I strode into the office confidently to sit at my desk. My fingers gripped the pencil that had been ready and waiting—to take coffee orders or messages, of course—in front of my computer. I grabbed the stack of copy paper—unfortunately, the only paper within sight—and started scribbling. She blew into town like a cyclone. No one was prepared for it either. I heard Frank Goodman had a stroke when he first saw her. Legs a mile long, ginger hair that curled delicately to the small of her back and a smile that could generate enough energy to power Carltonville for months on end, she was easily a knockout. Unlike the other girls at Carltonville High School, though, she simply was what she was—a fact that caused the girls to hate her and the guys to want her. And by some stroke of luck, she was choosing to give me, the quiet writer guy, a chance. It didn’t add up, but I wasn’t going to dispute it. She was something to behold and for one night—four or five precious hours in time—she was choosing to let me in.
