Ann Macafee was one of those girls you dream about but never get.

She hung around with the "in" crowd, which was a mixture of atheletes, college-preps, and the stars of the drama club. You could see them at every lunch hour, all clustered around the big live-oak in the central quad, an invisible barrier of distain for all non-members seperating them from the general rabble. We all hated them. We all wanted to be them. They were the elite that just naturally floats to the top of every high school.

Ann Macafee was their Queen. She was the female lead of nearly every play the school put on. She dated the star of the football team (I know, that sounds corny, but it was true) and hung around with the kids-who-are-rich-and-will-be-richer. Her family lived in the foothills in a house that was just this side of an estate. She had it all, and she was beautiful.

Her beauty had that casual, effortless look. Her short brown hair, fine and fresh, framed a face that was almost a perfect match to that girl whose father owns the hotel in Twin Peaks (I say that now, though of course back then there was no Twin Peaks). Her body, always clothed in expensive wools and tweeds, was perfectly proportioned. Her firm high breasts looked like the models by which all other breasts are designed. Her round, tight ass gave only slightly when she perched on a chair. She had straight, dainty posture, and perfectly manicured hands. She was, in every sense, a perfect little doll. And she knew it.

Some people can put you down without saying a word – by the way they look at you, or avoid looking at you; or simply by the way they carry themselves. Ann was a perfect example. She was better than us, she seemed to say. She would glide through the halls, aloof and apart, her face a mask of calm seperateness, until she would spy another of the elite circle and her expression would break into a smile of pure warmth.