I could not help but stare.
Not that they noticed. They walked with straight-ahead eyes and thrown-back shoulders, seemingly unaware of us pie-eyed regular folk. It wasn’t a manner I recognized back then, but now that I live in Los Angeles, I realize that the Farrell sisters moved like women who were used to lots and lots of attention. Like celebrities.
They were spectacularly gorgeous, though not necessarily in the same way.
The taller sister had the glowing skin and open face of a Disney princess. You almost expected a bluebird to land on her bare shoulder. But the other sister was chilling to look at, with sandy brown hair and gray eyes so cold, they made Alaska look like a warm destination. I guessed that this was the one named Veronica.
Earlier in the bathroom, I had heard Tanisha Harris, who was now the head cheerleader, say to her friend, “Tammy—that’s the younger one. She real nice. She want to try out for the team. But the older one—Veronica—think she too good for that shit. You should see that bitch. She think she all that.”
After my first glimpse of Veronica, I would have to accuse the head cheerleader of being wrong. Veronica didn’t think she was all that, she knew. Knew in the way that only the very beautiful and the very rich can.
Up until that point, I had trained myself out of wishing for things. I thought that I had learned down to my very bones that I would never be pretty or rich or even liked. And I had accepted it, because at least I was smart, and at least I had books and Molly Ringwald movies to keep me busy.
But now, I stood there with my matted ’fro and my oversized thrift store dress and my shoes that were run down at the heels. I watched those beautiful girls jump into Veronica’s red convertible, like they were the Sweet Valley High twins, and I wished. I wished I could be like them. Easy and breezy like a cover girl, with the wind blowing in my naturally straight hair.
. . .
I began to stalk James the next week. Of course, it didn’t start off as stalking. It almost never does. It was more like a research project at first.
The school newspaper did a page three article, entitled “New Kid on the Field,” with a pretty complete background on the school’s new quarterback, and I clipped it.
The Glass High Call informed me that James had been on the honor roll at his old high school. Also, Notre Dame, USC, and just about every college in Texas had sent him letters of interest—but he hoped to attend and play for Princeton. He’d probably get his wish, since he’d scored 1450 on his SAT his junior year—being next in line for the presidency of Farrell Fine Hair probably didn’t hurt, either.
According to the article, James didn’t have a girlfriend back home in Texas, but the reporter hinted that a certain TH (the same initials as the head cheerleader) already had her eye on him.
I cut the article out and placed it reverent-like between the pages of my hardback edition of The Color Purple. It was my favorite book and home to Celie, the black character I identified with most in the world, because she was ugly and got treated ugly but still found her way to a happy ending. Sort of like Molly Ringwald. And exactly like me. Eventually. I hoped.