Twinkie and Taffy were twins. Hence, the name TWINkie, get it, hahahahaha. Their parents' laughing was sort of creepy. That's how they always first introduced her, their first born. Taffy, followed right after, named after what her mother craved for, and ate feverishly
during the girls' 7 month pregnancy. The girls were 13 but the smell of taffy still lingered in their house. We were neighbors so I knew.
I'd watch the girls pass by our kitchen window every morning as my mom always in her you're-going-to-be-late frenzy finished packing my lunch. Twinkie in the lead and Taffy following close behind. Both wearing the same clothes but in different colors and carrying their identical pink school bags. Ever so often my mom would catch a glimpse of them marching briskly along the sidewalk and mutter, those girls are so nice. To which I said nothing, since I took it she was implying, I wasn't.
And I had to admit that's what the girls were: nice. And that was about it: nice. Very dull in my opinion, but, apparently, dull and boring are very popular among adults. The girls were never late for school, never got into fights or trouble of any kind WHATSOEVER, at school or any other place for that matter. They sat in the front row in our class and always remembered to raise their hands to speak and could always smile when they got their tests back. Their sun-streaked blond hair was always brushed and tied back in perfect neat pony tails with colorful glittery rubberbands which matched their oufit.
Because they were nice, there was nothing we, meaning my friends and I, could ever say about them. The worst we could do was sort of spit out the sentence: Those girls are so nice. With cat spitting-like emphasis on the nice.
In my mind, nobody could be that nice. Especially in twos. There had to be something amiss somewhere. They must be mean, or bad or, at least, do something un-nice sometimes. I never verbalized these thoughts for there were times I thought my dislike of their niceness was just plain envy. Probably was, for what normal human being does not envy perfect. But the idea of catching them somehow doing something, ANYTHING, which wasn't nice began to take up most of my thoughts. And because I was 13 and lived in a very small town, my thoughts didn't vary much from boys, chocolate and riding my bike.
One day, after school, I got my dad's binoculars out from his treasured I-was-once-a-boy-scout drawer and kneeled in front of my bedroom window which looked over the girls' backyard. After months of rolling the thought of nobody can be that perfect in my mind, I decided it was time to prove my theory.
(to be continued)
I'd watch the girls pass by our kitchen window every morning as my mom always in her you're-going-to-be-late frenzy finished packing my lunch. Twinkie in the lead and Taffy following close behind. Both wearing the same clothes but in different colors and carrying their identical pink school bags. Ever so often my mom would catch a glimpse of them marching briskly along the sidewalk and mutter, those girls are so nice. To which I said nothing, since I took it she was implying, I wasn't.
And I had to admit that's what the girls were: nice. And that was about it: nice. Very dull in my opinion, but, apparently, dull and boring are very popular among adults. The girls were never late for school, never got into fights or trouble of any kind WHATSOEVER, at school or any other place for that matter. They sat in the front row in our class and always remembered to raise their hands to speak and could always smile when they got their tests back. Their sun-streaked blond hair was always brushed and tied back in perfect neat pony tails with colorful glittery rubberbands which matched their oufit.
Because they were nice, there was nothing we, meaning my friends and I, could ever say about them. The worst we could do was sort of spit out the sentence: Those girls are so nice. With cat spitting-like emphasis on the nice.
In my mind, nobody could be that nice. Especially in twos. There had to be something amiss somewhere. They must be mean, or bad or, at least, do something un-nice sometimes. I never verbalized these thoughts for there were times I thought my dislike of their niceness was just plain envy. Probably was, for what normal human being does not envy perfect. But the idea of catching them somehow doing something, ANYTHING, which wasn't nice began to take up most of my thoughts. And because I was 13 and lived in a very small town, my thoughts didn't vary much from boys, chocolate and riding my bike.
One day, after school, I got my dad's binoculars out from his treasured I-was-once-a-boy-scout drawer and kneeled in front of my bedroom window which looked over the girls' backyard. After months of rolling the thought of nobody can be that perfect in my mind, I decided it was time to prove my theory.
(to be continued)
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