The woman watched the three tables across the isle from her. Sounded like they'd all just graduated from high school. All those carefree years. What had happened to hers? These teens seemed to be filled with excitement about their futures. If they only knew.
Four really attractive young girls sat at the middle table; they were obviously the most popular. Seven or eight guys—jocks, no doubt—were all hovering over them exchanging yearbooks to sign. A few more less popular boys and girls at the farthest table were also passing around yearbooks. And then there was one boy, the apparent nerd, waiting patiently to hand his off. But was he patently being ignored?
Finally, they were all ready to depart. One of the popular girls took longer to gather her stuff while the others filed out. Seeing an opportunity, the nerd approached her.
"Angela, would you sign my book?" he asked.
She looked at him and rolled her eyes. "Oh, Louis." Her tone was less than gracious.
One of the jocks, Mike, returned. "Come on, Angela. Everyone is waiting." Then, to Louis, "Leave her alone, nerd."
Angela giggled at that. But she grabbed Louis' opened yearbook, scribbled something with a smirk, handed it back and quickly followed the jock out before Louis could read it.
At first, Louis Robbins seemed pleased—until he read what Angela wrote. Then he sank back in his chair, a picture of dejection.
Having witnessed the display, the woman was reminded of a similar time in her life. She wondered how much it had contributed to the path her life had taken. "You'll probably never see any of them again, anyway," she felt like she needed to tell Louis.
"Not as long as they think of me as they do," he responded looking up.
"No, because I'm sure you're destined for bigger things."
"What makes you say that?"
"I'm a pretty good judge of people."
"But you don't even know me."
"Then, why don't we change that?" she said, feeling sorry for him. "Join me."
Louis shrugged. Then he stood and stepped over to her table thinking that at least someone was being kind to him, more so than Angela, whom he'd had an attraction to for years. Although after what she wrote, he couldn't imagine why.
"Don't worry about her," the woman counseled. "She's just a small town girl who puts out for the jocks to be popular. She'll never amount to much more."
"More good judgment of people?"
"I know her type." Quickly sizing him up, the woman determined that, aside from the moppy haircut, black-rimmed glasses and the out of style clothes, he was not bad looking. With a make-over, he could probably be very handsome. When he sat, she removed her large sunglasses and her oversized beret, and then shook out her flaming red hair. His eyes widened and nearly popped out when she undid her jacket to reveal a tight-fitting, low-cut knit shirt that showed the tops of two perfectly round, really nice tits.
But the hair and breasts were not the eye-opener they should have been for a nerd like Louis Robbins, mainly because he had seen them before—on screen. His real surprise was in recognizing the woman to be a big porn star: Vermeil Chaleur.
The realization caused Louis' face to turn . . .
vermeil
. That was because it was an admission that he watched porn. No telling how many times he had jerked off watching her movies.
"Uh, oh, you recognize me," she noted, with a grin.
Absent-mindedly, Louis nodded, and that admission deepened his embarrassment.
"It's okay. I would have been disappointed if a—" she chose her words carefully "—young
man
your age—how old
are
you?"
"Nineteen," he said hoarsely.
"If you hadn't recognized me."
"What are you doing
here
?" he asked in an attempt to pull himself together. And despite his earlier thought about her hair and breasts, in actuality, seeing them, or what he could of them, in person,
was
thrilling.
"I grew up in this town." His stupefied reaction said he didn't believe her, so she added, "Everybody's got to be from somewhere."
"I think I would have heard if Vermeil Chaleur was from here."
"Surely, you realize that's not my real name." But the blank look on his face suggested he did not.
"I guess I thought you were really French," Louis admitted, his embarrassment sinking to new depths.
"Do you know what Vermeil Chaleur means?"
He shook his head.
"Red heat. It's a stage name." She gestured to the red hair. "A lot of people take sexually suggestive names as their porn labels."
Louis nodded and pointed to her head. "Is that your real color?"
"Only one way to tell for sure," Vermeil joked. Even though she shaved her pussy for the movies, she did leave a red strip of hair so everyone would know for sure.
But Louis didn't get it.
"We'll get to that later," she said, shrugging it off. "Are you really . . . what they accuse you of?"
"A nerd?" Louis shrugged, hanging his head. "We live in a society where jocks and cheerleaders are the cool people, and those like me who are good in science and computers and enjoy science fiction are considered nerds. If the cool people say something is, then it is."
Vermeil offered her warmest smile.
Hair, tits and persona aside, Louis found it her most appealing feature.
"I was where you are once," she confided. "Right here in this town. But I decided I was going to move beyond it."
"You
wanted
to be a porn star?" There was no hiding the incredulity in his voice.
She'd heard it before. "I don't think anyone sets out to do that. You're either in the right place at the right time, or the wrong place at the wrong time, depending on how you choose to look at it. For me, well, let's just say I was where I was, and here I am."
"Do you really enjoy it?"
It was a probing question that she'd asked herself many times, and even now at 40 years old, she wasn't sure she knew the answer. She stared out of the window to contemplate a response. "Some days you're glad you enjoy science and some days you want to be one of the so-called cool kids."
