The Tailgate by Elin Hilderbrand Page B

fine.”
    â€œFine,” Dabney said.
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    In her weekly phone call from the pay phone at the end of the third floor of Grays Hall on Tuesday evening, she told Clen. “I’m coming.”
    He said, “I hear you saying that.”
    She said, “You think I’m going to cancel.”
    There was silence on his end. He was debating, she knew, whether to state the obvious truth—she always canceled—or to prop her up with false confidence.
    He chose the latter. “I know you’re coming,” he said. “I know there is no way you would cancel on coming to the game. You go to Harvard and I go to Yale. I am your boyfriend. You love me, and you’ll be safe.”
    â€œSafe,” she said.
    She planned a picnic for the tailgate party: chicken salad sandwiches, a caramelized onion dip made with real onions and not dried soup mix, some crackers and good cheese—aged Cheddar, soft Brie—a jar of salted almonds, some plump Italian olives shiny in their oil, and several bunches of good-looking grapes. On Thursday, Dabney started preparing everything in the sad, small communal kitchen in the basement of Grays, then posted signs threatening libel and slander if anyone touched it. She could just imagine the softball players on the second floor coming home after a party and devouring the chicken salad.
    Next, Dabney considered her outfit. She always wore jeans or a kilt, although for the game, she considered jazzing up her look. But it was November and the forecast for New Haven was sunny and forty-six degrees. Jeans, Dabney thought. White oxford shirt, navy peacoat, pearls, penny loafers, headband. That was fine for the game, but Clen had made them a dinner reservation afterward at Mory’s Temple Bar, and Dabney needed something fancier. Luckily, Dabney lived just down the hall from Solange, a sophisticate from New York City who had gone to Spence and whose wardrobe included vintage YSL and Valentino pieces that she’d either stolen or salvaged from her mother’s closet.
    Solange was eager to help Dabney find a new look, not only because Solange liked dressing up her hallmates like life-sized dolls, but also because Dabney had set up Solange with her boyfriend, the fabulous Javier from Argentina, whose family owned a ranch bigger than the five boroughs and who, like Solange, was majoring in Romance Languages. Dabney had seen a rosy aura around Solange and Javier as they walked out of a Camus seminar together, which meant they were a perfect match. Dabney’s special vision had yet to be proved wrong.
    Solange rummaged through her closet. Dabney loved how Solange’s room was decorated like something from Arabian Nights—jewel-toned Persian rugs, a silk pillow the color of a persimmon that was big enough for Dabney to sleep on, and an elaborate hookah that their R.A. had yet to know about.
    Solange produced a black sequined batwing blouse. When Dabney tried it on, Solange smiled. “Yes,” she said. “Sexy.” Dabney had never worn black in her life—Dabney’s grandmother had been of the opinion that a woman should not wear black until she turned twenty-five.
    â€œAnd here,” Solange said. “I can’t let you wear that blouse with your Levi’s.” She pulled a pair of velvet cigarette pants out of her closet and a pair of black suede kitten heels with a dangerously pointy toe.
    Dabney practiced walking around the room in the heels. Was she asking for trouble? Would she trip over herself at Mory’s Temple Bar and face-plant in someone’s cheese soufflé?
    â€œWe’re going full throttle here,” Solange said. “There is no way you’re carrying your Bermuda bag. I want you to take this.” Solange handed Dabney a silver cocktail purse that was fringed and beaded like a flapper’s dress. “My grandmother carried this as a debutante in 1923. Look!” From out of the purse she produced