Chapter 17
THE SUMMER BANQUET
The pavilion lot was packed with Bentleys and Mercedes. I parked the Cadillac and made my way inside, past the golden balloons neatly tied to the handrail and the laminated poster board welcoming me to the Rustin Athletic Foundation’s summer banquet.
It was my first swanky cocktail party, and it looked exactly as I imagined it would.
Servers in uniform shirts flitted around the room, offering shrimp cocktail and glasses of champagne to every guest they passed.
The attendees were impeccably dressed in sport coats and Lily Pulitzer dresses, leather loafers and strappy heels.
Flashy diamonds sparkled on the women’s hands and necks.
Expensive aftershave clung to the men as they ambled past me.
Nearly everyone was white, and if I had to guess, probably all of them were straight.
As far as you know, said an inner voice that sounded like Hannah.
Sponsorship boards lined the perimeter of the room: everything from Coca-Cola to the local plastic surgeon’s office.
Burt LaMott from LaMott Cadillac laughed uproariously in a corner, surrounded by a gaggle of middle-aged women.
Officious people wearing gold-plated Rustin University name tags swiveled from guest to guest, chatting them up, thanking them for their support.
“Champagne?” someone asked, and I turned to find a young server standing next to me: an attractive dark-skinned Black boy with dyed yellow hair and an ear piercing. He looked familiar, and I could tell from the way he was appraising me that I was familiar to him, too.
We realized it at the same time: He was a regular patron at the Cricket.
“Wow,” I said, smiling at him, “we really are everywhere, huh?”
He laughed in a sweet, surprised way. “We are.” He leaned in closer and whispered to me. “Let me know if you want something stronger. These events can be … A Lot.”
I grinned. “Thanks. See you at the bar.”
“See you at the bar. Or as my friends call it, church.” He winked and strode away, proffering the champagne tray to an elderly woman bedecked with pearls.
Feeling more at ease, I wound my way along the perimeter of the room, searching for familiar faces.
I spotted Grandma and Grandpa in the middle of the crowd, holding court with several couples whose eyes glinted with power.
Dad wasn’t with them. I kept walking, searching for him, until I was distracted by a pretty girl in an emerald green jumpsuit.
Aubrey.
Her eyes were on me, giving me that soft, secret smile I had come to know in the past couple of weeks.
There was a thrill of intimacy between us, even as we stood ten feet away.
I made my way toward her, one hand in my dress pocket and the other balancing my champagne flute, trying to affect a casual air like I had run into an old school friend and was simply checking in.
“Fabulous party,” I said loftily, coming to a stop just before I reached her. I positioned my body next to hers like we were surveying the crowd, making sure to keep a safe distance between us.
“Oh, just the loveliest,” she said, playing along.
I lowered my voice. “You look really pretty.”
She kept her eyes on the crowd, but she blushed the tiniest bit. “I wouldn’t mind if you wore that dress again,” she said under her breath. “Please.”
I chewed down my smile and tipped my head toward the sea of people. “Do you think they’re actually having fun? Like, is this their big night out on the town?”
“A chance to see and be seen.” She looked sideways at me. “They don’t know the real party’s at the Cricket later.”
I glanced around to make sure her dad wasn’t passing by, then turned my body toward her the tiniest bit. “How are you?” I asked meaningfully.
“I’m all right, actually.” She took a deliberate breath. “Just trying to make it through the spectacle.”
“That makes two of us.”
We lapsed into silence, simply watching the crowd. My dad stepped into view on the side of the room, nursing a glass of whiskey. A university administrator had his ear, but I could tell Dad wasn’t truly listening. He nodded his head every few seconds, but his mind was elsewhere.
There was the tap of a microphone, a sudden break in the cocktail music. The conversation fell away as everyone turned their attention to the stage at the front of the room.
“Thank you, everyone, thank you,” said a striking blond woman in a violet dress.
She had that tough-as-nails, pretty-as-pie aura about her like she would eviscerate you in the boardroom and then stop for a manicure on the way home.
“Welcome to the RAF’s summer banquet. We are so grateful for your support.
It’s been a busy summer gearing up for a fresh year of Rustin Athletics, and we can’t wait to tell you everything we have in store… ”
I zoned out, surveying the room again. My grandparents had a pompous, expectant look on their faces.
Dad looked pale and apprehensive. My server friend from the Cricket wove silently between the guests, collecting empty flutes.
A businessman tapped him on the shoulder and crumpled a cocktail napkin unceremoniously onto his tray.
“—but first, we’d like to introduce one of our special guests this evening: the head coach of Rustin Football, Rhett Calhoun!”
There was an uproar of applause. Aubrey stiffened next to me. I inched closer and brushed my arm against hers.
Coach Calhoun was businesslike as he stepped forward to the microphone. His tie was knotted impeccably, his shoes so shiny that stage lights gleamed off of them. His thick hair was combed precisely, with one cowlick styled to fall forward.
As the crowd continued to applaud, Coach Calhoun raised one large hand to silence them. They hushed immediately.
“It’s the honor of a lifetime to lead this program,” he began. “When my family and I first moved to Rustin, I knew this was a special place…”
Aubrey was still holding her breath, her body tight like she was contracting every muscle. Her mother stood at the front of the room, beaming at Coach Calhoun, and I wondered how long it had taken her to perfect that look.
“… We’re ready for Media Day on Monday, and a week from then, we’ll start camp. These boys are ready to step up and deliver. They know what this town expects of them, what I expect of them, and we’re taking every measure to ensure they have the support and resources they need. Speaking of…”
Coach paused to let the silence swell around him.
“Some of y’all know what’s coming next tonight.
I gotta tell you, this is probably the worst-kept secret since my lovely wife sniffed out my marriage proposal all those years ago.
But I ain’t mad about it. Secrets leak when people are excited, and the wave of excitement about this next investment is something a head coach could only dream of… ”
My skin prickled. Restless whispers filtered through the crowd. Grandpa puffed out his chest.
“Now, now, Coach,” the striking blond woman said, stepping hurriedly up to the podium again. It was clear she wasn’t about to let anyone take her announcement away from her. Coach Calhoun laughed good-naturedly and graciously stepped back to give her space.
“Let’s get to it, then, Rustin,” the woman said with a Cheshire cat smile. “On behalf of the Rustin University Athletic Foundation, the board of trustees, and our unstoppable Rustin football program, we are thrilled to unveil … the George Wade Football Performance Center!”
Suddenly, a gigantic draped curtain was pulled aside behind her, and every eye fell upon the image: a dazzling, colorful rendering, as large as a movie theater screen, showcasing a state-of-the-art facility with a bright green practice field.
The crowd gasped, roared, applauded so loudly that the glass chandelier vibrated above the room.
“This eighty-five-million-dollar investment is a testament to RU’s belief in our growing football program, and in your incredible support—”
But I wasn’t listening anymore. My body had gone cold as ice water. My ears rang and my heart drilled against my chest. Where is it, my brain pleaded with the woman to tell us, where is this facility going to—
“It was a long, extensive search to find the right location for the center, but after months of scouting, we settled on an expanse of land out on Route 29—”
No, I thought. No, no, no.
“—Without further ado, please allow me to introduce Mr. Amos Wade, brother of the late George Wade, and his darling wife, Martha, both of whom are longtime supporters of—”
I wasn’t processing anything. My hands were cold with sweat and a sour, nauseating feeling spread across my stomach. I felt Aubrey’s eyes on me, and when I turned to her, I saw the terrible confirmation in her gaze.
Grandpa was at the podium now, his voice coming to me as if through water.
The crowd cheered, clapped, pulsed with energy.
My dad remained silent and still at the edge of the room, his mouth set in a thin line.
I stared at him until he felt my gaze. When he turned to look at me, an infinite conversation passed between us.
He looked sadder than he had on the day of Uncle George’s funeral.
“And I said to my brother,” Grandpa went on, enjoying the shine of the crowd, “I said, ‘Georgie Boy, now just you wait and see what your legacy will mean to this town—’”
“Don’t call him that!”
My own shout surprised me, and I flushed with the sudden attention from the crowd.
Grandpa froze for a fraction of a second, then continued on like the interruption was a fluke. “And I know George would be proud to—”
“What about the bar?!” I shouted, louder this time. I felt reckless, untethered, detached from my own body. The familiar mantra rose up in my head, but this time I felt it like a battle cry. I am gay … I am here … I am HERE I am HERE I am HERE.