Free Searching for Grace Kelly by Michael Callahan

serve as their escorts, about the extravagant gifts they’d extracted from their mothers for enduring this charade.
    There had been one girl who had stood apart from the others. Laura had seen her at a few of the rehearsals but had never spoken to her. Tall and clumsy and swathed in filmy white, she seemed to stand out even more. Her long neck hooked back into her head like a question mark, and her thin, bony arms seemed too frail for her opera gloves. Struck by the girl’s obvious discomfort, Laura had walked over to her.
    â€œHi. I’m Laura.”
    It seemed to take the girl a few seconds to realize someone was speaking to her. “Oh, hi.”
    â€œIt’s all a bit much, isn’t it?”
    â€œYes.” The girl had looked at Laura intently. “You’re very pretty.”
    â€œThanks. So are you.”
    â€œNo, I’m not,” the girl replied matter-of-factly. “But it’s nice of you to say.” She hitched up her skirt. “I feel like Mother Goose in this thing.” She walked away.
    A few minutes later the nine girls descended the staircase in order, each announced to a ballroom packed with their families and their families’ business acquaintances, distant relatives, and glommers-on. Halfway through the evening, Laura had sought out the odd girl but couldn’t find her anywhere. Stepping out onto the veranda of the club, she’d caught the tail end of a discussion between the girl and her mother, a formidable-looking matron in the Marmy mold clutching a small beaded handbag in her gloved left hand and pointing accusatorily at the girl with her right. The mother was alternately pointing at the girl and then shaking her head. Laura slowly walked toward them.
    â€œI just don’t feel comfortable making all of this small talk,” the girl pleaded. “I’m trying—”
    â€œYou’re
not
trying, Mariclaire, and I for one—”
    â€œLaura!” Mariclaire had caught her eye. “Getting some fresh air?”
    Mariclaire’s mother turned around, her face softening in an instant as they were introduced. “Of course, the Dixons’ girl,” she’d said. “How lovely you look, my dear.”
    â€œNot as lovely as Mariclaire,” Laura said. “We’ve all been so envious of her dress. It’s definitely the prettiest one here.”
    A few minutes later, Mariclaire’s mother went back inside. “You didn’t have to say that. About the dress,” Mariclaire said.
    â€œIt’s true.”
    â€œIt’s bullshit.”
    Laura had never heard a girl swear. Not even the “bad girls” at her country day school would have said such a thing. “I’m . . . I’m sorry. I was only trying to help.”
    Mariclaire grabbed her arm. “No, no . . . I’m sorry. That was rude. You seem like a nice girl. None of these others has ever said a word to me, and I took dance lessons at the same place as two of them. It’s just . . .” She looked around. “All of this . . . I don’t belong here. They want me to, but I don’t. And I know it and they know it. And sooner or later, we’re all going to have to face it. This kind of thing was made for girls like you, not me.”
    â€œThat’s funny,” Laura said. “Because I don’t feel like this was made for me at all.”
    â€œBut you can
survive
in it. Maybe even thrive in it. I never will. I don’t have the right smarts for this. And I really don’t want to.”
    â€œWhat do you want, then?”
    Mariclaire smiled for a few seconds, as if she knew the answer but was somehow afraid to share her joy in what it was. “Freedom.” She took Laura by the hand. “C’mon, let’s take a walk.” She tugged, answering Laura’s look of doubt. “C’mon, just down to the marina for a minute, to look at the water.