“I hardly have time not to be at school,” Jennifer said. “I’m taking four APs and doing fencing.”
“She just won a painting prize, the Courbet Award. Her teacher said she’d never heard of anyone actually winning the prize in all the years she’d been submitting Spence girls,” her mother said.
“Okay. Relax the lips. You must be off to college, right?” the photographer asked.
Her mother fielded this one, too. “Whitman. In Washington. It’s essentially the Williams of Washington.”
“Have you always known you’d be a deb?” the photographer asked, moving her tripod over a few inches.
“I—”
“When she was asked, which was just after she sent in her Whitman acceptance, in December, Jennifer said to me, ‘Do women still do debuts? It’s so old-fashioned.’ I said to her, ‘It tells people who you are. If you do it, for the rest of your life, you can always say, ‘I was a debutante.’ It was her decision, entirely,” her mother said.
“You were one, too?” the photographer asked.
“I could have been.” The mother took notice of Evelyn at this point, and Evelyn evaluated her quickly. Just behind her was another painting Evelyn remembered from before, an abstract in angry daubs of black and blue, tinged with malice. No, this mother could not have been. This mother was a product of a suburb in New Jersey, who had probably not known that debutantes still existed until she made it into the city and pushed her stage-managed daughter to add one more credit to her social résumé. Jennifer’s very presence here cheapened the whole ball, made it something that the Infirmary and Assembly attendees could frown upon.
“Some people feel, maybe, put off by it, but that’s just because they’re not part of it,” Jennifer said. “It kind of represents being accepted into society. My dress—it’s so funny, everyone thinks it’s a wedding dress, and I’m, like, I’m seventeen—is just classic. Sweetheart neckline with a full skirt. Mom, can you touch up my lipstick, please?”
“It’s in my purse in the other room. I’ll be right back,” said the mother, hurrying past Evelyn.
“I’ll take a break, too,” the photographer said, and headed out another door.
Jennifer pinched her cheeks.
“Mom, can you touch up my lipstick, please?” Evelyn heard in a mocking voice—Phoebe—so expertly calibrated that even Evelyn could hardly hear it, though Phoebe was just inches away from her. Phoebe picked up a fake pearl necklace from a pile of accessories that sat next to the photographer and threw it at Wythe, who caught it with one hand. “Wythe! Style me,” Phoebe commanded, and Wythe looped the necklace three times around Phoebe’s neck.
The other debs crowded in behind them, wanting to figure out the rules of engagement.
“Well? Jennifer? How’s your photograph going?” Phoebe said.
“Good,” said Jennifer, lifting her nose.
“I don’t know. I think you need something. A beehive. With some glasses, maybe,” Wythe said.
“A beehive,” Phoebe mused. “Very fifties housewife. I think it would look great, Jenny–Jen–Jenno.”
“My mom did my hair,” Jennifer said.
“Oh, your mom did your hair? I didn’t know. Wythe, her mom did her hair.”
“Well, then,” Wythe said. “Even more reason to change it.”
Jennifer, still in the chair, smiled hesitantly and tugged at one of her ringlets. She glanced at Evelyn, and Evelyn could hear the breathing of the other debs around her, watching to see how far this would go. Evelyn was supposed to be the adult here. She should step in.
“Evelyn! Will you tell Jennifer she needs a hair makeover?” Phoebe said.
As Evelyn looked at the girl with her overdone curls, her overdone Jersey mother waiting somewhere, she felt a tremolo of power rise and vibrate, and then her hand shot out and grabbed a comb from the accessories table. “I think a beehive would look great,” Evelyn said, surprised by how tart and good the words felt on her tongue.
Wythe shouted “Hooray!” as Phoebe chanted “Go, Jennifer! Beehive! Beehive!”
Evelyn took a step closer to Jennifer, wielding the comb like a knife. She wanted to not just comb out the curls but to yank the comb through the girl’s hair, to see how it felt to be the high-school queen that everyone feared.
“Beehive! Beehive!” Wythe chanted as Phoebe tossed faux pearls into the air in ecstasy.
Evelyn was just reaching out to ensnare Jennifer’s limp, sad curls when the Lausanne woman, passing by the room, caught part of the exchange. “What’s happening, girls? Jennifer, you should not fuss with your hair. And put all those necklaces back. Really, can’t you girls follow simple instructions? Did I not tell you to listen to Evelyn?” She gave Evelyn a sympathetic smile.