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And Then She Stole My Sneakers
Revenge is a dish best served on the way out the door
In 1968 my family moved to Connecticut from Texas and all through the 1968–1969 school year, Ingrid Magnusson sat in the desk in front of me. This was seventh grade.
Her impossibly blond hair fell like a sheet of water from the top of her head and down over her shoulders, covering the knitted pattern of her Fisherman’s sweater and onto the edge of my desk. When I was sure no one was looking I would touch it where it rested within my reach and admire that there were no waves, no cowlicks, no split ends, no bed bumps. Just icy, near white perfection.
We did an experiment in science class one afternoon. The experiment was meant to illustrate osmosis. You put a stalk of celery into a glass filled with colored water and later, when you went back to check, the celery would be colored the same color as the colored water. I fantasized about dipping Ingrid Magnusson’s hair into the glass of colored water, sure that her locks were just as capable of osmosis as celery. Each strand of her hair must be a hollow tube and there was certainly no pigment blocking sunlight’s path.
My crush was not sexual. It was the greenest sort of envy.
Her legs were long and she wore tights in colors that matched the plaid in her skirts. A large, sterling silver pin…
