The Alpha For Her

“I read.”

“And,” Jessica said to the field of graduates, “that is a part of how I got to where I am. I read. I read everything that my teachers asked me to, and then I read the things that they thought that I shouldn’t – like Cosmo, and Vogue, and Elle; all those magazines designed to take me down the devil’s paint-brush road, and I thought that I was on the way to hell. Or at least some pervert’s cellar.”

The graduates laughed. The parents didn’t.

“And then, I went to high school. Public high school. Holy sh*t.”

The graduates laughed and laughed.

High school was an immediate culture shock. It was a sudden explosion of display and allure as girls walked the halls showing bellies and navels, shoulders and cleavage, as much thigh as they could get away with, and pert round rumps. And the strangest part was that no one seemed to care. Indeed, even some of the younger teachers dressed to show.

Jennifer felt so out of it in her simple, drab clothing – skirts and shirts, and sweaters. All through St Mary’s she never had to decide on what to wear. It was always the same pleated skirts and white blouses. Through her files, she was aware of the current trends in fashion, but she had always thought that those looks were the runways, and, maybe, the chic, up-town women. She had no idea that those styles would be copied in high school.

And yet, while those trends were copied, Jennifer thought that they were done poorly. It looked to her as though the girls, and some boys, used the styles as a template to show off flesh. Distressed jeans and a low cut tank worked on the slender, yet curvaceous models dressed in black and silver. But it didn’t quite make it on girls with butts a little too big and with chests a little too small. If only they’d have added a silver belt, or a maybe a bold, colorful scarf…

Yet, there was the one group of girls on whom anything looked good, and those were, of course, the pretty and popular clique. That was the field from which the cheerleaders and the homecoming queens were chosen. They were the beautiful girls who came from beautiful families and had money. They never seemed to dress the same way twice.

Among those girls was Rebecca Rukle. Becky was a year ahead of Jennifer. She had deep, rich, auburn hair that she wore almost as a lioness’s mane. Her creamy, near flawless skin was dotted with cute little freckles on her face and chest. The boys would often joke about playing connect-the-dots, and Jennifer knew that whoever did would find such a luscious figure for their efforts.

When Jennifer started high school, Becky was a sophomore, still low in the court of the beautiful princesses. But the girl was confident, knowing that her time to reign was ahead of her. In those days, the Queens-to-be would often let one or two of the plebeians into their circle; just to make themselves look better. And so it was that Becky took a shine to Jennifer.

It happened midway through their first semester. They shared an English Composition class together, and one assignment was to write a demonstration paper. The trick was that your paper would be randomly given to another student, who then had to produce what it was that your paper was demonstrating.

Jennifer had been picked to lay out and assemble a computer circuit board. She did well enough, and the boy got a B. But then, Becky was chosen to demonstrate Jennifer’s paper: it was on how to achieve the ‘smoky eye’ look. Becky went gaga with all of the materials that Jennifer had provided, and sitting before the mirror in front of the whole class, she proceeded to transform her Irish eyes into something rich and alluring. Jennifer got an A, and, so she thought, a friend.

“I never thought to use concealer,” Becky said to her in the hall, still gazing at her eyes in her compact. “But, it’s just what you need to get the blending just right. This is fantastic.”

“Thanks,” was all that Jennifer could say.

“Of course,” Becky added, “you could use some better brushes, and your eye shadows are second shelf.”

“Sorry.”

“It’s okay. You have excellent color choices.”

“Thanks.”

“Rebecca Rukle,” Wendy Moore said as a group of girls rushed up to her, “what have you done with your eyes. That looks awesome.”

“I have a most excellent make-up coach,” Becky said, smiling and introducing Jennifer all around.

That was the first time that Jennifer lunched with ‘the girls’.

She was allowed into their circle, on the periphery, but it was something. They would talk make-up, and sometimes, when one of the girls needed some pointers, Jennifer was invited to their table. But she was never asked to join them at anything outside of school, and she was pointedly ignored at any dance Jennifer ever attended.

“I honestly believe,” Jennifer told her audience, “that the psychologist who came up with the concept of ‘cognitive dissonance’ had to be recalling their high school freshman year.”

The audience chuckled, though it was clear that half of them didn’t know the concept.

“And you will go through that your whole life,” she said, “knowing something to be true, but believing so hard that it isn’t.”

Like the time she had gotten a text message from Randy DeVoe.

It was her sophomore year, and the second year that she had ridden the school bus with Randy. That meant that the two were in the same space together for thirty minutes, yet both miles and years apart.

Like all things with children and adolescents, there were structures and rules. Jennifer was always the first student to be picked up, and so on her first day, she wanted to hide in the farthest back seat. But, soon enough, she found herself alone, yet surrounded by the Alpha boys; that was their turf, and Randy just sneered at her. She was mortified, and from that day on, she sat in the first seat by the doors. Yet, from that day on, she had been smitten by Randy, and would use her lonely perch to gaze back at the handsome young all-star, and dream. But every time he would glance her way, she immediately looked away.

So it was, that dreary winter day when, sitting with Becky and the girls, she had gotten a text from him; from Randy. Her heart stopped. The other girls were yammering away about the Snow-Ball dance, paying her no heed as her thumb stumbled to open the message.

“You/me sno-ball. DL” was all it said.

Jennifer’s heart started again and raced. She scanned the cafeteria, looking for him. He was at his usual spot in the way far corner by the doors. He looked her way and grinned. Her heart flooded. Her thumbs raced across her phone.

“Yeah!” she typed. “DL.”