When she grew up, bad influences started popping up in her life. Like horn rim glassed, blue haired Sally here, obviously a witch. They even played a game in high school where one took the other’s name, just to confuse the lot of ’em, the rest of the class. The *dunces*, Sally called them.
“Why do you have to sit on that seat when you talk to me in here, Sally? It’s *disgusting*.”
“I’m not using it,” Sally defended her evil self. “Anyway, what if I was? I’m certainly being discreet. You can’t see what’s under this big black dress of mine. No one can, not even (local legendary mill worker) Wilbur on his shinyest, most glistenyest day in the month of May. I reserve that for personal use.”
Shelley ignored the lewdness; kept combing her hair, trying to get it perfect again. Last Thursday, yes. That was the last time it lay upon her head just in the right spots. She was becoming vain, and Sally was egging her on, comparing her, in an inferior way, to, say, pretty girl Ginger Granite who lives down the lane. Whose lane? Certainly not Shelley’s. Maybe Jennifer the novelist who lives inside the novels she creates later on. But those days were far ahead of her still. 29 combs, she counts. 30. *Still* not right. And 30 is her lucky, magic number. Unless it’s 31, it’s changed. She combs again. “Dangit!” she curses. 32, maybe. “Dammit!” she doubles down after this, giving up with the bird’s nest mess.
“When you grow up, Shelley, when you *really* grow up, what do you want to be? A novelist? You said that at one time. You’ll have to go from dairy writing (Sally purposely said diary wrong here) to actual writing. A woman of letters is traditional if unpublishable. Maybe (she gleans), maybe you can start your own publishing company someday. That way you can publish your own! (the insinuation being that no one else would publish it)
Shelley stops staring into the mirror, looks over at Sally still spread out on the toilet. What *is* she doing underneath that dress? She’s never seen Sally take it off — ever — although she doesn’t follow her home, say, and watch her undress. Even though that would be interesting, hmm. What kind of bra does she wear, what type panties? Hanes like mine? This makes her think of Michael Jordan and the Hanes commercials, which brings her back to Grant. Grant Hill. The Sprite guy. He should have been as big as Jordan, Shelley laments not for the first time, and certainly not the last. She imagines, yes, kissing him on the lips to say she’s sorry, the least she can do. Even if it is only a sports poster she hangs above her bed, just in case she needs it. But black, others blabber, is taboo. Redbirds and Blue Jays, some put it. Dunces, true. *Idiots*. Shelley and Sally can certainly agree to that. Why they bonded in the first place — two 1st class dolts for boyfriend or boyfriend wannabes, actually. And the girls circling all around them like demented crows or ravens aren’t much better; cut from the same cloth; unkind to say the least, murderous at the extreme. Look at poor Tiffany Jabber, dead through the head in her bed beside Jed. Tragic. And just because Molly thought he was cute enough to be her stud, no one else as suitable.
She puts down the comb, picks up the mascara stick and starts messing with that, more successfully, she feels. Maybe she can be a cosmetologist when she grows up. But, no, destiny calls. “I’ll (apply mascara) *start* my own publishing company true (apply). But *only* (apply) after I turn down all the other publishers who flock around me, begging me to print through them. I’ll be a success, Sally. A star. Bigger than anything you’ve seen before. Bigger than, well (apply) *Rowling*!”
Absurd, Sally thinks, but nods her head. Shelley’s falling further into her web, making grandiose plans she absolutely can’t fulfill. Trouble is… well, we’ll save some of the success and/or failure story for later.
Sunklands 