B is for Beatrice

Beatrice spent her afternoons in the field behind her family’s home.  Under a giant weeping willow she had created the most beautiful little hideaway for herself.  Using odds and ends and some colorful sari fabric she had bought at a garage sale, Beatrice had fashioned what interior decorators would call a “boho-chic retreat.”

The day was sunny and warm, so Beatrice knotted the fabric doors to the tree so that the sunshine could pour in.  She curled up like a cat, cozy on her patchwork pillows and opened her journal.

May 16th 2008

School was lame – as usual.  I hate everyone except Denise.  Not that Denise is THAT great, but she’s ok.  We ate lunch together – as usual.  But somehow we ended up sitting next to Jessica and her gang of wannabes.  I would rather choke on a piece of steak than be friends with Jessica. Denise and I did our “thing” where we pretend to have a conversation but secretly we’re really eavesdropping.  All the girls talked about was the school dance and their dresses – lame!  Again, I would rather die – like someone could knife me in the gut – than be one of those girls.  They are an embarrassment to the entire race of females.

Beatrice paused and took a few bites of her bear paw cookie and sucked orange juice from a glass with a red licorice straw.  A ball of fur whizzed by the hideaway door – it was Len, her family’s cat.  Like most cats, Len did his own thing.  At times he would curl up next to Beatrice on her bed and purr like the cats do in commercials.  But more often than not he seemed to look at Beatrice and her family with disdain, as if he were King and they were his lowly servants.  Beatrice resumed writing.

Denise and I are OBVIOUSLY not going to the stupid dance – as if!  Denise is coming over here and we’re going to watch The Stepford Wives, it’s some creepy 1970’s movie where the men turn their wives into robot ladies.  Can you believe that?!  Men are lame.  They think they know everything and that they’re better than us.  But they better watch out! Girls like me – and Denise – we’re not going to put up with their CRAP!  Mom makes dinner for dad every single night, he NEVER cooks! There is no way that I’m cooking for my husband every night!   He can go to California Pizza Kitchen and pick up dinner twice a week.  Then HE will cook dinner twice a week and I will cook dinner twice a week.  That leaves one night for us to go out to a fancy restaurant for a fancy dinner.  That’s how it’s going to go down, otherwise I am NOT getting married.

Beatrice put down her journal and stretched her long, stick-like legs onto the grass.  She tried to imagine being a robot lady.  Just then Len strolled in, looked at her like she was useless and strolled back out.  We really need to get a dog, thought Beatrice.

 

 

 

 

 

A is for Annabelle

Annabelle stretched out on the park bench, hiking up her dress a little to try and tan her legs. “Sweet Jesus, I’m white as cake flour.” She tilted her head, sunflower-style, hoping that her tiny freckles would soon turn to Jennifer Aniston bronzed skin. She kept a tight grip on her purse. Her parents had warned Annabelle about New Yorkers – “they’re savages!” her father had hissed when she’d told him about her plans to visit the city. “Don’t let go of your purse for one second!” her mother had cried. Her mother had also secretly packed Annabelle’s bag with bandages, power bars and a “rape whistle.”

Ever since watching Breakfast at Tiffany’s as a child, Annabelle had dreamt of visiting New York City. Of course as an eight year-old she had not been aware of the dark undercurrent of the movie, she had simply been in love with Audrey’s style, her milk-filled champagne glasses and the glamour of Manhattan. So after earning a degree – and top marks – in Paralegal Studies from Emmerson Community College, Annabelle had decided to reward herself with her dream trip.

She was starting to get a little hungry, so she decided to take herself out for a chic lunch. Annabelle had made a list of all the fashionable restaurants that celebrities and style-makers frequented and she made her way to one of them, “Saint Martine” in Soho. On the subway downtown, Annabelle chatted with a young woman named Crystal who told her all about her cheating, no-good boyfriend. Annabelle advised her to leave him immediately: “Life is short and precious! Don’t waste one more minute on him!” Crystal had been moved by Annabelle’s warm demeanour and had giver her her phone number scrolled on the back of an old prescription. “If you get in a jam and need any help, call me!” she said as she hopped off the train.

Once on the cobblestone streets of Soho, Annabelle took a moment to fix her face and smooth out her Kate Spade floral dress. She’d bought the dress for fifteen dollars at The Salvation Army. Annabelle shopped thrift stores on a regular basis, but she only frequented the ones near rich neighborhoods. She also had a brand new Coach purse, a graduation gift from her Aunt Helen who understood the importance of dressing well. “Annabelle is going to be surrounded by high-end lawyers, she needs to look the part,” Aunt Helen had said when her mother protested that the purse was too expensive.

Though the restaurant was full, the hostess took a liking to Annabelle, there was just something about her face, it was like a friendly, round moon pie and most people couldn’t resist spending a few minutes with her. Before long Annabelle was seated at a corner table with perfect people-watching views and the hostess – Jaimee – was telling her all about her latest audition which had gone extremely well. “I think I nailed it, I really do. I think I’m finally going to get my shot and I’m sooo ready! Know what I mean about being sooo ready for something?” she asked Annabelle. “I totally know what you mean. I was sooo ready to get out of Chilton Missouri and now here I am! And you know what? You ARE going to get the part, I just know it. You have that star quality, that ‘je ne sais quoi!'” Jaimee put her hands in an emoji-style prayer position and then quickly walked off to seat two boho-chic model types. Suddenly a glass of champagne appeared in front of Annabelle, “it’s on the house,” said a beautiful waiter as he swept by her. Annabelle took her very first sip of champagne, delighting in how the bubbles danced on her tongue. New Yorkers are not Savages, she thought. And I’m not going home.