The Beau & The Belle, Page 3

  “Well that’s nice of you, but I’m sure the man knows how to hydrate.” He held up his folded newspaper. “Now meet me inside, I need your help with this crossword. Who’s the one on Friends that likes dinosaurs? Starts with R.”

  With that, he offered me a wave and stepped back into the house.

  She was still staring at the ground, nibbling on her bottom lip. “Sorry, he can be a little overprotective sometimes. He still thinks I’m just a kid.”

  I coughed to stifle a laugh. “Well, to be fair, you kinda are.”

  She glanced back up at me with a tentative frown. “You don’t have to finish the lemonade if you don’t want it.”

  “I want it. It’s really good.”

  And I wasn’t lying. It was good, so refreshing and sweet. She nodded and rubbed her lips together to keep from smiling, and maybe after that, she did go inside and help her dad with the crossword, but now she’s back up in her room, cowering in her hiding spot beneath the windowsill. I should be annoyed by the attention, but it’s endearing.

  Lauren isn’t like the other McGehee girls I’ve seen walking around the Garden District. Most of them wear their school polos in shrunken sizes fit for a toddler, paired with skirts whose hems rise and fall depending on the level of administrator supervision. The other day, when she came barreling into the house after school, Lauren’s skirt billowed below her knees and her baggy shirt seemed two sizes too big. On first impression, I guessed she was making some kind of rebellious choice, but later it became clear that it likely hadn’t ever occurred to her to dress any other way. It’s refreshing that she isn’t trying to grow up faster than she should. It’s charming, especially when my days are filled with cutthroat law students who’ve probably been reading the Harvard Law Review since they could crawl. Because of this sweet naiveté, I know I need to stay guarded around her. The less time we’re around each other—even if it’s strictly platonic—the better.

  MY MOM’S LAND is closer to Baton Rouge than New Orleans, which is why I chose to accept a full ride to LSU for my undergrad degree. It made traveling back home on the weekends easier. For me, those years were rough, back when my dad was sick and my mom was overwhelmed.

  It’s been years, but when I turn off the road onto the long, winding dirt drive, my dad’s semi is still the first thing I see. The cab, once bright red and lustrous, has surrendered even more territory to the corrosive effects of the moist gulf air. Even when he was alive, it was old and prone to breaking down. We could have sold it to cover part of the funeral expenses, but it felt like the last tangible connection we had to him and we couldn’t bring ourselves to let it go.

  Back in college, when I was visiting, I’d sometimes take the keys from where they hung on a rack beside the door and unlock the cab, crawl up onto his seat, and breathe in the lingering scent. Hanging from the rearview mirror, in front of his rosary was a small sun-bleached photo of him and me from when I was in little league. I used to study that photo for long stretches of time and let the sadness eat me alive. Afterward, I’d hop down and slam the door of the truck, symbolically stowing my feelings inside. I was a college student, trying to maintain a GPA high enough to keep my scholarship and get into a good law school. I didn’t have the luxury of grief, nor the leisure of taking a year off and helping my mom adjust to her new life. No, I pushed on, compartmentalizing and keeping my focus on the future. Now, on days like today, I unpack small portions of that stored emotion over pancakes and sort through it all like old case files.

  “Beau!”

  My mom’s on me as soon as I walk in the door, tipping up onto her toes to wrap her arms around my middle.

  “I swear you’ve gotten even bigger.”

  I laugh. “You said that last week too.”

  “Well, I mean it. When are you going to stop growing?”

  I brush my hand through my short hair. “Never if you keep feeding me the way you do. This is enough food for 10 people.”

  Next to the oven, there are platters with bacon and eggs piled high and still steaming.

  She swats away my concerns. “Eat what you want. I’ll take the rest with me to church later. It won’t go to waste.”

  I do as I’m told, loading up my plate. I’m starving after my morning of moving in, and we take our food outside to eat on the front porch. I get why my grandfather moved away from New Orleans after he lost the house. Out here, for the same price you’d pay to rent a small apartment in town, you can have a couple acres all to yourself. My mom’s property is massive, surrounded by forest on all sides. She keeps chickens in a coop behind the house, several stray cats wander around as they please, and her two fluffy collies chase them playfully.

  Her home doesn’t even look like a trailer. I built her a front porch a few years back and she’s covered it with colorful Adirondack chairs and potted greenery. Planter boxes hang below the windows out front, overflowing with yellow mums.

  “I saw the house this week.” I don’t have to be more specific; she knows what house I’m referring to. “Actually, I guess I’ll be seeing a lot of it from here on out.”

  She keeps her attention on her plate as she scoops eggs onto her fork. “Why’s that?”

  “I’m renting an apartment across the street for my last two semesters.”

  Her fork pauses and she glances up, eyes concentrating on something off in the distance. “Across the street…you mean on the LeBlancs’ property?”

  I nod and bite off a chunk of my bacon, aware that she’s now completely stopped eating.

  I considered not telling her anything. I knew it would pique her interest, and now I’m worried she’ll read too much into it.

  “Is the apartment over the garage or something?”

  “Out back.”

  “You mean…the former servants’ quarters?” Her tone is unsure.

  “Sure, but it’s nice. Remodeled.”

  I can see the wheels turning in her mind. It pains her to know I’m so close to her dreams for me, and yet so far.

  “Well, if you’re happy, I’m happy. Talk about a great location.”

  I nod. “The family’s nice too. It’s a good setup.”

  “Mitchell and Kathleen, right?”

  I’m not at all surprised that she knows the LeBlancs by their first name. After all, they’re old New Orleans.

  I nod.

  “And what’s their daughter’s name?”

  “Lauren,” I supply, careful not to look at her.

  “That’s right. Lauren.” She sounds like she’s fond of her. “I saw her last year on TV during the Mardi Gras ball, y’know the big one with all the debutantes and the king and queen?”

  I know which one she’s referring to. Every year on Fat Tuesday, there’s a massive ball to celebrate the end of the Carnival season and the beginning of Lent. It’s a tradition as old as the city, but something very few people in Louisiana will ever have the privilege to attend. For the less privileged, the event is broadcast on PBS. My mom has forced me to sit down and watch a few minutes of it over the years, and it’s the most boring shit you can find on television, not to mention how hard it was for a young boy to keep up with the hierarchy of it all. The debutantes, the court, the king and queen, none of it is real—at least that’s what I used to tell myself. As a kid I’d roll my eyes, keenly aware that there wasn’t an actual king or queen that reigned over New Orleans, but now I know better. That room, those people—they do rule the city. The pageantry and the spectacle might just be for show, but power is real.

  “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 ha
te 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.

  Not today.

  Mrs. Geller claps again and I take it as my cue to step forward and claim Preston as my partner. My entire body is alive with nerves and adrenaline as I take my first step. I’m doing it! I’m doing it! Oh god, I can’t believe I’m actually doing it. The world blurs around me as I cross over toward the boy’s line. My vision tunnels in an adrenaline-filled haze. They will sing songs about my bravery. It’s three steps until I’m in front of him and he’s smiling down at me—no, wait…he’s laughing.

  Mrs. Geller clears her throat, and I turn, realizing that all the boys and all the girls are still lined up. No one else has stepped forward to claim a dance partner. I’m the only one who moved.

  “Lauren, while I appreciate your enthusiasm,” she says, admonishing me in front of everyone, “I haven’t asked you all to pick partners yet. Please pay attention.”

  Giggles and laughs spread through the group and my cheeks—which were red to begin with—are now burning. No! GOD NO! This can’t be happening. I swallow down the urge to sob and everyone watches as I quickly lurch back toward Rose. I try out a playful laugh, but my throat has closed up and it comes out like a goose’s honk. My heart has never beat faster. My body has never been so flushed. I have the faint realization that this is one of those moments I will be forced to relive in terror for at least a decade.

  I don’t even pay attention as Mrs. Geller finishes her instruction on the waltz. My focus is on my face, on trying to keep it calm and relaxed even though tears burn at the corners of my eyes, desperate to be acknowledged. I probably end up looking like a wax figure. Rose squeezes my hand but I yank it away. I don’t want her sympathy in this moment. I want everyone to stop staring at me.

  “Okay class, now it’s time to pair up,” Mrs. Geller says with a chuckle, like she’s being funny. Her voice echoes into the recesses of my long-term memory. When I’m 40, I’ll be able to reenact this scene for my therapist with chilling accuracy.