Chapter 39: Champagne and Gatorade
Date: September 23, 1989 (Wednesday Night).
Location: The Highland Park Country Club.
Event: The District "Sportsmanship" Gala.
In East Texas, High School Football is usually played in dirt, sweat, and cheap polyester.
But once a year, the UIL mandated a "Sportsmanship Dinner" for the district captains and coaches. Usually, it was held at a VFW hall with cold lasagna.
But this year, Highland Park was hosting.
Which meant we were currently standing in the ballroom of a Country Club that had more marble than the Vatican.
"Don't touch anything," Mary hissed, gripping my arm. "If you break a vase, we'll have to sell the house. And the car. And maybe Meemaw."
"I'm not gonna break anything, Mom," I said, adjusting the collar of my suit. It was a hand-me-down from George Sr.'s thinner days, and it smelled faintly of mothballs.
Sheldon was walking behind us, looking horrified. He was wearing a bow tie and holding a device that looked like a Geiger counter.
"What is that?" I asked.
"An air quality monitor," Sheldon whispered. "The concentration of expensive perfume in this room is reaching toxic levels. Also, the Gini coefficient represented here is statistically offensive. The wealth disparity between Medford and Highland Park is sufficient to trigger a Marxist revolution."
"Keep walking, Che Guevara," George Sr. grumbled.
Dad looked miserable. He was surrounded by Highland Park boosters—men with spray tans, gold watches, and teeth that looked too white to be real.
"George!" A booming voice called out.
It was Mr. Sterling. The Highland Park Mega-Booster. Tall, silver hair, wearing a cowboy hat that probably cost more than my truck.
"Welcome to the Club," Sterling said, shaking Dad's hand with a grip that was meant to crush bones. "We're so glad the... little schools could make it out."
"Wouldn't miss it, Bob," George said through gritted teeth.
I looked around the room. It was a sea of navy blazers and pearls. The Highland Park players were standing in a corner, looking bored. They looked like they were born in boardrooms.
I felt suffocated.
"I need air," I muttered to Mary.
"Five minutes," Mary warned. "And stay away from the ice sculpture. It's a swan, not a water fountain."
***
The Balcony
I slipped out through a side door onto a stone terrace.
The air was cooler out here. The terrace overlooked a manicured golf course that stretched out into the darkness. It was quiet, except for the distant hum of the Dallas highway.
I leaned against the stone railing and loosened my tie.
"I wouldn't jump. It's only a ten-foot drop. You'd just sprain an ankle and ruin the suit."
I turned around.
She was sitting on the stone wall, hidden in the shadows of a trellis.
She had long blonde hair that looked like it had its own lighting crew. She was wearing a navy dress that was simple but clearly expensive, and she was dangling a pair of heels from her fingertips.
Serena van der Woodsen.
My 40-year-old brain did a double-take. It was jarring to see a character from a 2007 NYC teen drama sitting on a patio in 1989 Texas. But she looked younger here—maybe 14 or 15. Less "Manhattan Socialite," more "Displaced Teenager."
"I wasn't planning on jumping," I said. "Just escaping the perfume cloud."
She laughed. It was a low, raspy laugh.
"My mother's perfume," she nodded. "Chanel No. 5. She marinates in it. I think she's trying to preserve herself like a mummy."
She held up a crystal flute.
"Champagne?" she offered. "I stole it from a waiter."
"No thanks," I said. "I'm in training."
"Ah," she said, looking me up and down. "The Mothball Suit. You must be from Medford."
"Is it that obvious?"
"The suit says 'Thrift Store,' but the shoulders say 'Linebacker,'" she noted, taking a sip of her stolen drink. "Or Quarterback. You have that look. The 'I carry the weight of the town on my back' look."
"Quarterback," I confirmed. "Georgie Cooper."
I extended a hand.
She looked at my hand, then at my face. She seemed surprised that I wasn't intimidated. Most guys at this party were terrified of her, or trying to buy her approval.
"Serena," she said, shaking my hand. Her grip was firm. "The 'New York Girl.' As I'm sure you've heard."
"I heard you have a butler," I said.
She rolled her eyes. "I wish. We had a housekeeper in New York, but she stayed behind. Now it's just my mother, my new stepdad, and my little brother Eric."
"Eric?"
"He's twelve. He's currently hiding in the men's room playing Game Boy because he refuses to wear the tie my mother bought him." She smiled faintly. "Smart kid."
She looked out at the golf course. The playfulness vanished, replaced by a deep, genuine annoyance.
"I hate it here," she whispered. "My mother acts like she loves the ranch, but she hates dirt. She just loves his bank account."
"Mr. Sterling?" I asked.
"Bob," she corrected with a grimace. "He's actually nice. He bought me a horse. He tries. But my mother... she dragged us halfway across the country because she wanted to be a 'Texas Queen.' She didn't ask us. She just packed the bags."
She took a bitter sip.
"I'm just a prop, Georgie Cooper. A shiny object to prove that Lily van der Woodsen-Sterling has the perfect family."
I looked at her.
In the original show, Georgie dated girls who were simple or chaotic. He never dealt with someone this complex.
"Well," I said. "If it makes you feel better, my Dad hates Mr. Sterling. He called him a 'Smug Bastard' in the car."
Serena laughed out loud. A real, unpolished laugh.
"I like your Dad already," she said. "Maybe I should root for Medford on Friday."
"You go to Highland Park," I reminded her.
"So?" She hopped off the wall. She put her heels back on. "Bob cares about this game more than he cares about his liver. Watching his face turn purple if his precious team loses? That would be the best revenge on my mother for dragging me here."
The glass door opened.
A man in a tuxedo poked his head out. It was Mr. Stevens (Our Booster).
"Cooper!" he barked. "Get in here. They're serving the prime rib. Don't embarrass us by hiding in the dark."
He glanced at Serena, then did a double-take. He recognized the Step-Daughter of the Highland Park King.
"Oh. Miss... Sterling?" Stevens' voice instantly changed to syrup. "I apologize. I didn't realize Georgie was bothering you."
Serena stood up straight. She flipped her hair. In a split second, the sad girl vanished, and the "It Girl" appeared.
"He wasn't bothering me," Serena corrected coldly. "We were discussing strategy. Georgie was just explaining how he plans to dismantle Highland Park's defense."
She winked at me.
"Good luck, Quarterback. Try not to ruin your suit."
She swept past Mr. Stevens and back into the party, leaving a trail of expensive shampoo scent behind her.
Mr. Stevens stared at me.
"What did she mean?" he demanded.
I shrugged. "Psychological warfare, sir. Just like you taught me."
***
The Drive Home
The bus ride back to Medford was quiet. Everyone was full of steak and resentment.
"Did you see the watches on those kids?" Bullard muttered from the seat behind me. "One of their linemen was wearing a Rolex."
"Forget the watches," I said, staring out the window. "Focus on the game."
"Did you talk to anyone?" Missy asked, leaning over the seat. "Did you see the Mystery Girl?"
I touched my hand, remembering the firm handshake.
"Yeah," I said softly. "I saw her."
"Is she a villain?" Missy asked eagerly.
I thought about the girl on the balcony. The brother hiding in the bathroom. The mother obsessed with status.
"No," I said. "She's not a villain. She's just... tired."