The Debs Read online

  “Now I wish I’d picked Truth,” Ginger grumbled.

  “You and me both. This is hot work.” Laura blew at several limp strands of hair that had fallen into her face. “Next time, don’t chicken out on telling us what color panties you’ll wear under your dress, and you’re good. Truth is always so much easier.”

  “Oh, really.” Ginger gave her a look, wondering if Laura realized what she’d said. Naw.

  Since they’d devoured the pizza—and Ginger had sobered up—they’d been playing Truth or Deb, a game Laura had invented last spring when buzz about the coming Rosebud selection started heating up. On Ginger’s last turn, she’d gone for Deb, which meant a dare that involved something debutante related. Usually, they made each other attempt the Texas Dip, the nose-to-the-floor curtsy they’d have to perform after they were announced at the ball. This time, Laura had ordered her to “put on something white that was worn by a Rosebud before you,” and Ginger had brought her grandmother’s debutante gown out of the storage closet.

  Deena still hadn’t agreed to let her wear it for her own debut—her mother treated it like some museum piece that should be preserved in a humidity-controlled Plexiglas box—but Ginger had her heart set on it.

  They had nine months to go until the deb ball anyway. Invitations hadn’t even gone out, though they’d be hand-delivered in a few days. Ginger couldn’t imagine she wouldn’t be a cinch to make the cut. Her grandmother, Rose Dupree, was one of the original Glass Slipper Club Rosebuds, and Deena Dupree Fore had followed in her footsteps. It stood to reason that Ginger would be next.

  And both Mac and Laura had agreed that it would take a colossal tripping-up for Ginger to be blackballed. Though it seemed strange, considering her antiestablishment attitude, Ginger was actually looking forward to using her debutante status to do good. So many girls just wanted the attention, wanted their names mentioned in the society column and in the glossy city magazines. For Ginger, it would be more than the “dutiful legacy keeps family tradition” shtick. It was all about philanthropy and aiming the spotlight at things that mattered.

  And then there was the all-important matter of donning the perfect dress, even if it wasn’t made of hemp.

  “Okay, Laura, I quit. Get me out of this.” Ginger’s armpits felt damp beneath the layers of silk and the corset-like stays and what felt like a half-ton of petticoats rustling against her thighs. “If I get sweat stains on this thing, Deena’s going to freak.” Ginger ran a hand over the embroidered skirt. “Then I won’t get to wear this, for sure.”

  “Dum-dum-duh-dum.” Mac put aside her book and hummed a bit from Wagner’s “Bridal Chorus.” “You could always save it for your wedding, after you go on the Nicole Richie starvation diet.”

  “Very funny.” Ginger tried to look over her shoulder.

  “C’mon, hurry up. I’m going to suffocate in, like, five seconds.”

  “I’m moving as fast as I can, considering my fingertips are completely numb.” Laura hovered behind her, each button she unfastened allowing Ginger to take a slightly deeper breath.

  Ginger put her hands on her belly, wishing she hadn’t eaten so much pizza. Between the champagne and the food, she wasn’t feeling all that great. “I think I need to lie down,” she said. “Or throw up.”

  “Can you hold that thought…wait, wait, there! You’re free!” Laura said, helping Ginger step out of the ornate gown and the petticoats beneath it. “Face it, girl, you can’t wear this sucker at our debut unless you have it altered.”

  “Altered?” Ginger froze, the yards and yards of white material gathered up in her arms. The face that looked back at her in the mirror had blanched so her freckles stood out like connect-the-dots on her nose and cheeks. “Deena would never let any of these seams be ripped out. She’ll insist on new couture.”

  “I know you like recycling old things and I actually hate to agree with your mother, but maybe you should have a gown designed for you. It’s not like your daddy can’t afford it,” Laura remarked, stepping up beside Ginger and looking over her own reflection. “I’m having Vera Wang do mine.” She turned sideways and lifted her chin, studying her posture. “If anyone can make me look like Petra Nemcova, she can.”

  “You have your mother’s gloves, don’t you?”

  Laura blushed like she’d done something naughty. “Oh, yeah, the gloves. They’re the only part of Tincy’s cotillion leftovers I can fit into.”

  “But you understand, then, about the history of something worn again,” Ginger said, because her grandmother’s dress and her own debut seemed undeniably linked. “It’ll mean so much more sentimentally. Besides, buying new would be such a waste of money. Do you know how much a couture gown costs? That could feed, like, thousands of children in the Sudan.”

  “I’m just saying,” Laura muttered. “And it’s not like Daddy Fore couldn’t afford Anna Sui or Stella McCartney or Versace, for that matter,” she added under her breath as she left Ginger’s side and walked toward the bed. She plunked down beside Mac, giving the brunette a nudge. “So who’s doing your dress, chica? And God help you if your stepmom’s involved. She’s a walking Glamour ‘don’t.’”

  Mac got uncharacteristically quiet.

  “Don’t tell me she forced you into one of those slinky beauty-queen gowns with rhinestones and glitter,” Laura joked.

  “No, I won’t be wearing a rhinestone dress,” Mac said in a voice that was barely audible. “I’m not sure I’ll be wearing a dress at all.”

  “So you’re debuting naked, is that it?” Laura egged her on.

  “Maybe I won’t be debuting.”

  “What?”

  Ginger draped her grandmother’s gown across a chaise, leaving the petticoats in a pile on the floor. Something was clearly up with Mac, and Ginger had a good guess what it was. She padded over to the bed in her sweaty camisole and boxers, and she squeezed in between Laura and Mac, slinging an arm around Mac’s shoulders.

  “Hey, what’s going on, Mackenzie? Don’t tell me you’re still undecided about accepting a Rosebud invitation. I thought we’d all made a pact to go through it together. We’re the Three Amigas, right?”

  Mac squirmed, and Ginger read the uncertainty in her face. The pale eyes behind the glasses glanced away.

  “I’m just not sure it’s what I want,” she mumbled.

  Laura blurted out, “You can’t be serious! God, it’s going to be the greatest party of all time, better than sex.” She hesitated. “No, scratch that. Make that better than chocolate. Can’t you picture it?” Laura got off the bed and held her arm up, as if she were walking into the room with an escort. “You’re all dolled up as you step into the ballroom on your dad’s elbow, and they announce for all the world to hear, ‘Miss Michelle Jeanette Mackenzie, daughter of Daniel Mackenzie and—’”

  Laura stopped and dropped her arm, flushing with embarrassment. “Oh, damn, I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking.”

  “How they would announce me when my mother’s dead, you mean?” Mac’s voice sounded raspy. “Daughter of Daniel and the late Jeanie Mackenzie, stepdaughter of the totally irritating Honey Potts?” Her slim shoulders shuddered. “It’s bad enough that my mom won’t be there, but the stepmonster has already assured me she’ll be watching every step of the way. She got Daddy to freaking buy her a seat on the GSC selection committee.”

  “No way,” Ginger gasped. “But that’s good, right? She’ll make sure your bid isn’t blocked.”

  “It feels a little like a lie, like I’ll have to pretend to be someone I’m not, and I don’t know if I can go through with it.”

  Ginger caught the glisten of tears in her friend’s eyes and squeezed her arm.

  “But, sweetie, you know it’s what your mom wanted. You’ve told us a million times about the letters she left you.”

  Laura jumped in before Mac could so much as reply, “How could you even think of declining when you’re a lock? I want this so bad I can taste it, and I’m not even sure I’m getting in, des
pite everything Tincy’s done. And if I don’t get it, if they decide I don’t look the part, I’m screwed. And Jo Lynn Bidwell will have the last laugh. Damn, it just can’t happen like that. It can’t.” She put her hands on her hips and shook her head, looking both scared and pissed. “I’m still trying to figure out what third-world country I’ll have to move to if they pass me over. Mozambique? Tunisia? Burundi? Where is Burundi, anyway?”

  Man, Ginger mused, Laura sure has it in for Jo Lynn. Whatever that snob had done to Laura around the time she and Avery had broken up must’ve burned. Laura had returned to the fold without saying a word except that she didn’t want to talk about it. Ever. And she’d never mentioned it since. Sometimes Laura’s life looked like a soap opera in real time, with Laura playing the self-absorbed ingénue. Much as Ginger loved the girl, she could do with a little less drama.

  “If I were you—” Laura started in on Mac again only to get cut off midsentence.

  “But I’m not you,” Mac said, “and what if being a Rosebud isn’t me?”

  “Please.” Laura laughed, but there wasn’t a drop of humor in the sound. “You’re such a Honda, I swear.”

  “A Honda?” Ginger repeated, squishing up her forehead.

  “What?”

  “It was a quiz in Cosmo that I read on the plane,” Laura explained. “‘Are U Your Car?’ I’m definitely a Mercedes Roadster, sexy and young and ready for anything,” she said, throwing up her arms and shaking her booty to demonstrate.

  “You, Ging, you’re a Prius, no question. Concerned about the world around you and not so concerned about designer tags. On the other hand, there’s our oh-so-grounded Mackenzie.” Laura wagged a finger at the brunette. “She’s the total Honda Civic. Practical, responsible, and as far from spontaneous as you can get.”

  Mac stiffened.

  “Laura,” Ginger said, wondering what the hell was going on with her friend. Laura was being a total jerk and completely insensitive.

  “What?” Laura blinked. “It’s the truth, isn’t it? Tell me it’s not.”

  “It’s okay,” Mac said quietly, but Ginger could sense that it was far from it.

  Crap, my sleepover is turning into a nightmare, and it’s only half-past nine!

  “Maybe we should talk about something else,” she suggested.

  “Something besides Rosebud invitations? Are y’all crazy? What else is there worth discussin’ except guys, and you’ll jump on me like a pack of wolves if I even mention Avery.”

  That wasn’t exactly the change in conversation Ginger had hoped for.

  Laura sighed and glanced at the Patek Philippe sparkling on her wrist. “Oh, hell, it’s almost ten o’clock. I’ve gotta go out for a bit, but I’ll be back, okay? Ginger, can I borrow your house key?” She looked around, spotted what she wanted, and scooped up the key chain from the dresser before Ginger could open her mouth. “All right, then, I’m off. Leave a light on for me.”

  Ginger glared at Laura’s departing back but let her go without a word. How rude to just walk out like that! Did Laura mean to spoil their last sleepover of the summer? Heck, the only sleepover they’d had in months. Ginger wondered what had gotten into her and figured it had to be Mr. Football. It was like a full moon every night when Avery Dorman came sniffing around.

  With a sigh, Ginger turned to Mac and asked, “Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine, really.” Mac summoned up a closemouthed smile. “What the heck was that about anyway?”

  “Who knows,” Ginger replied—not exactly the truth. Somehow she knew Laura’s irrational behavior had everything to do with Avery. And, like she’d told Mac earlier, you couldn’t rationalize sex, not any more than you could turn a Mercedes Roadster into something more practical.

  * * *

  The devil and I certainly had one thing in common: we were both horny.

  —Dolly Parton

  Absence might make the heart grow fonder, but abstinencecan drive a girl to drink.

  —Jo Lynn Bidwell

  * * *

  Eight

  Jo Lynn loved that it was so easy to party, despite the fact that living in the burbs in a sprawling city like Houston sometimes put a crimp in where the party happened. The city was too big to navigate quickly or easily. Depending on time of day, traffic, and, God forbid, construction, it could take forever to get downtown when you lived outside the Loop. Even hitting the bars in Rice Village near the university could be a real pain in the ass, unless fate was smiling on you and everyone else stayed off the road that night.

  The less-demanding crowd hung out at Jamba Juice or Chipotle, met at bowling alleys or the movies, gathered at the Galleria, or cruised Westheimer looking for playmates, while the kickers in their Tony Lamas and Stetsons line danced at Midnight Rodeo in Katy.

  Jo Lynn and her crew weren’t into any of that.

  If they were feeling adventurous, they made their way to the downtown clubs, like the M Bar on Main Street with its soft lights, Oriental rugs, and potted palms, or Next in the Warehouse District with its metallic deejay booth and Plexiglas dance cage. Dressed like divas with perfect hair and polished makeup, they always made it past the bouncers with ease. But mostly they stayed home and played at whoever’s house was empty that weekend. All her peeps had parents who traveled extensively, often for a month at a time, soaking up the sun at their villas on the Riviera or their beach houses in Costa Rica, or escaping the heat at their cabins in Telluride or Beaver Creek, always leaving their liquor cabinets well stocked and their fridges full of munchies. The house staff obligingly turned a blind eye if the mice wanted to play while the cats were away. And nobody said a word.

  Tonight was Jo’s turn to play hostess since her folks were conveniently away. She was having a very private little shindig in the guesthouse for her closest friends—and the hottest guys—so that they could mourn the passing of summer.

  The Bidwell manse had been left in the care of the family’s ancient housekeeper, Nan, who could barely keep her eyes open past ten. Just in case, Jo Lynn had given Nan a bottle of 1997 Beringer Bancroft Ranch merlot from her father’s wine cellar and had sent her off to her room at eight, knowing Nan would drink every drop and be out like a light by the time Jo’s buds started arriving.

  She had the guesthouse all ready: she’d lit at least a dozen candles, put out her iPod stereo with its cute iWoofer speakers, and set out bowls and bowls of fresh chips and salsa from Pappasito’s. She had all the ingredients to whip up the perfect icy margaritas, including several bottles of her daddy’s primo Patrón.

  Dillon adored a good margarita. And Jo Lynn aimed to get him good and drunk. It was part of her plan to put Dillon in the mood for love.

  Like the Girl Scout she’d never been, Jo Lynn Bidwell was always prepared. She had on her sexiest black lace push-up La Perla bra and matching thong to ensure she’d need the Trojans she’d tucked in the drawer of the nightstand beside the king-sized bed in the largest of the guesthouse bedrooms.

  She heard the iPod segue from the All-American Rejects to Boys Like Girls, and she felt a prickle of anticipation, the hairs tingling at the back of her neck.

  Was it nearly time to rock and roll?

  She glanced at her Rolex; its diamond-studded face showed she had five minutes before Trisha and Camie arrived. The guys were due to come ten or fifteen minutes after. That was how it always worked.

  Jo checked her makeup in the bathroom mirror, smudging the lines below her deep-blue eyes just a smidge more so they’d look smoky and sexy. Her MAC shadow, in a shade called Shroom, set off her tanned skin, as did the pale and sweet Stila lip glaze. Her perfectly highlighted hair had been dried straight and hung like shiny gold curtains on either side of her heart-shaped face.

  How could Dillon resist?

  Jo Lynn stared at her own reflection, smoothing the front of her clingy black sundress, noting how small it made the curve of her waist look between her perfectly balanced D cups and her slim hips.

  People oft
en told her she looked like Reese Witherspoon, only taller, prettier, and with a much nicer rack. Her appearance had gotten her more than attention in her seventeen years. It had won her more trophies, scholarship money, sashes, and sparkly tiaras than she knew what to do with. Bootsie, the stage mother to beat all stage mothers, had turned the least-used of the Bidwell mansion’s six bedrooms into a shrine to Jo’s pageant career.

  But that part of her life was dead and buried, as far as Jo Lynn was concerned.

  Being a debutante would be so different. Pageants were all about the sparkle and glitter, the song and dance, smiling till your cheeks ached and worrying every second whether your hair was out of place, whether you’d trip on your sequined gown going down the steps, and whether you’d used enough boob tape. Jo Lynn no longer wanted to play princess for a day, wearing a rhinestone crown and waving to the crowd. She yearned for something more than a title or scholarship money she didn’t need. The world she aimed to compete in was ruled by power and bloodlines, not big hair and tap-dance routines. She knew that the best way to gain entrée to the people who mattered most in Houston was being named a Glass Slipper Club deb. Every woman who’d ever been selected had gone on to greater things, and Jo Lynn intended to do the same.

  She had the next stage of her life planned out in three neat steps, and she kept the handwritten list tucked under her pillow. That way, she’d be sure to dream about everything on it when she fell asleep each night.

  Become a Glass Slipper Club debutante

  Go to whatever Texas college Dillon signs with

  Marry Dillon and have his babies

  Jo Lynn was nothing if not focused.

  And her focus tonight was solely on getting physical with Dillon. Two weeks without sex was way too long, and the pressure was starting to get to her.

  Why hadn’t he wanted to get busy lately? Was he as distracted as he claimed? Or was he just not attracted to her anymore, not the way that he had been before, anyway?