
“You watch, she’s probably going be something in this town one day.” She beams at me. “And when that happens, you’ll be able to say you knew her way back when!”
I’M HAVING A hard time focusing. Rose and I are up in my room studying for our Latin test next week. It’s a subject I usually find easy and interesting, but today my attention keeps slipping out to the back yard, where the groundskeepers are working on mowing the grass and trimming the shrubs. Today, and for the past few weekends, Beau has been out there with them.
It’s hot out, humid and stifling—so much so that Beau’s shirt is off, tucked in the back of his jeans. He yanked it off a few minutes ago, seemingly angry with the thing, and I don’t blame him. Even in September, it’s over 100 degrees out. I watch him use a towel to wipe his forehead and then he tosses it on a lounge chair by the pool, getting back to work. I have an intense urge to run down and steal it—er, just to be helpful…with laundry. Yup, don’t want him to run out of towels.
I bring my pen to my mouth and chew on the end, focused on him, on the fact that I’ve never seen a naked chest like his before. It’s tan and broad, sprinkled with just enough dark hair to assure me that I’m not looking at the body of a boy my age—not even close.
“Uh, you good there, Lou?”
Rose’s voice snaps me out of my daydreaming and I bite down on my pen so hard it splits open, spilling black ink all over me.
“Shit!”
I leap up, splattering more ink across my Latin homework. The words I’m supposed to be translating are now covered in a pool of blackness that’s seconds away from spilling onto my rug. Fortunately, Rose leaps into action, using one of my bathroom hand towels to mop up the mess before it gets even worse.
I toss the pen in the trash and Rose glances up from where she’s trying to dab ink from my homework, gets one good look at me, and falls back on my bed in a fit of laughter.
“Go…” she says, barely able to get out any words. She has to cram them in quickly before another laugh spills out. “Go-look-in-the-mirror!”
I sprint to my bathroom and sure enough, black ink is splattered across my face like I’m a Jackson Pollock.
“You better get all that off fast! Cotillion practice starts in fifteen minutes!”
No. No. No.
I’d completely forgotten about that. It’s silly, a tradition that attempts to mold high schoolers into fine, fleet-footed ladies and gentlemen. All the junior girls in my class at McGehee have to do it along with the boys from St. Thomas. Throughout the fall, we meet twice a month at the Junior League of New Orleans where we’re instructed in the arts of etiquette: table manners, proper conversational skills, and—worst of all—how to dance.
I bend down, twist the faucet, and start to scrub at my face as hard as possible, praying the ink will wipe clean quickly.
“Girls!” my mom calls from the first floor. “Are you about ready to go? I can drop you off on the way to my studio!”
“Just a second, Mrs. LeBlanc!” Rose shouts before hurrying into the bathroom. “C’mon, Lauren. It’s fine. Most of it’s gone now.”
I glance up at my reflection and groan. She’s right, the ink is gone, but what’s left behind isn’t much better.
My face is still red and raw by the time we walk into the ballroom at the League. I look like I’m having an allergic reaction.
Julie Robichaux, another girl from my grade, points it out almost immediately.
“Why is your face red and puffy?”
I shrug and try to play it off. “I washed it right before I came.”
She quirks a brow in disbelief. “You should probably switch cleansers. It looks like you just scrubbed your face with sandpaper.”
Noise behind our group draws my attention just as some of the St. Thomas boys filter into the ballroom. They’re always late, they always travel in a pack, and their leader is always, always Preston Westcott. There he is, dressed in jeans and a white polo with a baseball cap covering his blond hair. We’re supposed to dress up for these practices, white gloves and all, hence why I’m wearing one of my short, poofy church dresses, but the boys never follow the rules.
It’s been a few weeks since he messaged me.
Yo, what’s up?
He hasn’t messaged me since.
Our instructor, Mrs. Geller, claps her hands, impatient to start teaching.
The boys turn to Preston, awaiting his orders. He takes a moment to look her over then laughs and turns his back so he can make a joke to his group. They crack up and Mrs. Geller’s cheeks turn bright pink. I cringe. If it’s not already obvious, the boys from St. Thomas are less than enthused about being forced to attend cotillion practice.
“Enough, boys!” Mrs. Geller claps twice, the shrill sound piercing my ears. “Enough!”
They still don’t listen, and for a few moments, we all stand there at a loss for what to do. If they aren’t going to cooperate, this is going to take forever. I glance at Rose and see her glaring at the group with a hard stare. I open my mouth to say something, but she shakes her head and marches right over to them. With a few long strides, she reaches Preston, and then she smacks his baseball cap right off his head. It falls to the floor and a collective gasp sounds across the room.
My hands are shaking—SHAKING. Holy shit. Rose is the most outspoken of the McGehee girls, but no one ever messes with Preston Westcott—boy or girl, man or woman.
He turns slowly and his brown eyes narrow on her. I think…I think we’re about to witness a murder, though I’m not sure who exactly will be doing the killing, Rose or Preston. One thing is for sure though: there will be blood.
“We get it,” Rose says, sounding bored. “You’re too cool to be here. Newsflash: none of us really want to be here, so just shut up already so we can get started.”
With that, she spins on the ball of her foot and marches back over to the girls. Someone starts to clap and then quickly stops when no one else joins in.
Silence follows. Preston’s attention tracks Rose as she crosses the room, and then he slugs the arm of the smaller guy next to him. The sidekick hurriedly bends down and retrieves Preston’s hat.
Mrs. Geller, smart woman that she is, uses the silence to begin before another riot ensues.
“Very good. Girls, form a line across from the boys and listen up. We’ll be refreshing what we learned about the waltz last session.”
There’s a collective groan, as there always is, but she doesn’t let that stop her.
Two lines form, and somehow Rose and I end up smack-dab across from Preston—and by somehow, I mean I carefully push my way into position like a desperate bridesmaid going after a bouquet. He’s still obviously pissed, throwing hard glares at Rose every few seconds, but she just smiles overly sweetly. Her focus is on Mrs. Geller and there’s a ghost of a smirk across her lips. Every boy in that room is watching her, forming some kind of submissive schoolboy crush on her. She just Davided a Goliath and lived to tell the tale.
Mrs. Geller drones on about the step pattern for the waltz and I’m only half-listening, sneaking glances at Preston from beneath my lashes. He might be a tad immature, but he really is so cute. If he lived in LA or New York, he’d be modeling. I’m still staring when his attention flicks from Rose to me. The ice behind his eyes thaws just a little, and the corner of his mouth tips up in a little smile. My heart drops to my stomach and I turn away quickly, catching the end of Mrs. Geller’s last statement.
“…and then we’ll pick partners.”
My heart pounds.
It’s my least favorite part of cotillion practice, the part where the instruction is over and it’s time to try out the dance moves. The scene goes as follows: the one or two dating couples pop together like magnets while the rest of the shy boys and girls look to the ceiling, floor, and walls—anywhere but at the opposite sex across the room. We’re all too wimpy to march right up to our crush and ask them to dance. I hate it. I want to be courageous like Rose, so I decide on a whim that I’m going to ask Preston to dance. We’ve never danced together, never touched. Usually another girl gets to him before I even think to act.
