tilted her head and drew her eyebrows together in concern. “You okay today, Becky Lynn? You look a little pale.”
“Yes, ma’am. Fine.”
As if unconvinced, Miss Opal slid her gaze over her, eyes narrowed behind her rhinestone-studded cat glasses. She stopped on Becky Lynn’s feet. “Did you eat this morning?”
Certain the woman could see her toes poking against the too-tight canvas sneakers, Becky Lynn shifted, propping one foot self-consciously on top of the other. “Well…no. But I wasn’t hungry.”
Miss Opal shook her head, which was as close to critical as she ever got. Becky Lynn had long ago decided that the hairdresser had about the biggest heart in Bend. Rumor around town held that Miss Opal came from trash herself, from over in Yazoo City. Rumor also told that she had managed to escape by cracking her daddy over the head with an iron skillet and emptying his pockets of his pay. Becky Lynn didn’t believe any of it, Miss Opal seemed way too nice to have done any of those things. And if she had, Becky Lynn figured her daddy had deserved it.
“You’d better run right over to the Tastee Creme. Marianne Abernathy is our first appointment and if the doughnuts aren’t here, I’ll never hear the end of it.” Miss Opal made a clucking sound with her tongue. “Ever since Doc Tyson put her on a diet, Ed counts each bite she puts in her mouth. I reckon she’s been looking forward to getting her hair done all week.”
She opened the cash drawer, took out a five and handed it to Becky Lynn. “Go on now and get those doughnuts. And don’t forget the ones with the strawberry jam.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Becky Lynn hesitated at the door, thinking of Tommy and his pickup full of boys. What if they were out there waiting for her? She caught her bottom lip between her teeth and looked hopefully at her boss. “You sure you don’t want me to straighten up first? It would only take a few minutes. I’d be happy to do it.”
The woman frowned and shifted her gaze from Becky Lynn to the bright day beyond. She returned her gaze to Becky Lynn, looking her straight in the eye. “You’re sure nothing’s wrong, child? Because if there is, I want you to feel you can come to me.”
Becky Lynn stared at the older woman a moment, a lump in her throat. Could she go to Miss Opal? If she told her what the boys had done, what would she say? Would she believe her? Becky Lynn gazed into the woman’s kind eyes and thought that maybe she would.
She wanted to tell, so badly the words trembled on the tip of her tongue, begging to jump off. She wanted to be assured that everything was going to be all right, that Tommy and his jock gang wouldn’t bother her again. That they would be punished for what they’d done to her.
Right. And purple pigs flew around the town square. Becky Lynn squeezed her fingers into fists, crumpling the bill. Even if Miss Opal believed her, nothing would change. Boys like Tommy and Ricky, from families like theirs, would never be held accountable. Not when the offense had been committed against the likes of her. That wasn’t the way things worked in Bend, Mississippi.
She swallowed past the lump and shook her head. “No, ma’am. Everything’s fine. I was just wondering…has the mail come yet?”
Miss Opal made a sound of amusement, looking relieved. “Becky Lynn Lee, you know as well as I do, the postman doesn’t come till almost noon. Now go on and get those pastries.”
Becky Lynn made it to and from the Tastee Creme in record time.
And without a sign of Tommy Fischer’s truck. Fayrene and Dixie, the other two hairdressers—stylists, they liked to be called—arrived just as Becky Lynn got back with the box of doughnuts.
Fayrene breezed by in a suffocating cloud of the Chanel No. 5 her boyfriend had given her for her birthday the week before, and Dixie stomped in complaining of her husband’s latest get-rich-quick scheme, something about raising catfish in their back pond.
As the morning passed, their conversations buzzed around Becky Lynn—that tacky Janelle Peters was cheating on her husband again; Lulie Carter had gotten herself engaged to a professor from the college over in Cleveland and those bad Birch boys (poor white trash) had been caught smoking marijuana.
She let them talk, keeping half an ear trained on the door, waiting for the postman’s cheery greeting and praying today would be the day the new Vogue came. She liked all the glossy magazines, Bazaar and Cosmopolitan and Elle, but Vogue was her favorite.
Becky Lynn didn’t know if everyone could see that Vogue was the best, but to her it practically shouted its superiority. (After all, didn’t cream always rise to the top?) And from her reading, she knew that only the best photographers shot for Vogue, that the top models fought for the covers. Production quality was, to her admittedly untrained eyes, flawless.
She didn’t just look at the photographs—she studied them, their angles and locations, the way colors, values and textures were combined, and the mood created by using the various elements together. And she studied the models, their positioning and expressions, their hair and makeup and clothes.
Although she would never have the courage to admit it out loud, she figured she’d gotten pretty good at recognizing which pictures were the best. They were all good, but some…just seemed to have something special. A magic. Or sparkle. Just the way some of the models had something that made them stand out from all the others.
She wished, just once, she could find out if she was right. It would be fun to—
“Ouch! Becky Lynn Lee, that water is too hot.”
“Sorry, Mrs. Baxter,” she murmured, adjusting the temperature. “How’s that?”
“Better.” The woman shifted her considerable weight and glared up at her. “You need to get your head out of the clouds and pay better attention to your job. You’re lucky to have it.”
After all, you are poor white trash. “Yes, ma’am.”
“I swear, you people just don’t take anything seriously. Why, just last night, I was saying to my Bubba…”
And so the morning went. Finally, just after twelve, the postman arrived. And her prayers were answered. The August Vogue. She held the magazine almost reverently. Isabella Rossellini graced the cover. Again. She’d held that top spot in June, too. July had been Kim Alexis. They were two of fashion’s best.
Opal gave Becky Lynn permission to take her lunch break, and hugging the magazine to her chest, she grabbed a leftover doughnut and headed back to the storeroom. Although she could have taken a seat in the waiting area out front, or at one of the unoccupied stations, she preferred to be alone.
Sitting cross-legged on the floor, she gazed at the cover with a mixture of admiration and envy. Isabella’s eyes, dark, velvety and inviting, practically jumped off the page; the model’s lips, curved into a provocative half smile, were full and tinted a deep rose. The photographer had closed in on the model’s face, focusing on the eyes and lips, creating an image that was at once fresh and sophisticated.
What must it feel like to be so beautiful? she wondered, taking a bite of the doughnut. Powdered sugar from the pastry sprinkled onto the glossy photo, and she brushed it carefully away. What must it be like to be so admired, so sought after? To be so beautiful?
What must it be like to be loved?
Longing, so sharp it stung, curled through her. It must
