There aren't any cliffs in a banquet hall

"Ooh honey, you look sooo bootiful," said my mother as she pinched my cheeks. I pulled my face away from her fingertips, afraid that if she pinched any harder she would pop the pimples that my make-up artist had so meticulously tried to cover. I looked around the room, glad that none of the other girls appeared to notice my mother's outburst.

"What are you talking about?" I wanted to mutter but didn't since it would have only roused another round of comments about how I'm always underestimating myself. But that was my mother was. She would see flowers when there were only stems. Then she would flip out over some stupid rule about how all of the premiering debutantes were not allowed to wear their hair up.

"Oh my wittle baby's all grown up." I felt my face turning red, not that anyone could tell under all of the make-up that they had caked on to it. My father put his hands on my mother's shoulders.

"We had better be going Lou Ann," he said. His calm voice contrasted my mother's. My mother nodded and kissed me on the forehead. She looked like she was going to cry. As I watched my father guide my mother out of the room I couldn't help but wonder how they had ended up together, and even more so how they were still in love. My father was the successful lawyer who tried to make a difference. My mother seemed to live for her tea parties and charity banquets. Yet even as I thought of their differences I couldn't help but remember when my father ran a kissing booth at a high school charity event and my mother had paid two hundred dollars for twenty minutes with him.

The coming out party had been my mother's idea. She said that all the other moms' daughters were coming out. I had asked her if all of the other mothers made their daughters jump off a cliff would she make me as well. She said that this was different. I asked her how. "Because there aren't any cliffs in a banquet hall. Just a dance floor, a punch bowl, and eligible young men."

That had been the real reason for her persistence. My mother still clung to the illusion that I would find my knight in shinning armor by the age of sixteen and be content to reproduce for the rest of my life. It was my father that had settled the argument. He told me that if I came out into proper society my mother might be less against me going off to law school.

But as I turned around and looked into the mirror I couldn't help but wonder what I was doing here. I was nothing but a mass of flesh stuffed into a white gown that was too small for me, and a wave of fire-hydrant red hair. I looked at some of the other girls from the safety of the mirror's reflection. Their skin was as flawless as ivory rose petals. Mine was yellowish and adorned with a variety of zits. Their hair was long and silky. Mine was a frizzy and flared mass that my stylist had tried to tame with no avail. Even their noses were better than my gigantic schnob, and I had amused myself for a couple of

minutes trying to figure out which ones were real. Worst of all though, were their tiny waists, which fit beautifully into their white dresses. I turned back to my reflection. My eyes were the only thing about me that was even remotely attractive. My father used to tell me that they contained all the greens of a spring day. But they, sadly, were hidden behind gigantic glasses.

"Ten minutes," said the lady who was in charge of preparing us. She was Mrs. Barnette, a busybody who liked to spread nasty rumors about any girl who was competition to her eldest daughter Francine. As much as I despised my mother's frivolous nature, I was overjoyed that she had not turned out like Mrs. Barnette.

I checked my hair and brushed one last bit of blush onto my cheeks. Part of me was surprised that the butterflies, which are normally my dear friend during public displays, were not with me. But then again, it's hard to become nervous about something that you don't care about.

"Line up. Line up," screeched the shrill voice of Mrs. Barnette. I couldn't help but marvel at her forehead. How could a woman so stressed keep from sweating? It must have been something that they taught at finishing school. I wouldn't know since I had absolutely refused to go, claiming that it was set up to squander my questioning adolescent mind.

The girls in front of me started to move, somehow graceful and elegant in dresses that appeared to be cutting off their circulation. My last name was Smithson so I was towards the end. As I neared the first step on the red carpeted stairway, part of me

wanted to trip. I wanted embarrass my mother for making me do this. But then I caught her eyes and they were so full of joy that I couldn't ruin this for her.

My father was waiting for me at the bottom of the staircase, his hand outstretched. I took it and he led me out onto the dance floor. I looked around for my mother and saw her dragging a somewhat frightened photographer over to take our picture. I couldn't help but smile sympathetically.

"So how does it feel to be a woman?" my father asked, causing me to look away from my mother and up at him. He had the same gigantic glasses that I did, but they looked better with his slim and tall figure.

"Completely the same as being a child, except for the fact that I'm completely dizzy." My father laughed. The dance that we were forced to perform consisted mainly of us spinning circles in a circle. However annoying the dance was, the music was beautiful. A live chamber orchestra had been hired, and I simply loved classical music.

"So who do you plan to dance with?" he asked, catching me by surprise. A coming out ball was considered a lady's first introduction into society. After coming out she was officially allowed to date, although most girls had already experienced the other half.

"Um… probably the punch bowl."

"No one? What about some of your school friends? I've seen a few of them."

"Dad please," I begged. "Don't go trying to marry me off. I receive enough of that from mom."

"Don't worry, I have no desire to see you married off quite so young. I just want to see you have fun."

"Dad that's really sweet, but I honestly don't like dancing. And you wouldn't either if you had to dance in these shoes."

"I doubt that anything could prevent me from dancing." It was true. For as long as I could remember both he and my mother had been taking dance lessons. They had often practiced around the house and I could tell that they were good. One time, though, I had come home early and found them attempting the tango in the nude. I hadn't been able to look either one of them in the eyes for weeks after.

The music ended. We stepped apart, doing our perspective curtsey and bow. An immense flash monetarily blinded us. When I was finally able to see again, I found my mother and a very disgruntled photographer. My mother was beaming in a way that made me know that she was going to show this picture to everyone.

"I'm going to go get something to drink," I said. My father nodded and walked over to save the photographer from my mother. The punch was fruity and fizzy, just the way I like it. But I only allowed myself one glass, because it's hard to tell if punch has been spiked. I didn't want to get drunk, although I amused myself for a few dances wondering who here would be the funniest trashed. In the end I decided that it would be Mrs. Grachel, an elderly widow who always looked like she had just eaten a lemon.

Someone, who smelled like a spicy cologne, brushed up beside me and poured himself a glass of punch. "Is this spiked?" he asked me before taking a sip.

"I don't think so."

"Damn it," he said, and I laughed despite of the indifferent demeanor that I had been trying to maintain throughout the evening.

"I know your pain. But if you don't mind me asking, why are you here? I'm guessing that you aren't coming out. And if you are you're really out of costume." He laughed at me, which caused me to look over at him; he was vaguely familiar.

"My twin sister," he said, pointing to a blond on the dance floor that I knew from school. And then I realized that I knew him as well. He was the kid in my history class who was always debating. He looked very different in a tux, and with his hair neatly groomed.

"Oh, I think that I have history with you," I said. He turned and looked at me. I could feel his eyes searching, trying to match me to someone.

"Oh that's right. Your Mary Beth, the girl who did the report on the history of the condom," he said like it was some honorary title. I felt myself blush.

"It wasn't my fault," I protested. I would never forgive my teacher for allowing the kids to submit research topics. At the beginning of the year Mr. Grayson, our teacher, had wanted to show us that his class was about learning and not reciting facts. So he had allowed each kid to submit one topic that they had always wanted to learn about. I had just happened to draw, "The History of the Condom."

"I know it wasn't. I was the one who submitted it."

"You know if it wasn't for fear of staining my dress, I'd probably kill you right now."

"Oh come on, you have to admit it was funny. Although if it makes you feel any better I'm sorry that you're the one who drew it. I had meant it for my sister." I laughed, knowing that I had often done similar things to my younger brother.

"It looks like I am being called," he said in reference to a slightly pudgy woman. Next to her stood one of my fellow white dress initiates. "I hope to see you soon and further discuss the ways that I have embarrassed you, but right now it looks as if my mother is trying to marry me off." He bowed mockingly. I gave him a complementary curtsey and laughed.

After he left I went in search of my father. I found him talking to a very flushed Mrs. Gertrued. Mrs. Gertrued was the matriarch of Kansas City society. "You see, Mrs. Gertrued," I heard my father say. "We need to teach children these things in school. We can not depend on their friends to give them a proper sex education. We need to teach them about birth control and masturbation…" My father was a good lawyer, but he was somewhat lacking in people skills. One time at my third grade birthday party he had scared a kid by trying to explain life insurance.

"Father you must try the punch," I said, pulling his arm.

"I was just having a conversation with Mrs. Gertrued, I'm sure that the punch can wait."

"Oh I don't mind," said Mrs. Gertrued, her eyes grateful.

"And I really must insist."

"Ok. Well, Mrs. Gertrued I hope to continue this conversation later." Mrs. Gertrued barely managed to smile before she walked as quickly as possible. I was about

to give my dad a long lecture about why he couldn't talk to an elderly society woman about masturbation when my mother found us.

"Isn't this a beautiful evening," she said looking towards the crystal chandeliers. "And why didn't you tell me that you knew Charles Demont before?"

"Charles who?" I asked.

"That boy that you were talking to over by the punch bowl." The truth was that I hadn't even remembered his name although he was practically the only non relative that I had talked to the entire evening.

"Oh, he's in my history class."

"Oh this is great news," squealed my mother. "Did you know that he is the heir to an eight digit fortune." As much as it would have appeared to an ignorant person to be a simple statement, it wasn't. What she really meant was, "When should I book the cathedral?"

"Mrs. Smithson, I have to ask your opinion on this. Do you two mind if I steal her away?" asked one of my mom's charity buddies.

"Not at all," I said quickly.

"If you don't mind I'm going to try and find one of colleagues," said my father. He had forgotten about the punch, but I didn't really care.

"No, not at all." With that he smiled at me and headed towards a group of rhythmically laughing men. I decided to circle around the room and play my favorite game, "Who's Actually Real." Most of the time you can tell when a person has had

plastic surgery. But in a room full of people who earned six to eight figure salaries it was a bit harder to tell.

About half way around the room I was so busy staring at one man's large muscular calves that I just barely missed running into Mrs. Barnette. But she didn't notice. She was too enthralled in a piece of gossip.

"…yes that's what I heard. She's been doing him all kinds of favors, if you know what I mean, just to make herself more popular. Didn't you see the way that her and little Charles were talking over by the punch bowl? But who can blame the poor girl. She is so decidedly simple." She was talking about me. I couldn't believe it. Yes, I had been made fun of before, but never I had I been the subject of one of Mrs. Barnette's rumors. I groped my way to the bathroom, blinded with tears, and locked myself in a stall.

"Honey what's wrong? I saw you run out of the ballroom," said my mother. Great, she had found me. I had just wanted to stay in my stall and cry. "Would you please come out and talk to me. I locked to door so no one else can get in." I unturned the lock and walked out. My mother hugged me.

"Will you please tell me what's wrong?"

"Mrs. Barnette…"

"What about her?"

"She said some things about me." I heard my mother growl at my response. Normally I would have laughed at such an uncharacteristic sound.

"What exactly did she say Mary Ann?"

"You know that boy Charles?"

"Mmm-hmm."

"She said that I had been giving him…um… sexual favors." My mother gasped. "Why would she do that?"

"The same reason that she does it to any other girl. She wants Charles for Francine. Well, lets get you cleaned up, and then I'm going to have a nice long chat with Mrs. Barnette." She dabbed some cold water under my eyes, then pulled my hand. I followed as far behind her as possible. When we reached Mrs. Barnette she let go of my hand, and I stayed a safe distance away.

"Excuse me, Betty," my mom said poking Mrs. Barnette in the back. "Is it true that you said that my daughter was giving out sexual favors? If you did I think it's a very low blow to deal a girl just because she is competition to your daughter." My mother's voice was venomous. Mrs. Barnette just smiled as if my mother amused her.

"I have no idea what you talking about." I couldn't believe that she was denying it. But maybe that was what my mother had expected her to do? Maybe now that she knew we knew she would stop spreading rumors.

"That's what I thought," said my mother, a smile creeping onto her face.

"I mean we all know that Francine is a far better daughter than Mary Ann." My mom looked like she was in shock. Flames seemed to dance in Mrs. Barnette's eyes.

"What did you say?" My mother's voice cracked.

"Oh you heard me Lou Ann. Francine's much prettier and smarter than your girl. And, she's going…" But Mrs. Barnette was unable to finish because my mother chose that moment to knock her to the ground. I took a step back astonished not only at the fact that my mother was beating up Mrs. Barnette, the queen of society, but also that she, a petite woman, had been able to knock over so many pounds of silicon. I looked around the room. I think that everyone was as astonished as I was. Then I saw Francine, and she looked… happy?

In all the other fights that I had seen the brawlers were immediately separated, but I guess the people at a banquet hall were not used to fist fights. Although this was my first party so I didn't really know. And I must confess that I would be a lot more interested in attending if boxing matches were included.

My father was the one who separated them. He picked up my mother and steered her to the lobby. I followed them, doubting my welcome. When they were away from the crowds my dad brushed his hands through her hair, and kissed her passionately. He pulled away from her. "Now that's the woman I married." My mother's eyes became somewhat devious. I wanted to gag.

"Mom, why did you do that?"

"Because she was being a bitch," she said her voice back to normal.

"What?" My mother never swore.

"Oh honey you're old enough that I can say that around you."

"But what about what you did? Won't all of your friends disapprove of you now?"

"Don't be silly honey. Everyone hates Mrs. Barnette." I was going to argue with her, but then the image of Francine smiling as my mom beat the crap out of her mother flashed before my eyes. My dad bent down and gave my mom another disgusting yet fiery kiss. When they came up for air he made what sounded suspiciously like a purr. "I'll be out in the car," I said. My dad tossed me the keys and focused some more on my mother. As I passed them I rolled my eyes, but at the same time I couldn't help but smile.