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She doesn’t read novels. ” It’s magazines for Cherylanne. She fans them out on her made bed, saves back issues on the floor of her closet. She likes the beauty tips, the romance stories with illustrations of women with their hair blowing beautifully, the advice columns, the quizzes. She likes to compare her tan with the progressively darker girls in the Coppertone ads. She is second from the best. “Your gold will always show up best next to a tan,” she tells me. “The darker you get, the better you’ll look in white.
What an asshole,” Diane whispers. Cherylanne comes out of her house, walks over to us. Her powder-blue purse matches her outfit. She reeks of Tigress. “Let’s go,” she says. ” As it happens, Cherylanne is right tonight: there is someone there she likes almost as much as the lifeguard. He is a sophomore, famous for his looks, and, according to rumors, recently broken up with his equally famous girlfriend. When the lights go down, he is still sitting alone. “I can’t believe this,” Cherylanne whispers.
I have a lot of living to do. ” “Amen,” I answered, humbled as always by the thought that He might actually hear. I am in bed when I hear Diane come home. My father is waiting. I hear him start to yell. She is late, I guess. No. It’s not that. It’s her outfit. He follows her up the stairs. “All in black,” he says. “What the hell is that? A rebel or something? ” She doesn’t answer. I hear her door shut quietly, but then he opens it. ” “No,” she says low. ” Nothing. I know she is standing there, looking at him straight on.