ABIGAIL LINDEN
White, gaunt, gangly fourth-grader. Nicknamed "Abraham Lincoln" by her classmates, most of whom (including me) she towered over by at least a foot. Brunette, with hair always in unraveling perm. Always wore shiny, primary-colored pantsuits that made her look like the middle-aged housewives in my mother's card club. Husky voice. Kept to herself, though perked up whenever the boys talked about sports, girls, Steve Austin, etc. I never talked to her; she seemed too imperious to me. She and her family moved away the summer of '76, and I haven't heard anything about her since.
1981-84
SARAH MACREADY
White, but on the pink side. Long blonde hair that undulated behind her. Wore pink sweaters depicting teddy bears, roses, or teddy bears holding roses. A bit doughy. Rabid Christian who never watched MTV, calling it "depraved and occultic" for some reasons I never bothered paying attention to. Went steady from grades ten through twelve with Russ Straughter�white as in Aryan, debate-team captain, even more rabid Christian and major closet-case himself. He had the smoothest hands of any boy in school, plus he actually had manicures. Speaking of hands, the lovebirds held hands every waking moment together in quite a theatrical way, phony smiles and overemphatic sweetness. Russ disappeared after graduation; Sarah studied stenography for six months at the community college, dropped out, moved to Charleston, married a Bible-thumping motivational speaker, had five kids, and amassed a fortune selling Mary Kay.
1985-86
MARCELLA QUINTERO
Half black, half Puerto Rican. Burnt-umber skin. Long, thick, black curly hair enveloping her face and neck. Troweled on the makeup. Wore skimpy Day-Glo mini-dresses, even in the winter. Hot-blooded Latins. Always wore high heels, even to the Laundromat. Thick Spanish accent. Worshipped Ronald Reagan, calling him "a kind, brave, patriotic man." I never even wasted my time thinking about him, and still haven't, until now. I met her my sophomore year of college, in my Studies in Site-Specific Art class. She majored in something called contemporary visual communication; I majored in nothing. When she'd eat my pussy, I'd catch her eyes darting furtively side-to-side. No public displays of affection for us lovebirds. She said leaving the closet could ruin her "social advancement," plus she said she had several jealous (and Republican) boyfriends, whom I never met. I had no choice but to play along with her secretiveness; I craved her voluptuous body. She went back to Puerto Rico during spring break, allegedly to visit her family, and never returned. No warning, no explanation. I also went back home at the time, in a last-ditch effort to forge some emotional bond with my family. She left no forwarding address or phone number.
1998-present
TAMMIE TILSDALE
White, with mysterious pasty-white splotches on her forearms. Blonde hair in garish tint, in pageboy cut. Obvious brown roots. She actually sprays pastel makeup onto her face with a tiny battery-powered airbrush she keeps in her purse. Round figure in baggy beige blouses and shapeless gray skirts. Evangelical Christian, with small, crocheted white cross hanging in her cubicle. She crocheted the cross herself. Mid-40s, married 20 years, three kids. Millionth closet-lezbo supervisor I've had, at the millionth telemarketing job I've had since moving to this long-dead industrial town a million years ago.
END
Heterosexuals, gay men, lesbians, the transgendered, and that creepy neighbor who wears paisley dickeys can all go to Fiction or to Home.
� 2002 David V. Matthews