She watched; it worked; Camilla bit. “Ooh, that would be good. I could totally see the deb set using it,” she said.
Evelyn turned her head, trying to keep the smile from spreading over her face. She had been studying debutantes lately for her PLU work, reading about them at the New York Public Library. In microfilm and microfiche, she had learned—with some difficulty, as part of the code of being a deb was you didn’t speak or write about being a deb—about New York debbing.
She had first gotten wind of the New York debutante scene at Sheffield, where Preston had been an escort at some of the balls. “The season,” to the degree that it was still a season, was an approximation of the London Court parties that inspired the American debutante tradition.
The Bal Fran?ais was the first of the balls, held in June, just as the seniors were graduated from high school. With the prestigious balls occurring over the holidays, the Bal served as a training ground. The Junior League, at Thanksgiving, was a bit new-money, though considered a fun party. At Christmastime, the Infirmary was the big social event, with girls from old Greenwich and Boston and D.C. families in addition to New Yorkers; since the debs could invite friends, it was a popular party for the young set. The Junior Assembly was the real deal, a small, old-school ball limited to debs, family, and escorts, where it still raised eyebrows if a girl was Catholic. The International, held close to New Year’s, completed the season, but it was for new-money arrivistes, the daughters of Russian oligarchs and Southern chicken-parts kings.
Evelyn had read, too, about the sociology of debutante balls, about why this seemingly archaic tradition still occurred in cities all over the country—from Dallas to Seattle to Boston—and why they kept going even as eighteen-year-old girls were clearly no longer being introduced to society for the first time at them. “Rite of passage marked with social status symbolism,” she had scribbled in her notebook. “Effort at social stratification.” “Way to pass on class markers/place in society to children b/c Americans have no Brit-like titles—same fxn as Social Register.” “Cultural capital.” “Invitation-only means elite get to decide invitees. Distinguish elite from not-so-elite.”
“Right,” Evelyn said. If Camilla was talking about debutantes with her, she must assume that Evelyn had debbed, too; that was the code. “Absolutely. I’d think it would be a big draw for the site. Even just the content around the balls—where should I look for my dress, where should we postparty, et cetera.”
“I could see it,” Camilla said.
“I had such issues with my dress, because I was fitted for it in the summer and then went off to school and gained eight pounds, and the dressmaker was so angry with me.” The words tumbled out, and Evelyn didn’t even want to stop them. She wanted to see where this would lead.
“Where did you deb?” Camilla asked, pointing at the sandals.
“The Bachelors’ Cotillion,” Evelyn said casually. She hadn’t spent all that time with microfiche for nothing.
“The Bachelors’ Cotillion,” Camilla repeated.
“In Baltimore.” Evelyn quickly added to her pitch. “It’s so funny and old school. When my grandmother did it, they all had to wear long-sleeve dresses, and there was complete chaos when one of the girls wore a strapless dress. We used to see that woman at the tennis club, and by this time she was seventy, wearing caftans, and my grandmother still considered her so risqué.” She was fascinated by how the words sprinted out faster than her brain seemed to form them.
Camilla just smiled. “Hilarious.” Then she leapt up, handing the man her AmEx Platinum. “Can you just wrap these up for me? Thanks so much. Evelyn: we have to talk.”
Evelyn started to backtrack on the debutante story, but before she could, Camilla continued, “You know my mother’s forcing me to be the junior-committee host for the Luminaries, right?”
“Sure,” Evelyn said. It was the key fund-raiser for the New-York Signet Society, a charity that supported artistic and literary events around the city.
“I was thinking, your father would be a great Luminary.”
“My father? He’s not a New Yorker.”
Camilla winked. “Sometimes we can make exceptions. Particularly if the Luminaries are supportive of the group.”
“Milla, he’s not a literary guy.”
“I was thinking he should come in at the Luminary Patrons level. There’s a fabulous dinner that he’d love. He sounds so fun, Evelyn. We never get people from the South and he would spice it up.”
“I’m sure he’d love to, but honestly, I don’t think it’s his kind of thing.”
“Evelyn, you support my things, I support your things,” Camilla said in a low voice, narrowing her eyes. Evelyn half expected a “Capisce?” from her.
“I’ll definitely ask, but—”