Covergirl

April 4, 2009
My hands fidgeted nervously beneath the lunch table as her seductive tale unfolded. Images of her shapely form passionately melding with another filled my mind. I tried to block them out. I really tried, but every time one image was erased her words painted another far more raunchy scene. My heart rate jumped and my eyes began to dart from face to face, examining the expressions of my other "friends" casually munching alongside me. They were unmoved. Aside from one girl twirling her blue locks, which perfectly coordinated with my cheap eye shadow, no one even twitched. Rachel was confident. Rachel was articulate. Rachel was edgy. Rachel was a sex-object and everyone knew it, yet I longed to be accepted by her- to get her nod of approval. As I sat there, anxiously wringing my hands, I felt a small pewter object- my purity ring. I could feel each carefully engraved letter as I clasped the treasure. That's exactly what it was, a treasure. I slowly turned my face towards the scantily clad storyteller and noticed her eyes, though lined in colorful cosmetics, were undeniably hollow and lonely. As she reached for the hand of a boy across the table I spied several deliberate wounds carved into her thin forearm. The redness was such a stark contrast against her pale skin tone, a vulnerable side that hid behind her confident facade. So empty. So desperate. If an unwelcome bell hadn't interrupted my thoughts, I would have sat there for hours pondering the meaning of it all. I walked to my 4th period class in the rain and felt a palette of color run down my face. All the time spent carefully crafting my image for her gathered in a puddle at my feet. It splashed as I walked through.





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