The Hunt Ball by Rita Mae Brown

She was quiet again, then said, “Well, it can’t be ignored, but perhaps it can be contained.” More listening. “A special meeting Tuesday afternoon.” She checked her wall calendar. “I’ll be there. We’ll be finished hunting. Actually, you might need the exercise to get your blood up for all this.” She scribbled on the calendar with a 0.7 thickness of lead mechanical pencil. “I’ll be there and let me know if there’s anything I can do.”
    As she hung up, Betty’s eyebrows raised, she pursed her lips. “What?”
    â€œThere’s been a protest at Custis Hall. About fifty girls, black and white, called the school a plantation. They appear to be particularly upset over the displays.”
    â€œWhat, a bunch of dresses and hair ribbons?” Betty threw up her hands.
    â€œThe girls feel there has to be better recognition of slave contributions. That’s what I’ve gotten out of this so far. Charlotte said she’ll be meeting with the girls to dig underneath.”
    â€œThe girls may have gone about it the wrong way, but we do need to recognize slaves’ work. History, at least the way they taught it in Indiana when I was in school, was and probably still is about great men and wars.” Marty, a liberal in most respects, instinctively sided with the protesters.
    â€œWho will ever know the truth?” Sister shrugged as she sat back down. “Whoever wins writes history. The truth has nothing to do with it.” She stopped herself. “Well, I doubt this protest will dampen the Halloween dance.”
    â€œOh, it will all blow over,” Betty predicted.

C H A P T E R   6
    T he ivy climbing over the brick buildings of Custis Hall swayed gently in the light breeze.
    This October 29 the twilight surrendered to darkness after a sunset of flame gold and violet.
    The air already carried a bite to it. Revelers slipped through the various quads. The parking lot behind the Great Hall was filled with faculty cars, administration cars, and one white Miller School bus disgorging the boys in costumes. One fellow came dressed as Queen Christina of Sweden, an interesting twist since she often dressed as a man. The other young men wore clothes reflecting manly images: pirates, cowboys, spacemen, Batman, Spiderman, a robot, generals from all epochs, Richard Nixon, and a few desultory ghosts.
    William Wheatley, head of the theater department, prided himself on the high level of teaching in his department.
    Tonight, the girls specializing in set design made him proud. Bill was nearing retirement. This year would be his last hurrah.
    Al Perez, one of the chaperones, dressed as Zorro, stood outside the massive front doors to greet the partyers. Valentina Smith, as senior class president, stood next to him. Charlotte Norton flanked her. The other uncostumed chaperones—Amy Childers, Knute Nilsson, Bunny Taliaferro, and Bill Wheatley—moved through the crowd, stopping to talk to students. From time to time, Knute would slip out back to check the parking lot. The kids were ingenious in sneaking weed and booze.
    Green light bathed the outside doors. Inside, three-foot wall sconces flickered with fake flames, while the other sconces were held by dismembered hands à la Cocteau’s
Beauty and the Beast.
The girls had done good work.
    The light from both the permanent and the theater-built sconces infused the Great Hall with splashes of light in ponds of shadow.
    A giant spiderweb hung overhead with a large black widow, her red eyes complementing the red hourglass on her body. She slid up and down the main strands of her web, causing shrieks from the costumed humans below. Smaller spiderwebs, dusted in various colors, blacklit, added to the scary decor. Witches flew about on brooms, the whir of motors distinguished as they passed over. The moan of a werewolf swelled into a howl and blended into the screams. A fake