Free The Season by Jonah Lisa Dyer Page A

Then we stood back, and with a mighty swing he crushed the cantaloupe with the sledgehammer, sending pulp and rind and juice across the assembled class.
    I hadn’t thought of it since, but staring at that fist it came rushing back and I realized that if force did indeed equal mass times acceleration, this was going tohurt.

Seven
    In Which Megan Finds the Best Defense Is a Good Offense
    I SAT AT THE KITCHEN TABLE, A BAG OF FROZEN PEAS pressed against my face.
    â€œLet me see,” Mom said.
    I removed the bag.
    â€œOh dear God.”
    Her hand went to her mouth and she squeezed out another tear. Not exactly sure why she was crying, as I was the one who’d taken the heavy overhand right, but whatever—it was something to see. My right eye, purple and swollen half-shut, provided the centerpiece, but the entire right side of my face was puffy and mottled blue. The right side of my upper lip was so large it looked like I’d had a haphazard and badly aimed collagen injection, and it was bisected by a nasty split that still oozed blood, despite two very painful butterfly stitches tacked on by the trainers.
    I pressed the frozen peas back on my face, more asa kindness to Mom than for the healing effect. After two hours, whatever swelling could be prevented had been. Still, probably best not to remind her of that just now.
    â€œLook on the bright side, Mom. I didn’t lose any teeth,” I said through the bag.
    â€œNo jokes right now, please.” Mom emptied her glass of chardonnay, and refilled it.
    Who was joking? If she’d hit me an inch lower I would have been in dental surgery right now.
    â€œI don’t know how I’m going to tell Camille,” she said, more to herself than me.
    â€œTell her what?”
    â€œThat you’re not going,” Mom replied.
    â€œWho said I’m not going?” I asked. Honestly, it hadn’t actually occurred to me that a black eye and a probable concussion gave me a “Get Out of Debutante Jail” card for the evening, or I might not have been so quick to answer.
    â€œMegan, you can’t go to this party like . . .” She trailed off.
    â€œYes?” I offered, baiting the trap.
    â€œWell. Like that.”
    â€œWhy not?”
    â€œWhat will people say?”
    Typical. While I was sweating the little things like keeping all of my teeth and if it was safe to go to sleep, Mom was focused on the more important issues of my appearance and how it would affect her socially.
    â€œOh, I’m going,” I said, suddenly feeling a rush of energy. I chucked the peas in the garbage can. They landedwith a satisfying thump. I stood and poured myself a glass of wine.
    â€œAre you
sure
you feel well enough?”
    â€œNever better,” I said, heading upstairs. “Besides, no sense in wasting the dress.” I took no small pleasure in the fact that I was now defying my mother by attending Abby’s party.
    Once upstairs in my room, however, I had to reckon with reality. My eye throbbed, my jaw ached, my lip was on fire, and a clutch of drummers had taken up residence in my right temple. Stef, the head trainer, had given me eight hundred milligrams of Tylenol, and then, as I left, a single Vicodin—just in case. I reckoned if hours of dancing and revelry didn’t count as “just in case,” I didn’t know what would, so I washed the pill down with chardonnay. Alcohol and pain medication: that should liven things up a bit.
    In the large upstairs bathroom Julia sat in a director’s chair facing the mirror. The theme of Abby’s party was “Hollywood’s Golden Age,” and Margot had channeled young Grace Kelly with simple, dramatic makeup that brought out Julia’s classic features.
    She let loose a single giant curler from Julia’s hair, and it fell to one side in a beautiful curve. She brushed it vigorously until it glowed like warm honey, then cupped it with her hand