Damage control Despite the obvious need and tradition of them, Dustin had never really cared for social events. He really only liked the parts where he could gloat over his peers. The rest of the time--the dancing, the pleasantries, etc.--were all rather boring to him. But he was required to attend these functions, given both his father and uncle were influential members of Michigan’s magical government, so Dustin made do.
The ballroom was fairly chattery, but he happened to catch a familiar voice above the rest. His head snapped around curiously to find its source, and lo and behold, just across the way, he spied her. Makenzie, his cousin, was speaking to a handful of other important teenagers. Well, naturally, he made his way across to get better into range, just to check up on her.
But when he arrived into ideal range, he did not like what he was hearing.
“Oh, yes, I’m the Keeper for my House’s Quidditch team,” Makenzie stated with seeming pride. “I’m actually quite good, too. I guess you could say that I’m just a natural athlete.” She leaned forward, weight on her toes, with her arms folded behind her back: overall, body language suggesting enthusiasm. Dustin was horrified.
“Cousin, may I speak to you?” he interjected, reaching up slightly to place a hand on her shoulder. “Would you mind terribly if I borrowed her?” he added to her peers. The teenagers--he could see their faces clearly now, but in this moment of borderline panic, he could not attach names to them--expressed no obvious disagreement, and Makenzie, with a look of apparent confusion (because what on earth was wrong with what had been happening, right?!)
He led her outside the ballroom, into the currently empty hall. It would have to do. In one swift motion, Dustin spun around to face her, his quickness and anger painting an expression of surprise and hesitation on her face. “What the hell was that?!”
*****
Makenzie enjoyed a good social event. She liked the people, respected their lifestyle. The adults were so poised and well-dressed, and the children (to both the negative and positive) were miniature versions of their tamed parents. And she was no exception: dressed in a long, teal gown with poofed sleeves, no less than seven people had approached her to verify that she was the daughter of Nelson and Blair Newell. She was a genetic masterpiece, a perfect mix, and yes, those were her parents, thank you very kindly.
A group ahead of her caught her attention. Three teenagers, two boys and a girl. The tallest of the three was Clarence Faulkner, a lightly-muscled brunet of average intellect and exception breeding. The girl was his slightly younger sister, Emily; she was the same age as Makenzie, and they had grown up as on-again, off-again friends as their fathers battled for the same office every few years. Also accompanying them was Garrett March, a distant cousin situated between the Faulkners in age. He was closer to Clarence, although his height still hinted at Emily as his contemporary as puberty had yet to fully strike him.
But what she heard was not something she wanted to hear from so-called friends. Words often said in hushed whispers here found safety in the buzz of the ball, but Makenzie heard them anyway. Her hearing was splendid, and she had trained herself to catch and locate certain words, her own surname being one of them. She needed to constantly gauge what people thought of her, of them. This non-whispered gossip, accusations obviously passed along by their fathers, could ruin everything if passed along.
So Makenzie did the only thing she could think to do: intervene. “Emily!” she called as she began to make her way through the room to them. All three heads snapped to face the sound. “Clarence! Oh, and Garrett as well!” The redhead grinned merrily, painted pink lips spreading to reveal straight, white teeth. “It’s been so long!”
She exchanged a quick hug with Emily and offered her hand to Clarence and Garrett each in turn. “How have you been, Makenzie?” the eldest inquired with obvious motive; Clarence had always looked at her just a little funny, like he was sizing up a piece of meat before purchasing it from the butcher. Makenzie was fairly certain that meant he wanted to marry her.
“Lovely, lovely!” she beamed. “Quite busy at Sonora this year. I’m playing Quidditch.” She threw out the bait so casually, but she knew the fish would bite. “And I’ll have my CATS this year, so I’ve got quite a bit of studying to do. I’m sure Emily can relate. What about you all, though? How is your year going?”
“Wait,” Emily said, raising a delicate hand as if to physically pause the conversation. “Quidditch? You? I’m surprised.”
“Oh, yes, I’m the Keeper for my House’s Quidditch team,” she answered. Bait taken. “I’m actually quite good, too.I guess you could say that I’m just a natural athlete.” The Faulkners glanced at one another before turning briefly to Garrett, who offered no reaction (a staple of his fairly dim-witted personality). If no one spoke, Makenzie would have gone on more herself, but then, as usual, everything was ruined.
Dustin, stealing her away, obviously annoyed. Great.
“What the hell was that?!” he demanded. Makenzie couldn’t help but reel back slightly in surprise. Dustin was not one for foul language, partially because it was improper and partially because he was still relatively young for it, although his teenage years were quickly now coming into play. “It’s bad enough that you had to play a sport, but now you’re out here bragging about it? Are you trying to make us look bad?”
Makenzie groaned, unable to contain her frustration with the Aladren third year. “You don’t understand anything. Didn’t you hear what they were saying before I brought up Quidditch?”
“I’m sure it would have been a more appropriate topic-”
“They were talking about us, Dustin!” Makenzie snapped, placing her hands firmly on his shoulder and taking a strong hold.
“Wh-... what?”
“Us. The family,” she hissed. “Our fathers. I was trying to give them something else to talk about.” She knew Quidditch didn’t look good--that was the literal reason she had joined the team to begin with--but it was far less damaging than the things Mr. Faulkner and Mr. March were telling their children about the Newells. “Seriously, Dustin. Can’t you just trust me for fifteen minutes? I know what I’m doing.”
Dustin did not answer, blinking weakly as he stared back up at her, his mouth hanging open. “Don’t stare at me like that,” Makenzie scolded, pushing his jaw shut. “Now, I’m going back inside to keep working on damage control. You come back in when you’re ready to be a team player. We’re in this together.” Makenzie turned away, her thick skirt continuing to swish with momentum.
After a moment’s pause, a deep breath, and the return of a semi-forced smile, Makenzie disappeared back into the fray, leaving Dustin to ponder if maybe, just maybe, she wasn’t nearly as dumb as he’d always thought.