had been, but Linny possessed substance, something
tangible I suppose, yet something somehow unreachable. Had I known then that
both she and Caroline would play such a significant part in my future, perhaps
I would have forced myself to look away. But I didn't know. And thus I looked.
I was enchanted and entranced and mystified. I was old enough to believe that
everything one could ever wish for came with hips and thighs and breasts, and
young enough not to push my luck. They existed at the edges of my universe, and
though I imagined that perhaps one day I could reach Caroline, I also believed
that my fingers would forever stretch towards Linny.
For a
brief while I even believed they became friends. Perhaps not friends exactly,
more acquaintances, for they were so different. I recall a day at Benny's when
I saw them there together. The moment was unnerving beyond belief, for here I
was presented with the possibility that they would become close, that they
would share everything together, and this terrified me. I sat at a corner
table, they were seated at the counter, Linny vivacious, bold, full of herself,
and Caroline quiet, perhaps a little pensive. Each of them beautiful and
entrancing in their own way, and yet somehow opposites. It would only be years
later - when I had more than ample time to turn the significance of these
events over in my mind - that I would conjure up that image and see something I
found both haunting and somehow ironic. The butterfly and the moth. That's how
I would see them - the butterfly and the moth.
Nathan
had a different world. Nathan Verney was a handsome guy. Long gone were the
jug-handle ears and traffic-light eyes. His face was strong and well-defined,
full of character even at that early age it seemed, and the black girls that
lived over his side of Greenleaf spent their time working their strategies to
interest Nathan in what they might have to offer. Nathan, strangely enough, did
not see this. He saw the wrath of his father, the shrieks and hysterics of his
mother, for if Nathan had so much as touched a girl it would have been evidence
of Lucifer's presence in the bosom of the Verney family.
Perhaps
this was the reason he seemed blind to those girls. And they were pretty girls.
Beautiful girls. Girls who could possess a heart with a glance and a soul with
a kiss.
My
scene was not so clear-cut. I was not an ugly kid, more sort of nondescript,
neither one thing nor the other. I was neither too tall nor too short, too wide
or too narrow, too fat or too skinny. My hair was a medium brown, my eyes blue-gray,
and I seemed to excel at nothing in particular that would attract attention. I
figured that out early. It was not sex appeal, it wasn't even how good-looking
someone might be. It was attention. If you could garner attention you
became interesting, and if you were interesting then others were interested in
you.
Hence
the game: seeking attention.
And
thus - believing that Linny Goldbourne was somehow destined to be forever beyond
my grasp - I was consumed by Caroline Lanafeuille. Caroline seemed quiet upon
first impressions, but beneath that gentle exterior was a girl who possessed a
strength and self-belief that belied all I imagined her to be. She was pretty:
pretty beyond taste or preference. She would have been pretty despite anyone's
belief that brunettes or redheads or blondes were best. Her hair was fair,
multi-hued between amber and ochre and straw, and her slim figure, her delicate
fingers and hands, the way she would tilt her head and sort of half-smile at
me, were all indicative of deep currents flowing beneath a still surface.
And
yet Caroline was an enigma to me, a distant star, a universe all by herself.
She wore short skirts and tight tops, a tiny gold bracelet on her left wrist,
and when I sat near her in class I could smell something like that breeze
around Lake Marion - pecan pie and vanilla soda all rolled up
tangible I suppose, yet something somehow unreachable. Had I known then that
both she and Caroline would play such a significant part in my future, perhaps
I would have forced myself to look away. But I didn't know. And thus I looked.
I was enchanted and entranced and mystified. I was old enough to believe that
everything one could ever wish for came with hips and thighs and breasts, and
young enough not to push my luck. They existed at the edges of my universe, and
though I imagined that perhaps one day I could reach Caroline, I also believed
that my fingers would forever stretch towards Linny.
For a
brief while I even believed they became friends. Perhaps not friends exactly,
more acquaintances, for they were so different. I recall a day at Benny's when
I saw them there together. The moment was unnerving beyond belief, for here I
was presented with the possibility that they would become close, that they
would share everything together, and this terrified me. I sat at a corner
table, they were seated at the counter, Linny vivacious, bold, full of herself,
and Caroline quiet, perhaps a little pensive. Each of them beautiful and
entrancing in their own way, and yet somehow opposites. It would only be years
later - when I had more than ample time to turn the significance of these
events over in my mind - that I would conjure up that image and see something I
found both haunting and somehow ironic. The butterfly and the moth. That's how
I would see them - the butterfly and the moth.
Nathan
had a different world. Nathan Verney was a handsome guy. Long gone were the
jug-handle ears and traffic-light eyes. His face was strong and well-defined,
full of character even at that early age it seemed, and the black girls that
lived over his side of Greenleaf spent their time working their strategies to
interest Nathan in what they might have to offer. Nathan, strangely enough, did
not see this. He saw the wrath of his father, the shrieks and hysterics of his
mother, for if Nathan had so much as touched a girl it would have been evidence
of Lucifer's presence in the bosom of the Verney family.
Perhaps
this was the reason he seemed blind to those girls. And they were pretty girls.
Beautiful girls. Girls who could possess a heart with a glance and a soul with
a kiss.
My
scene was not so clear-cut. I was not an ugly kid, more sort of nondescript,
neither one thing nor the other. I was neither too tall nor too short, too wide
or too narrow, too fat or too skinny. My hair was a medium brown, my eyes blue-gray,
and I seemed to excel at nothing in particular that would attract attention. I
figured that out early. It was not sex appeal, it wasn't even how good-looking
someone might be. It was attention. If you could garner attention you
became interesting, and if you were interesting then others were interested in
you.
Hence
the game: seeking attention.
And
thus - believing that Linny Goldbourne was somehow destined to be forever beyond
my grasp - I was consumed by Caroline Lanafeuille. Caroline seemed quiet upon
first impressions, but beneath that gentle exterior was a girl who possessed a
strength and self-belief that belied all I imagined her to be. She was pretty:
pretty beyond taste or preference. She would have been pretty despite anyone's
belief that brunettes or redheads or blondes were best. Her hair was fair,
multi-hued between amber and ochre and straw, and her slim figure, her delicate
fingers and hands, the way she would tilt her head and sort of half-smile at
me, were all indicative of deep currents flowing beneath a still surface.
And
yet Caroline was an enigma to me, a distant star, a universe all by herself.
She wore short skirts and tight tops, a tiny gold bracelet on her left wrist,
and when I sat near her in class I could smell something like that breeze
around Lake Marion - pecan pie and vanilla soda all rolled up
Similar Books
