Dixie's Greens 4: The Fundraiser

(SET PRIOR TO "THE CAMPOUT")
>Your suit was itchy as all Hell, on top of being oversized
>It was a loaner from your father, who was almost a foot taller than you, but why it was so uncomfortable was a mystery
>This fundraiser was announced to him at the last second, so there was not enough time to get you fitted for a suit of your own
>Likewise, Dixie had to borrow a very old dress from your mother, who was slightly reluctant to hand it over, even though it didn't fit her anymore
>She was half the reason she divorced your father and abandoned the family, with frequent and loud arguments breaking out between her and the old bot
>You didn't know why, but Dixie never liked interacting with women very much, despite having the voice and personality of one
>Regardless, she had no complaints about the sleeveless black garment, and neither did you
>It was amazing how well she cleaned up, despite not being classy by nature
>On the car ride to the hotel's ballroom, you and your father emphasized how important it was that she watch her language that evening
>"This is a FORMAL event, Dixie, so for the love of God, please don't curse like a sailor, okay?" he sternly asked
>"I'll try, but I that's askin' a lot from me-"
>"I ask because it reflects poorly on me if you do," he interrupted, "If you insult someone or say something crass, I have to apologize on your behalf because I know you won't."
>"Yeah, and this time, if a black attendee tries to talk to you, don't call them a nigger to their face," you added
>"Very good point, Anon. I was just about to say that-"
>"Wait, 'this time'? What happened last time?" she questioned you, confused
>"...Three years ago at my baseball team's banquet, you called that black waitress a nigger right to her face."
>It took her a second to recall that event, and when she did, she smiled
>"Oh yeah, now I remember! Her face lit up like a lightnin' bug! I thought it was pretty funny!"

>The sprawling room was flooded with people, and cigar/cigarette smoke created a thin fog that, for now, you could still see through
>Standing in the entryway, you three prepared yourselves for a night of nonstop conversation
>While she admired the high ceiling, you father subtly inched his head towards your ear
>"Keep an eye on her tonight, and make sure she watches her mouth," he muttered
>"Ah, you must be Professor Ardwick, welcome!" a tuxedo-clad man ambushed your father and hastily shook his hand
>"That's right, sir," he replied, pointing at his two guests beside him, "this is my son, Anon, and our nandroid, Dixie."
>"Good evening to you both," he quickly greeted before grabbing your father's shoulder and escorting him into the sea of black and white
>"Now, Mr. Ardwick, I must introduce you to some friends of mine..." was the last thing you heard from the man as he left your vicinity
>It was ironic that despite being a fundraiser for the South Carolina Historical Society, that man didn't recognize the most famous droid in American history
>"So what do we do now?" she shouted over the noise in the room
>"I don't know! I was gonna mingle with these people! You should join me!"
>With no other options, she just shrugged and gave you a nod
>"...Okay!"
>You and your follower hardly moved ten feet before you selected your target, a redheaded girl that looked about your age
>With a confident smirk, you approached her and outstretched your hand
>"Evening, miss, how are you? My name's Anon Ardwick, and this is my nandroid, Dixie!"
>Out of the corner of your eye, you saw someone whip their head around upon hearing that last sentence
>"Hello, Mr. Ardwick," she said, shaking your hand, "I'm-"
>"Ahdwick?" a male voice interjected from your right, "like General Ahdwick?"
>Turning to see who was rudely interrupting, you saw a fat, balding, scruffy-bearded man of about 50
>"...Uh, yeah," you answered with an annoyed frown
>With a big smile, he held his hand out, and with some brief reluctance on your end, you removed yours from the cute redhead's and grasped his
>"Wow! No kiddin'! If you're also descended from him, that makes us distant cousins!"
>It was possible that he was related, but you never saw him before, and his differing accent was proof that he certainly wasn't a Southern man
>He then turned to your friend and spoke like no introduction was needed
>"Hey, Dixie, do you remember a guy named, uh, General McCrawskey?"
>Her eyes widened like the name hadn't been thought of in decades
>"...Hell yes I do, I served under him in the war!"
>If the man sounded any more sophisticated, you would have shot her a look for saying "Hell"
>"I'm descended from him too! His grandson married one of General Ahdwick's dawghters, right?"
>"Yeah, how'd you know that?"
>"Like I said, I'm descended from him! I'm also a big Civil War buff; I do a lotta reenacting up and down New England, as well as takin' paht in a regiment down heah a couple months outta the yeah!"
>Trying to be polite, as well as determine his accent's origin, you asked: "New England, huh? You from there?"
>"Oh, yahp! From a little state called Rhode Island! Y'evuh been?
>Before you could answer, another train of thought entered his brain and he just kept talking
>"Sahrry about not introducin' myself," he said, reextending his hand to Dixie instead of you, "My name's Pontarelli, Cawpral Dave Pontarelli in the 4th Rhode Island and 12th South Carolina!"
>The mention of her old regiment made her immediately perk up

>You left the two to talk while you waded through the crowd, looking for your father out of pure boredom
>The itch on the back of your neck from the suit's collar returned in full force, taking all your concentration not to scratch it like a madman
>Eventually reaching the area with tables, there was no sign of him or the man that dragged him away
>Curiously, you circled the entire room but still couldn't find him
>Accepting defeat for now, you decided to return to Dixie, hoping Pontarelli finally decided to talk to someone else
>"...Shame you can't drink anything! I know a place in Cranston that makes the best fackin' cawfee I evah drank in my life..."
>Just barely hearing his distinct voice over the chatter of the room, you knew you were wrong
>You came back at the right time, because Dixie was about to do what you promised your dad she wouldn't do
>"...You probably don't see too many of 'em up there in Rhode Island, but down south, we're swarmin' with ni-"
>"Dixie!" you cut her off, "Sorry to interrupt, but Dad wants to talk to you! We'll be back in a second, Dave!"
>"No prahblem! Take as lawng as you need!" he said before taking a swig of his champagne
>Escorting her away, she knew you were lying, but flashed you a thankful grin
>"Thanks. He's a nice fella, but he talks too much!"
>"Excuse me, Mister, Miss, but is there anything I can get for you? Cocktails? Champagne, perhaps?" a deep and dignified voice inquired from behind
>Wheeling around, you both were faced with a skinny black waiter in a fine white suit
>You weren't offended by his presence, but upon seeing him, the old soldier at your side gave him an angry leer
>"Thanks, but I'm not old enough," you nonchalantly said
>Dixie didn't think to share your attitude
>"Yeah, and I don't have a stomach! I can't drink either, you stupid ni-"
>Instinctively slapping your hand over her mouth, you awkwardly blurted out: "She's fine! She doesn't want anything!"

>The rest of the evening went off without a hitch, mostly thanks to your watchful eye
>Firstly, the itchiness of the suit seemed to subside as the minutes passed
>The speech your father gave, while improvised at the last possible second, convinced the partygoers to donate more than the Historical Society's projected goal
>Dixie never insulted a single negro at the event, nor cursed at anyone out loud
>At her request, Dave agreed to come to a historical campout in full Confederate uniform to further talk about the 12th SC reenactors group, as well as bring evidence to prove his relation to you
>She didn't ask for that specific last part, fully believing he was telling the truth, but he was insistent about bringing proof

>It should be noted that during your father's speech, he pledged that a portion of the money would go to the "revision" of a certain exhibit in the Museum of Warfare