24. Iris Golden Boy
Iris Golden Boy
“Chloe, you have got to quit drinking the wine! People are going to notice!” I scolded, as firmly yet quietly as possible. Out in the party area, everything was elegant and calm. In our staging tent, things were utter chaos. The real catering staff was buzzing about, not even trying to hide their disdain for the high schoolers.
The chef was shouting orders. Pans were sizzling, plates were clanking, everyone was tense. This chaotic scene made it perfectly possible for several of my classmates to sneak wine without anyone being the wiser. I didn’t care if most of them got in trouble. But I needed Chloe. She couldn’t get suspended.
“Oh, relax,” she said. “Don’t you have mini crab cakes to serve?”
“You do now,” said Ben, looking oh so very handsome in his tuxedo. He handed me a tray. “Hot out of the pan. You should sneak one before you take them out.” No wonder the real catering staff hated us. We were super unprofessional. We ate the food, we drank the wine, and we viewed being here as a fun and glamorous way to spend a Saturday night.
Speaking of high schoolers who made Leo in his Great Gatsby tux seem average, Merit walked over, wearing the coveted oyster shucking belt. Of course. Because Merit was the golden boy. If there was a perk to get, he got it. I shuddered and said, “How many old ladies have made inappropriate remarks to you so far tonight?”
He looked up at the sky. “Uh, the numbers don’t reach high enough.”
“The challenges of being Merit McDonald,” Ben said. I looked for the joking in his voice, but there wasn’t much.
Merit didn’t respond. “Okay, well, I’m going to get back out there. See if I can get any dollars in my belt.”
He winked at me, and I knew I blushed. I hated how much I liked him, how hard my heart raced when he was around. But there was nothing I could do to change the laws of chemistry.
I ventured out with my tray of crab cakes, making my way toward a cluster of men who seemed ever so slightly overserved. I was about to insert myself and say “Crab cake?” when I heard one of them say, “Laura says Sitterly claims he’s innocent.”
And another said, “Please. Wouldn’t you say you were innocent too?”
A third added, “That son of a bitch lost almost a half a million dollars of my money. He’d better hope he stays in jail.”
I felt frozen, cold inside, and, most of all, invisible. Here they were talking about my father, and they didn’t even notice me.
I couldn’t help myself. I should have walked away, but instead I said, as calmly as I could muster: “He is innocent.” I looked at one of the men whose back had been to me, recognizing him as he turned. “I would think that maybe our judge should realize that people are innocent until proven guilty.”
He chuckled and said, shrugging a little, “Oh, honey, if you believe that man is innocent, you’re even dumber than you look.”
It was like being slapped. Tears sprang to my eyes, and I almost dropped my tray but didn’t, thank goodness. As I stood there, stunned, I registered one of the men saying, “Tommy, for God’s sake. She’s a child.”
And another one, who I thought was Paul Lucas, said, “That’s Bill’s daughter , Tommy.”
As I turned away, the judge—Tommy, I guess—said, “I’m sorry, honey. I didn’t mean—”
I don’t know if it was the cruelness of the comment, his thinking I was dumb, their saying those things about my dad or, maybe worst of all, the idea that I had to face the fact: What if Dad was lying? What if he was guilty, and he was just saying he was innocent? Whatever the case, I burst into tears as I made my way back into the tent.
Ben grabbed my arm as I passed. “Iris! What’s wrong?”
I just shook my head, trying to get myself together. This was mortifying. As I took deep breaths, Merit entered the staging tent and ran over to me. “Iris! What happened?”
I looked from Ben to Merit and pointed outside, “The judge of all people told me that if I believed my dad was innocent, I was dumber than I looked.”
Ben said soothingly, “Iris, you know you aren’t dumb. And you look beautiful.”
Merit took off his jacket and rolled up his sleeves in a way I found unsettling. Ben was still talking, trying to calm me, when Merit started walking. “Merit,” I said, following him, leaving Ben midsentence. He was walking fast and with purpose. “Merit!” I said, trying to grab his shirt. “Leave this alone. It’s fine. I’m fine. Don’t worry.”
Merit was too quick and too focused, and I felt like I was in a dream, outside of myself, when Merit said, “Hey, Judge Andrews.” The judge turned, and I saw his eyes change the moment before Merit reared back and punched him in the face.
“Oh my God. Merit!” I screamed. The judge stumbled back into his crew who, fortunately, caught him, lest he be splayed on the ground.
One of the security officers had Merit in his grip as Merit said, “Maybe you should find something better to do with your time than insult teenage girls.”
The judge stood up, and as the officer started to pull Merit away, he said, “Wait. Let him go.”
The officer said, “Are you sure, Judge?”
He nodded. “Are you insane? We face Howard High next week. We can’t win without Merit McDonald.”
The security officer gave him a once-over. “Oh, you are Merit McDonald.” He let him go so quickly Merit’s arm flopped to his side. “Don’t want to injure that cannon,” he said, rubbing Merit’s bicep in a way that, honestly, bordered on creepy.
Merit smoothed his shirt. “I’m sorry, Judge. I shouldn’t have—”
The judge put his hand up. “No harm done. I deserved it. I’m sorry, young lady. You have a gallant boyfriend to stand up for you.”
All of a sudden Sophie appeared, and right in my face, at a decibel level I have only heard from injured animals on TV, screamed, “HE IS NOT HER BOYFRIEND.” Then she stomped her foot and walked away.
The judge patted Merit on the shoulder. “Good luck with that one, son.”
In spite of myself, I laughed. Mom and Grace came running toward us, the news obviously having made it to their corner of the party.
“Oh my gosh, Tommy,” Grace said, in a tone that was both horrified and flirtatious at the same time. It was a real skill to strike that tone, something I would practice later in the mirror. “I am so sorry that my son has”—she looked pointedly at Merit—“lost his mind. Are you okay?” She practically purred the last part.
The middle-aged, portly man stood up taller and rubbed his lapels. “Took a punch from the best quarterback this town has ever seen and didn’t even lose my balance.”
Oh, Lord. He was for real flirting with her. She didn’t seem to notice.
Instead, she looked at us and said, “Car. Now.”
“Both of you,” Mom chimed in.
We were in big, fat, huge trouble. But I was so happy. I squeezed Merit’s hand. He squeezed mine back. He had stood up for me; he had punched a judge for me. The lights twinkling overhead, the smell of the salt air, the floating melody of the orchestra, and Merit’s hand in mine… I was grounded forever and ever, for sure. But this was still the most perfect moment of my entire life.