Erica Spindler - Red

Fayrene breezed by in a suffocating cloud of the Chanel No. 5 her boyfriend had given her for her birthday the week before, and Dixie stomped in complaining of her husband’s latest get-rich-quick scheme, something about raising catfish in their back pond.

As the morning passed, their conversations buzzed around Becky Lynn—that tacky Janelle Peters was cheating on her husband again; Lulie Carter had gotten herself engaged to a professor from the college over in Cleveland and those bad Birch boys (poor white trash) had been caught smoking marijuana.

She let them talk, keeping half an ear trained on the door, waiting for the postman’s cheery greeting and praying today would be the day the new Vogue came. She liked all the glossy magazines, Bazaar and Cosmopolitan and Elle, but Vogue was her favorite.

Becky Lynn didn’t know if everyone could see that Vogue was the best, but to her it practically shouted its superiority. (After all, didn’t cream always rise to the top?) And from her reading, she knew that only the best photographers shot for Vogue, that the top models fought for the covers. Production quality was, to her admittedly untrained eyes, flawless.

She didn’t just look at the photographs—she studied them, their angles and locations, the way colors, values and textures were combined, and the mood created by using the various elements together. And she studied the models, their positioning and expressions, their hair and makeup and clothes.

Although she would never have the courage to admit it out loud, she figured she’d gotten pretty good at recognizing which pictures were the best. They were all good, but some…just seemed to have something special. A magic. Or sparkle. Just the way some of the models had something that made them stand out from all the others.

She wished, just once, she could find out if she was right. It would be fun to—

“Ouch! Becky Lynn Lee, that water is too hot.”

“Sorry, Mrs. Baxter,” she murmured, adjusting the temperature. “How’s that?”

“Better.” The woman shifted her considerable weight and glared up at her. “You need to get your head out of the clouds and pay better attention to your job. You’re lucky to have it.”

After all, you are poor white trash. “Yes, ma’am.”

“I swear, you people just don’t take anything seriously. Why, just last night, I was saying to my Bubba…”

And so the morning went. Finally, just after twelve, the postman arrived. And her prayers were answered. The August Vogue. She held the magazine almost reverently. Isabella Rossellini graced the cover. Again. She’d held that top spot in June, too. July had been Kim Alexis. They were two of fashion’s best.

Opal gave Becky Lynn permission to take her lunch break, and hugging the magazine to her chest, she grabbed a leftover doughnut and headed back to the storeroom. Although she could have taken a seat in the waiting area out front, or at one of the unoccupied stations, she preferred to be alone.

Sitting cross-legged on the floor, she gazed at the cover with a mixture of admiration and envy. Isabella’s eyes, dark, velvety and inviting, practically jumped off the page; the model’s lips, curved into a provocative half smile, were full and tinted a deep rose. The photographer had closed in on the model’s face, focusing on the eyes and lips, creating an image that was at once fresh and sophisticated.

What must it feel like to be so beautiful? she wondered, taking a bite of the doughnut. Powdered sugar from the pastry sprinkled onto the glossy photo, and she brushed it carefully away. What must it be like to be so admired, so sought after? To be so beautiful?

What must it be like to be loved?

Longing, so sharp it stung, curled through her. It must be wonderful, she thought, taking another bite. It must be like living a dream.

“What do you see in those things, anyway?”

Startled, Becky Lynn looked up. Fayrene stood in the doorway, studying her over the tip of her lit cigarette. Rarely did anyone inquire after her thoughts, and never had Fayrene, the self-appointed queen of the Cut ‘n Curl. She swallowed. “Pardon?”

“Those magazines.” The blonde gestured with the cigarette and her bracelets jangled. “The way you study them.” She shook her head and exhaled a long stream of smoke. “If you ask me, it’s weird.”

“Leave the girl alone,” Opal called from around the corner in the mixing room. “She’s on break, and she’s not hurting anybody.”

Fayrene pouted. “I wasn’t trying to be a smartass or anything. I really want to know. I mean, I like to look at the pictures, too. But not like that.” She turned back to Becky Lynn, arching a neatly penciled eyebrow in question.

Cheeks on fire, Becky Lynn lowered her gaze to the glossy image before her. How did she explain something she felt so deeply? How did she voice dreams that were so close to her heart yet so far from reality? And if she found a way, would the other woman understand—or laugh?

Her hands began to shake, her palms to sweat. She cleared her throat, then met Fayrene’s gaze once more. “I don’t know,” she said softly. “It’s just that the models are all so…beautiful…so sophisticated, and all. I just look at them and think—”

“Becky Lynn,” Fayrene interrupted, waving the cigarette again. “Wake up! I mean, I like to look at those gals and dream once and a while, too. But you can’t dream your life away.” She shook her head and her bleached-blond mane tumbled across her right shoulder. “As I always say, no sense reaching for a star, you’re never going to catch one. Besides, even if you did manage to, it’d only burn your fingers.”

With this obvious attempt at cleverness, Fayrene paused, waiting for a response. When Becky Lynn didn’t give her one, she made a sound of irritation. “Work with what you have. You’re tall as most men and have a face that…well, let’s be honest, girl, you’re never going to be prom queen. I mean, your features alone are all nice, but put together, they…”

Fayrene hesitated as if really looking at her for the first time. A strange expression crossed her face, then she shook her head. “But you do have good eyes and teeth, and if you would just give me a couple hours with your hair and a bottle of bleach, we could change that carrot top of yours to a sensational-looking blon—”

“Fayrene,” Dixie interrupted, “Bitsy’s timer went off a couple minutes ago. If you frizz her hair again, she’s going to pitch a fit.”

Fayrene swore and started back out into the shop. She stopped and looked back at Becky Lynn. “Think about what I said, girl. Not everybody can be somebody special.”

Becky Lynn slumped back against the wall, the other woman’s words having sucked the pleasure out of the moment. She looked down at the photo of Isabella Rossellini, the image blurring with her tears. Fayrene had missed the point. Sure, she dreamed of being as beautiful and self-confident as the women in the magazines, but she wasn’t an idiot. And she didn’t want to be prom queen.

Her love of the glossies wasn’t about being beautiful. It was about dreaming of a wonderful place nothing like Bend, a place where boys didn’t expose themselves to girls who hadn’t done anything more than be born poor and ugly. It was about being accepted, about being loved.

“Fayrene gets a bit caught up in herself sometimes,” Miss Opal said from the doorway. “She wasn’t trying to be mean.”

But she was, anyway. Becky Lynn swiped at a tear, horrified at the show of emotion. After a moment, she looked up at the other woman. “Isn’t it all right to dream, Miss Opal? Is it so wrong to wish for something you know you can’t possibly—” Her throat closed over the words, and she shook her head.