I met Heather in 6th grade. It was still the ‘80s. Her clothes, hair, and money fit the stereotype, but she was a kind person.
When grunge hit, everyone else shifted from preppy to flannel, but she came to school in business suits. She was the last holdout with the high exploding bangs.
We graduated in 1994. She won “best dressed” in our class. She looked like she belonged on TV as she received her award in a crisp white suit with a multiply-slitted skirt. Double-breasted, navy accents.
I was surprised to get an award myself—best attendance. Apparently, I hadn’t missed a day. I must not have gotten sick, and it hadn’t occurred to me to take a day off, even though I could have.
I hated being reminded of my adherence to my routines, and my terror of making waves.
Heather had missed a lot of days.
PS: I've started a new series called The Close Reader, where I examine short master works. For now, it's not going out as it's own newsletter. I'll just link the new entries at the bottom of my regular posts after they've come out. The first is my read of "Bullet in the Brain" by Tobias Wolff.