Chapter Excerpt

If you are white, are a girl or boy between the ages of nine and twelve, and, according to a certain committee of mothers, are good enough to associate with Charleston's other good girls and boys, then Wednesday night is a busy night for you. Wednesday night, from four until seven in the evening, is reserved for Cotillion Training School, or, as it is called casually among the students and their families, dancing school. The number of students is severely limited. Due to demand, children are usually signed up shortly after they are born.

The mainstay of the school is the Fox Trot, although other, more modern dances are also taught after the classics have been learned. The Lindy Hop. The Cha-Cha. The Shag is not taught, as, according to Miss Taylor, the school's headmistress, it is common. But naturally, dancing is not all the children learn at Cotillion Training School. At Miss Taylor's school, children are trained how to greet adults properly, how to receive refreshments gracefully, and how not to eat everything on their plate. In a society that is doing its best to leave formality behind, this program works to undo modern attitudes of brashness, to teach children manners, to arm students with the social tools they will need throughout their adult lives!

My name is Sarah Walters, and what I knew was that Cotillion meant sweat. It meant sticky thighs in saggy stockings. It meant soupy nights in the South Carolina Society Hall, where you were required to wear white gloves. My mother told me that I was wearing the gloves to show I was a lady, but after the first dance, I realized that the gloves also were about perspiration, as they instantly became soaked from the wet palms of boys as we step-ball-stepped to the tinny record player.

I went to Cotillion Training School for the same reason my friends went: my mother wanted me to. This was important to her, the same way it was important to have a picture of her greatgreat- grandfather dressed in Confederate gray over the sideboard and for us not to be seen in Dad's truck when we were in town. She is a member of the Camellia Society, founded in the 1820s by some Charleston ladies. You have to be born into it to be a member. The main purpose of the club was originally musical enjoyment, but after a few years the Camellias gave up that pretense and stood behind what it really was: an organization whose purpose was to gather, socialize with people of similar interests, and—most important—prepare their daughters for marriage to a decent man.

I never understood the Camellia Society, really. I went to the meetings and I ate the cake. I listened to the lectures given by the Mama Camellias on various topics: the importance of a consistently neat appearance, why one must not be seen out socially too often, the tastefulness of floral arrangements, how to sit properly in a chair. And, if the words themselves seemed silly, the weight they were given by the women in the room earned our respectful silence. We knew that as long as we listened, we were Camellias, and as long as we were Camellias, we were protected. The only question left unanswered was, from what?

Girls, at Cotillion Training School, you will learn the following:

The Waltz
The Fox Trot
The Lindy Hop
The Rumba
The Cha-Cha

Girls, you will not, under any circumstances, be taught the Shag. Don't ask about the Shag. The Shag is a common dance. You don't Shag now, you won't Shag later. Accept it. Live with it. Now go on, put on those white gloves and smile.

People say that Charleston's social structure is complex, but really, everything can pretty much be explained by the fourthgrade Cotillion line.

The future debutantes, the ones with balls already planned for certain years, stood in front. The Camellias were one of the oldest societies, so we were first. Behind us were the Magnolias (as old as us but not as famous), the Stonelochs (secretive, a little weird), and the Cotillion Society (only two generations old, so not really taken seriously yet). The next layer of the line was made up of girls whose parents had been in Charleston for a while—a generation or two—but who weren't going to be debutantes. Maybe their parents were liberal, or perhaps their father had married someone from out of state. Those girls usually stood in the middle and appeared comfortable and happy, but a little confused about why they were there.

Then there were the new money girls. I felt most sorry for them. These were daughters of parents who had recently moved to Charleston and who were trying to buy their way in. You could tell the new money girls from us by their clothes. Girls who belonged wore hand- me- downs from other debs, sisters, or family friends. New money girls had new dresses just for Cotillion. Sometimes, if their mothers were truly clueless, they had lace gloves. Girls with lace gloves received no mercy. Miss Taylor would glare at their hands disapprovingly; the other girls would stare and giggle. Plus, they were definitely, for the rest of the year and probably forever, going to be stuck at the back of the line.

I didn't mind Cotillion Training School too much. It was fun to go to the city on a weeknight to hang out with Bitsy, Charlotte, and Annie. Charlotte # wild and inappropriate, the daughter of divorced parents # was the only one I really liked, but we were all Camellias, so we formed a sort of alliance. Each Wednesday night, before letting me out of the car, my mother would look me over sharply, spit on her finger, and rub my cheeks. Then she'd leave, and the Camellias and I would link arms and climb the marble steps of the dance hall together. We'd stand in line across from the boys, giggling, whispering, and twitching nervously at what was ahead: the inevitable moment when we'd have to release one another, reach out across the room, and ask, cheeks on fire, to be touched.

Girls, let's talk about boys. I know this is a confusing time for all of you. You may have strange feelings. You may sense funny things happening to your body. We all know, for instance, that Annie is getting a little bigger around the chest already. We can speak privately about that, one- on- one. I have a pamphlet. You see, you are blooming, and it makes the boys act silly. They are like bees, buzzing around you, and it is your job not to taunt them, girls. Do not taunt the bees, girls. Do not taunt the bees.

At Cotillion Training School, you were not allowed to dance with your cousin. It was a rule, the same way it was a rule that you had to wear gloves, and that the boys moved clockwise in the dance circle, and that you had to look the chaperones in the eye when you told them good night. Miss Taylor explained that it was unnatural to dance with your cousin, or brother, or anyone in your family before you were sixteen.

"What is she afraid of?" Bitsy asked me. "I like dancing with my brother." Bitsy's older brother was a star dancer. At her house, they danced all the time. He'd whirl her around, doing advanced steps, even lifting her in the air sometimes and flipping her over his head. He had graduated from Cotillion already but still got paid ten dollars each Wednesday to assist Miss Taylor with class.

"She thinks that y'all will hump," Charlotte said. "In the Ladies' Lounge."

"That's perverted," Bitsy said, shuddering slightly. "You're perverted."

Personally, I liked this rule. I didn't have a brother, but I did have a cousin, and I wouldn't have danced with him anyway, not if you'd zapped me in a thunderstorm with an electric cattle prod.

Ted Wheeler was my mother's first cousin's son. When we were little, we played together. There is a picture of us on the beach, and another one of us naked with a flock of yellow plastic ducks in a tub. Ted was a very good dancer and won the silver dollar for Fox Trotter of the Year three times. Bitsy and Annie were a little in awe of him. It was only a dollar, but still, it was a big deal, honorwise.

"Do you think Ted would pick me as his partner at Cotillion graduation?" Bitsy asked one night while we hung out on the stairs, waiting for my mother. "I really want a silver dollar."

"Sure," I said. Bitsy was pretty. She was probably the prettiest girl in dancing school, with silky hair that never got messy, even at a slumber party, and huge blue eyes. Annie and Charlotte were pretty too, but Charlotte was dark, and Annie was fat—she already had breasts as big as my mother's, and her arms swelled sweetly against the elastic puffed sleeves of her dresses. As for me, I coasted by. I wasn't too fat or too thin. I had braces and freckles and straight brown hair that crackled with electricity in a way that I liked when I brushed it in winter. Still, next to Bitsy, I was nothing. So of course Ted Wheeler would dance with Bitsy. It was sort of silly that she was even asking the question. Not that I approved, though; Ted Wheeler was no one that Bitsy should want to dance with. I knew that she could take care of herself, but Ted was mean. His soul was as black as summer tar.

"You don't want to dance with Ted, Bitsy," I said. "He's evil."

Bitsy shrugged. "I guess. He seems OK."

She was wrong, though. After that tub picture was snapped, Ted Wheeler tried to drown me. Once, I had to get stitches because he hit me on the head with a Tonka Truck. Ted's father had left Cousin Cindy for a lady who wore tennis skirts, but it was my opinion that he probably also left because of Ted Wheeler. Ted was bad, even when he was a baby, and by the time we got to Cotillion Training School, he was worse. He brought in a BB gun and shot the girl with Down syndrome. He called the kid with the birthmark Freak Face. Me, he hated the most. He pinched me and punched me and told me I was ugly. One night, right in front of everyone, he shoved me down the grand stairway, and when I hit bottom, bruised and breathless, he ran down after me and pulled my hair while pretending to help me up.

"You're ugly," he hissed in my ear.

"I hate you," I said back. I told everyone that I hated Ted. Bitsy, Annie, my teachers, my parents.

"You cannot hate Ted Wheeler," my mother said patiently. "He is my cousin Cindy's son."

"But I do," I said. I didn't like the way these feelings made me act, but the fact was, Ted Wheeler was horrible and I hated him. I knew I was right. It was my own personal constant. Another rule to live by.

Step-ball-step
Step-ball-step
SHIFT WEIGHT
Step-ball-step
Step-ball-step
SHIFT WEIGHT

From what I could tell, the boys did not have the same silent rules about lining up as we did. They stood together in a huffing, snorting jumble, popping Chinese noisemakers and, on more hectic nights, setting off smoke bombs. After the first few Wednesdays, I didn't spend time trying to understand who on the boys' side sat where. In grade school, boys are not something to analyze. They are, as a collective, a thing to be survived.

A few weeks after Ted Wheeler threw me down the stairs, though, it finally became clear that I had to fight back. It wasn't about just me anymore. This time, he went for Annie.

It was raining that Wednesday. Rainy nights at Cotillion Training School are especially unpleasant, because your hair frizzes and the already hot hallway is blanketed in a swampy adolescent haze. Charlotte # whom Ted also hated but also slightly feared # was sick that night, leaving us open for an attack. It was hot, so Annie's face was particularly flushed. A little line of sweat trickled down her cheek. Ted made his way over through the crowd. I had developed a radar for Ted as a self- protection device practically since birth, so I saw him coming right away. Instinctively, I hunched my shoulders.

Ted smiled at me sweetly, so I relaxed a little. It seemed that he wasn't aiming for me. Maybe he was coming to talk to Bitsy? That would make sense, because all the boys did. She must have thought the same because she smiled, cocking her head expectantly, then frowned in confusion as Ted passed her and proceeded to sink his finger deep into Annie's plentiful stomach flesh.

"Moooo!" Ted yelled, causing the crowd around us to titter nervously. Even Bitsy giggled for a second. "The cow says moooooooooooooo."

I looked at Annie's face, which was red with horror.

"Shut up, Ted," I said, shoving him. He shoved me back harder, then walked away, still laughing. Annie's eyes were brimming with tears.

"I can't help it," she said. "I even did the Jane Fonda video today."

Bitsy and I were quiet. I was too angry to talk, and Bitsy was not great at talking during times like these. Still, through the first half of class, I plotted. I waited until the lesson was half over, then I pulled Bitsy aside in the brownie-and-cola line.

"You know what?" I whispered to her. "Ted Wheeler has three nipples."

Bitsy's eyes widened. She loved secrets and could be relied upon to keep them for about two minutes. "Really?" she asked.

"Yes," I said. "And one time, I saw Ted Wheeler hump his own cat."

"That's so perverted!" she said. "What kind of cat?"

"White," I said, my mind racing wildly. "Its name was Mittens."

"I don't believe you," Bitsy said, looking over at Ted.

"I'm his cousin," I said. "I know."

In the time it took to consume three brownies and a Sprite, Bitsy had asked Ted about his third nipple. He stared at me from across the waxed dance floor, eyes narrowed. Recalling the pain of my head smacking against the stairs, I felt the fearful urge to vomit. But he said nothing to me, and when class ended, I smiled at Annie and made my way to the coat line.

Annie and made my way to the coat line. There, in the unsupervised vacuum that was the dark, dusty place behind the stairs, Ted Wheeler and three other boys grabbed me. They pulled me into an even darker corner and held me down as I fought. Bitsy and Annie were already outside, but other girls were watching—I remember shiny blue and yellow dresses scattering like crows in buckshot. Bitsy's brother put his hand over my mouth. Ted Wheeler shoved his hand up my dress. He yanked at my tights and pulled my dress up. They had covered my eyes, but I could hear laughing, could feel groping and poking by something cold.

"She's so ugly," Ted Wheeler said. "She smells like a dog."

I fought. I kicked. I scratched. I bit, smelled chicken, tasted flesh. Someone yelped in pain, and they let me up, and I heard a clatter, saw a Sprite bottle roll across the floor.

I stood up and smoothed my dress down. Bitsy's brother's hand was bleeding. I didn't cry, but still, something was flooding in me.

"You're going to die, Ted Wheeler," I said.

A flash of fear crossed Ted Wheeler's face, quick as a mullet. The other boys backed away. Bitsy's brother ran.

"That's right," I said. "Ted Wheeler, you're going to die and burn in hell."

He stared at me for a moment before doubling over cruelly into a laugh. Then, Ted Wheeler drew his head back and spat on me.

Cotillion Training School ends in seventh grade. Our debutante ball isn't until after high school, so for the in- between years, you sort of forget you're a Camellia. There's no more Fox Trotting, and other than a committee meeting at Christmas, the Mama Camellias leave you alone.

The Camellias parted ways after dancing school. Charlotte and I stayed best friends, but Bitsy, Annie, and I drifted apart once the Cotillion glue loosened. The same social hierarchy no longer seemed to apply; instead of family status, popularity was based on traditional factors, like looks and sports skills. We were still Camellia sisters, but Bitsy didn't always like to be seen with people like Annie and Charlotte and me. She now existed in the unattainable girl- with- older- surfer- boyfriends group, while Charlotte hung with the stoners and Annie got fatter and sank into the giggly choir- girl circle. I spent most of my time in the school newspaper office. While I couldn't control anything that went on with boys or who liked me at school, I could at least report on them in the "anonymous" weekly social column, and when feeling especially powerful, I could put my name next to protests of burning injustices, such as the lack of vegetarian options in the cafeteria. This was not seen as particularly cool by anyone except Charlotte and the few pale boys I was friends with. Still, I had a place to go at lunch, which, in high school, is pretty much all you need.

Ted Wheeler went away to boarding school, so I barely ever had to see him. My mother didn't do much with Cousin Cindy anyway. Cindy had turned into a sort of sad cousin, living in her big alimony house on Broad Street. She had been lovely when she was married to Ted's dad, but now, my mother observed, she was getting dumpy. It is the duty of the Camellia to observe. She does not insult directly, but instead sandwiches her blows between compliments drizzled in honey.

"Cindy has the prettiest hair," my mother would say. "A little too fond of the bacon bits, but goodness, that hair is shiny."

"Cindy has the nicest disposition. Bottom the size of a lumber barge, but the nicest manners you can find."

In what I considered a divine example of universal justice, Ted Wheeler had grown up ugly. He was too skinny and had a big nose and an inexplicably thick neck. My mother called him "awkward." One night, at a summer party in a red clay field, I even felt sort of sorry for Ted Wheeler. He came alone and sat on his car by himself. I was smoking a cigarette with Bitsy in an attempt to fit in somewhere for a few minutes, but when she turned to her surfer boyfriend and started kissing him, I decided to go over, why not, say hello.

"Hi, Ted," I said.

He looked at me with the brown, flat discs that were his eyes.

"Hey, it's soda cunt," Ted Wheeler said. "Had any Sprite lately?"

I turned and went back to Bitsy. She looked at my face and untangled herself momentarily from her boyfriend.

"What is it?" she said.

"Ted Wheeler," I said. The old fear was back. "He called me a cunt."

Bitsy's mouth dropped open to form a perfect, pretty O. She turned to her boyfriend. "Oh, my God. Sarah's cousin is a total dick."

"Really?" the boyfriend said.

I bit back the tears. I felt safer next to Bitsy and her boyfriend. Even though they almost always ignored me in public, the surfer was looking at me with interest. I sensed a fleeting moment of chance. Bitsy watched me patiently, waiting for me to talk.

"He has three nipples," I said.

"No way." The surfer looked at Ted and cackled. Bitsy laughed too.

I saw Ted Wheeler turn red. He seemed scared, and God help me, I wasn't even a little bit sorry.

"It's true," I said. "He masturbates four times a day." There was a group forming now of older people who never talked to me. Ted got up and opened the door of his car. I felt a rush as I talked, even as I watched him drive away.

"He screws his own socks! And once—and this is true, y'all, I saw it—Ted Wheeler, he pulled down his pants and screwed his own stupid cat."

Girls, let's talk about the months before the ball. This is, as you know, a crucial time, girls. Crucial. Refrain from any drastic beauty decisions within a year before the event—meaning hair color, length. I don't even want to talk about last year's nose- ring incident. Also, girls—Annie, listen up here!—please watch your figure during those first few months of college. I know about the sweets in the sorority houses, but stick to the celery sticks, girls. You'll be so glad when you step into that white dress and it fits you, just like a glove!

Ted Wheeler did not come to my ball. He was invited because he was my cousin, but then his head got smashed in.

Your actual ball takes place during the first year of college. At the time of my coming out, I was, frankly, not very concerned about the Camellias. They were far away at state schools with sorority houses that looked like castles, while I ended up at a small liberal arts college in upstate New York, where I learned to smoke pot and studied writing under a man who wore a top hat to class. I gave my mother a list of friends I wanted to invite and left the rest of the arrangements to her and all the other Mama Camellias. Still, the month before the event, I got calls almost every day about guest lists and flowers and relative quantities of shrimp. There were daily emergencies on the answering machine: Bitsy's mother was trying to cut off the liquor at eleven, and the Elliotts were inviting the Rubensteins—can you imagine?

On a Thursday night a week before the ball, my roommate handed me the phone and then sat next to me on my bunk. We were drinking wine coolers and studying for our history final.

"Darling."

"Mom."

My mother didn't answer, and I heard her blow her nose on the other end of the line. I looked at my roommate nervously. She got up off the bed and handed me a bong.

"What?" I asked.

"Ted Wheeler can't come to your debutante ball."

"What?"

"Ted Wheeler."

I took a hit and blinked, confused.

"I hate Ted Wheeler."

"Yes, well."

"All right. So he can't come. There'll be lots of nice boys there, Mom. Don't worry about it."

My roommate rolled her eyes and took the bong back.

"Oh, dear. No, I mean he can't come because he's been in a car accident, honey. Something about a midnight trip to Sweet Briar."

I couldn't process this information. It seemed too much like a soap opera. I felt the urge to laugh.

"What?" I said, and she repeated herself, told me again about the accident. Ted Wheeler had been unconscious for three days. Another boy had died.

"Will Ted die?" I asked. My words hung in the air, and I turned away, as if they were visible.

"I don't know." She blew her nose. "Oh, dear. I hope this doesn't ruin the party. Oh, God, I can't believe I just said that."

"Where is he?"

"Why?"

"I don't know," I said, because I didn't.

"He's in Hampton Memorial Hospital. Send a card, will you? That would really be very polite."

I said that I would. I said that it would be OK, that the flowers she had picked for the stage would be pretty, that everyone would love the artichoke dip. Then I hung up, borrowed my roommate's car, and drove down to Hampton, Virginia. I don't remember how long it took; when I got there, night was almost gone.

When Camellias visit someone in the hospital, they usually bring something savory. Everyone brings sugar, the Mama Camellias say. What people in tragedy need is salt.

I didn't bring anything with me to Hampton. I thought about picking up some french fries, but they would have been cold by the time I arrived. It was late when I finally got to Ted's hospital. I sat in the parking lot for about an hour, smoking the cigarettes I found in the glove compartment. At dawn I got out of the car. I brushed my hair, popped a piece of gum, and walked tentatively into the lobby. Ted Wheeler's room, according to the pinch- faced woman at the information desk, was 412. There was a window of plate glass in the door, and through it I could see Ted Wheeler lying on a twin bed, connected to an octopus of tubes. His room was filled with flowers, and cards, and a huge painted banner that read, Ted—Virginia Tech Loves You—You Rock! It was signed by hundreds of people. No one was in the room with Ted.

I went in. Ted Wheeler was naked under the sheet. I could see the outline of his legs. The left side of his face was red, purple, gooey, like the inside of a pulpy plum.

I went closer. I blew on his nose.

"Hey," I said.

Ted Wheeler did not wake up.

"Ted," I said.

Not a wince.

I stood there for a while—a minute? an hour?—until I heard Cousin Cindy's voice. I quickly darted out of the room and took the side stairs back down to the parking lot, then drove back to school and took my history exam.

Camellias, Camellias
Pink, rose, and white
The most beautiful flower
To bloom in the Southern night!
Strong of root
And beautiful of bloom
Once you are out
You are sure to find a groom!

The Camellia debutante ball takes place the night before Christmas Eve during the freshman holiday season. Everyone was home, so the phone was constantly ringing, and my house was buzzing with fragile, intoxicating excitement. It was fun seeing the girls again. I'd gone the farthest away for school, so I was the most exotic for at least ten minutes. Then Bitsy announced that she had had an abortion, and the attention turned back to her, where it probably belonged.

Camellias dress together for the party. It's a tradition. Bitsy's house was closest to the dance hall, so we all went there and set up in what once was a small ballroom, our mothers toting toolboxes of makeup and hot rollers, our fathers following, sheepishly holding our mothers' old wedding gowns. The Camellia mothers had hired a hair lady, and a nail lady, and two other black ladies to clean up our mess. We spent six hours getting our hair poufed and eating tea sandwiches, except for Annie, who wasn't eating anything but Slim- Fast. At five, the Camellia mothers let us have champagne, and the parents cleared out to go home, have a real drink, and get themselves spiffed up.

Bitsy's brother came in during the downtime and told us we looked hot. "All these future brides," he said. "Which one should I marry?" He gave us all hits out of a Coke can, which was too bad for Bitsy, who couldn't handle her pot. She spent the rest of beauty time staring at her teeth in the mirror. It didn't matter # she was still the prettiest anyway. The rest of the Camellias sat in a circle, staring at one another, talking about, what else, Ted Wheeler.

"I heard he was a total vegetable," Charlotte said.

"Will he be OK?" Annie asked.

"I know Ted Wheeler," Bitsy's brother said. "He's an awesome guy."

"But you don't like him, right?" Bitsy asked me.

"He's in a coma," Annie said, as if that was my answer. I shrugged. Bitsy's brother gave me another hit. Annie went into the bathroom to vomit. It was time to go.

Our Camellia ball was the best in years, people said. The shrimp sculpture was especially fabulous. My mother was glowing. There was even a good story to tell over breakfast, because Bitsy's brother ripped the top off Charlotte's dress on the dance floor. She had made her dress herself, and when it tore, momentarily showing half a nipple, she slapped him and left. Still, everyone I talked to agreed it hadn't been Bitsy's brother's fault. Boys will be boys, my father said, and who wore a revealing dress like that to a dance, anyway? It wasn't ladylike, a dress like that.

Cousin Cindy was not at the ball. Word had it she was spending Christmas in Virginia at the hospital. Mom was still worried that the Ted Wheeler incident would ruin the evening, but people in Charleston are very serious about parties. Besides, really, Ted wasn't missed by many. Aside from a few pitying murmurs and nods by the bar, no one talked about Ted Wheeler at all.

Girls, after the ball, you may feel a little depressed, due to a phenomenon called the "postseason blues." This is completely understandable. After all, the debutante tradition was started in order to present girls of a certain social class to men of a certain social class for marriage, but these days, no eighteen- year- olds actually get married, do they? But don't fret, girls. Go forth knowing that you will always shine just a little bit brighter than other girls, that you will always be just a tad more graceful. Once a Camellia, always a Camellia, girls. Now, tomorrow, forever.

It got sad, having a cousin in a coma.

I would be lying if I said my freshman year centered around Ted Wheeler, but I did think about him sometimes. I should take good notes in this class, I'd think, because Ted's missing freshman English. I should get a tape of this concert and give it to Ted when he wakes up.

I still hated him, of course. It wasn't like anything he'd ever done was suddenly OK. Still, he might be nicer when he woke up. He might have amnesia. Maybe then we could be friends.

Sometimes, when I drank too much, I'd talk about it to a certain willing boy named Brett.

"I saw him," I told Brett. "I went down there in the middle of the night just to make myself believe it."

"Crazy," Brett said, fingering a belt loop on my jeans.

"I hate him, though," I said. "Once, when we were little, he even tried to kill me."

"That's terrible," Brett said. "Dude. That's really screwed up."

"But then I told him I wanted him dead. I guess I did want him dead. But now . . . what do you think? Do you think that's bad? Do you think I'm going to hell?"

"Well," Brett said thoughtfully, "only if he dies."

It took Ted Wheeler eight months and three days to die.

Actually, it took Cousin Cindy that long to give up on him. Which, everyone said, was understandable, under the circumstances.

In Charleston, funerals are well attended, especially if the person is young and from a good family. St. Michael's Church on Meeting and Broad can seat three hundred, and it was packed. Camellias do not wear black to funerals, so my mother had me wear a blue sundress with a sweater to cover my shoulders. Bitsy came in dusky pink.

My mother put herself in charge of the reception, directing the other mothers where to put the hams, the turkeys, the great dishes of crab dip. She is very good at funerals. She knows exactly what to make ( spinach-and-feta casserole), what supplies to pick up (paper plates and napkins—funerals are not a time for china), and what liquor to serve (wine and bourbon: lots). All of the Mama Camellias were there, though no one actually talked about Ted's dying. A Camellia does not cry at a funeral if she can help it. Her role is to support, not add to the sorrow.

The word at the house was that Cindy was taking things well. She looked great, my mother said, considering. Pretty as a picture. A bit high on meds, but calm as a spring day. Still, she looked sort of bad to me. She sat alone, drinking wine and staring vacantly at the wall.

"Go say hello to Cousin Cindy," my mother directed me. I went and sat on the couch.

"Hi, Cindy."

She looked at me blankly. For a moment I thought maybe she didn't know who I was.

"I'm your cousin," I said.

"I know." She smiled. "Of course I know that." She sipped her wine while I sat beside her, silent.

"I should tell you," I said finally, "that I . . . um. I should tell you that I went and saw Ted. In the hospital, I mean. I didn't see you there. But I drove down to see him. We didn't like each other. Did you know that? Actually, we really kind of hated each other. So it was a little weird. But I drove down anyway. I don't know why."

Cindy was staring at a group of mothers huddled in the kitchen. My own mother said something, and they bubbled with laughter. Cindy didn't take her gaze away. I wondered if she'd heard me.

"Ted loved you very much," Cindy said after a few long seconds. "He was a very good boy."

"Yes, ma'am," I said. "Sure. He really was."

Lately, Miss Taylor has become very concerned over the future of Cotillion Training School.

"People just don't do the classic steps anymore," she tells me when she corners me at this year's Camellia ball. "Manners and tradition don't mean anything to these people. Some of the mothers are even asking me to reconsider the Shag."

This is my last debutante ball. Traditionally, you go see the next round of debs the year after you come out in order to offer your support, and then you sort of move on into the blank space between being a deb and being a Mama Camellia. I am here without an escort, which Miss Taylor disapproves of. She also disapproves of the short dress I've borrowed from my roommate. So far I've spent most of the night in the buffet line with Annie, watching Bitsy do the Lindy. Although I am trying to behave well, I have not been able to look anyone in the eye tonight while greeting them. I have also eaten all the shrimp on my plate.

Before the ball ends, Bitsy's brother asks me to dance. I catch my mother's eye, and she smiles, delighted. He's drunk—so drunk that he calls me the wrong name. I say yes anyway. As we go to the floor, it is announced that this will be the last dance of the night. I request, and am granted, a Fox Trot.

Copyright © 2008 by Katie Crouch