She sits in front of me in algebra class, and her dark hair is right in front of my face. There’s no point tilting my head to see the board. I’m no closer to passing this time than I was the last two times I took this class. And I am fascinated by the silky strands of her hair, a color in between deep brown and black, a shimmering espresso. Even so, her name is Pearl, a word that conjures up ivory satin and innocence. Only the luminosity is on view. I would like to be friends with Pearl, but she is shrouded in an aloof dignity. You could say she has dignified bitch-face. I’ve never seen her walk with or talk to any of the other kids. So, is it just her beautiful hair? No, her outfit is stunning, a vintage A-line dress in crimson wool, a pair of boots no Madison High student can afford. People have made up lots of stories about her mom and how she earned the big A she wore on her chest. Anyway, you wonder why I might want to be friends with Pearl for her boots or her style or her hair. If I’m completely honest with myself, it’s all about her Mom’s A medal. I figure anybody whose mom is such a great mathematician that she won the Abel Prize can help me pass this class.
With thanks to Nathaniel Hawthorne's 'The Scarlet Letter'
Very nice!
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