Her hands were her best quality, no doubt about it. Everyone always said so. Ever since high school, everyone liked Carol’s hands. Long and well tapered, with small knuckles. Carol now forty, turned her hands into the light from the bathroom window, thinking how the years have been so kind to her hands.
“You should be a hand model,” said Maureen, her best friend in high school. She still remembered that class picnic when she said it as they sat on a blanket under a large oak near a stream. “There’s no such thing,” said Molly. “Yes, there is,” shot back Maureen. “Whose hands do you think wears those diamond rings in the magazines?”
“Uh, huh,” agreed Dorothy. “I heard those models make gobs of money.”
“That’s right,” said Maureen. “There are lots of pretty faces to be had, but pretty hands,” she paused for dramatic effect, “that’s something else.”
Carol thought Maureen was a great friend. She found something in an otherwise skinny, gangly girl with freckles to make her feel good about herself.
Carol had a tough time growing up. After her mother and father died in a car accident when Carol was only twelve, it was just her and her sister Cindy. Cindy was fifteen years older. She had a brother Paul who was just six years older, but when her parents died, Paul was already in the Air Force. After the funeral, she seldom saw Paul --. just Christmas cards and a postcard now and then. Cindy and Carol moved all the time and it was hard keeping in touch with them. Growing up, it was hard to make and keep friends; Carol was lonely.
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