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For as long as she lived, Virginia Curtis had followed her heart. Its song was louder than that of a sparrow chirping under the morning sun or the low nighttime hoots of a burrowing owl. She had always prided her autonomy, though the consequences of what may come from her devotion to passion and preserving her freedom could turn the brightest day into the darkest of storms.
The tea was hot on Virginia's tongue, sending painful shockwaves against her tastebuds. She tried not to scrunch her nose behind the aromatic steam although she knew very well her mouth would be sore for the next few days.
Mrs. Reed was as prim and proper as any other wife of a rich proprietor in their area. Virginia remembered seeing her once or twice at some school functions though she always had this nervousness to her in the way she clutched her purses and fiddled endlessly with a handkerchief. Ever since Bob Sheldon, she had become quite fearful for her son's safety and preferred he returned early from other Socs' beer blasts.
Virginia wondered how well she was convincing the skittish woman that she wasn't a greaser like the boy who wielded the switchblade that fateful night. By the way she daintily raised that teacup to her innocently pink-colored lips with utmost etiquette and grace to the numerous pins securing her hair in a modestly mature updo, she was proud to say she was doing a great job at covering her tracks. When she looked in the mirror, she saw the perfect picture of Soc beauty staring back at her. Not a hair was out of place, each lock twisted to make the rose that sat properly on the nape of her neck.
When Virginia was young and prior to that fateful day where she raised that switchblade to her long locks, she would watch her mother sit in front of a mirror and style her hair. She always lost track of how many pins would disappear in those golden curls and she longed for the day she would be mature enough to wear her hair up. She wondered what her mother would think now as she stood in the mirror of her soon-to-be-husband's house, feeling nothing more than a husk of the spirited woman who lost grip on the roots of her home. Nothing else made her wish she could tie her hair into braids that would fall apart as she gallivanted and felt the sunlight tickle her skin.
Mrs. Reed's curly brown hair was streaked with wispy gray in the front like her husband. He was an intimidating man who commanded a room with gravitas. Virginia made an effort not to look him in the eye for longer than a few seconds lest she burst into flames. His demure but frazzled wife kept her hands folded on top of each other and Virginia silently noted the number of visible greenish veins poking through her fragile alabaster skin. Her bony fingers wrapped around a cucumber-and-rye tea sandwich that didn't nourish her frail body. Thomas sat at a respectable distance from her, adjacent to his father who held a matching glass tumbler of bourbon. Virginia smiled softly, knowing full well the young man who sipped on that bitter amber liquid was the same to cheekily smuggle beer in an unsuspecting flask at school dances.
"I must say, Virginia darling, you certainly have grown up. It's quite remarkable," Mrs. Reed spoke in her shrill voice. "I was so sorry to hear about your parents. Such an awful thing, I say and you must excuse me for not expressing my condolences earlier."
