me at the drive-in to meet the high school boys.” It was Rooney all over again.
Priscilla and Pam, but especially Priscilla, attracted older boys. “Some of the freshman and sophomore boys thought she was the cutest little trick that ever walked and talked,” recalled Christine Laws. Soldiers on the base—grown men—ogled Priscilla at twelve and a half. “We used to ride the bus,” remembered Pam, “go to the root beer stand and to the PX. The soldiers all looked at her.” The magnet was Priscilla’s dainty doll-like features. “It was more her face than anything else,” agreed Cal White, who dated Priscilla in Austin. “She had the prettiest features I have ever seen in my life.” Even the boys’ mothers marveled at Priscilla. “Her eyes were outstanding,” Charlie Clements’s mother, Mary, remembers. “[The irises] had a dark ring around them.” Though she didn’t “put on airs,” as her friend Evangeline putit, Priscilla was obsessed with her appearance. A seventh-grade teacher recalled Priscilla opening her mirrored compact in class more often than her textbook. She and Pam handled the attention of their older admirers with aplomb. “They acted like they were twenty,” Taylor Keen remembered. “They were so much more sophisticated.”
For the first time in Priscilla’s childhood, the Beaulieus remained in the same city for three consecutive years, giving their daughter’s life a semblance of permanence. Yet Priscilla herself was not stable. She was still intensely competitive with her best friend, had become quite aggressive around boys, and was developing a finely honed ability to get what she wanted by manipulating others. As one close Texas friend put it: “You like her, you can enjoy her company, but you can’t feel one hundred percent sure of Priscilla. That’s just part of knowing her. And you just have to accept it.”
“She was kinda like a little honeypot,” said Mary Clements, who lived across the street, describing Priscilla at thirteen, the birthday she celebrated on her last day of seventh grade. “She liked older boys and she’d sit in the yard and watch while they played football on our front lawn.” Hoping to attract them, and succeeding. Overall, though, Priscilla was a popular girl in the popular crowd, a cheerleader who was great at the new dance craze, the twist, and friendly to all.
Until that summer, when everything changed.
It began like any other summer evening at the Beaulieus. Priscilla was baby-sitting for Don and Michelle, then six and three, while Paul and Ann attended a party. Bored, she wandered into her parents’ bedroom while her little brother and sister were asleep and began snooping through the closet, “mulling through things.” Her eyes fell on an old trunk buried in the back. Priscilla found herself drawn to it, strangely compelled to see what was inside. “And as I’m opening it,” she recalled, “I had this
unbelievable feeling.”
Inside, folded neatly on top, was an American flag, the type presented to widows of servicemen. Priscilla’s heart raced. “And I kept thinking, I shouldn’t be doing this. It was too private. But as I was exploring, I kept wanting to go on. But then something was saying, Don’t go any further! And I kept going further and further.”
Under the flag she found a cache of carefully preserved, yellowing love letters addressed to Rooney, her mother’s nickname as a girl, from someone named Jimmy; beside them were hermother’s passionate replies. Mesmerized, Priscilla reached inside the trunk for more. On the bottom was a sea of pictures—photographs she had never seen before of herself as a baby. Along with photos of herself alone and with her mother, she found a photograph of Ann beside a dark, handsome stranger as baby Priscilla lay in her arms. On the back, in her mother’s hand-writing, were the words, “Mommy, Daddy, Priscilla.” A chill ran down Priscilla’s spine as she studied the picture
Priscilla and Pam, but especially Priscilla, attracted older boys. “Some of the freshman and sophomore boys thought she was the cutest little trick that ever walked and talked,” recalled Christine Laws. Soldiers on the base—grown men—ogled Priscilla at twelve and a half. “We used to ride the bus,” remembered Pam, “go to the root beer stand and to the PX. The soldiers all looked at her.” The magnet was Priscilla’s dainty doll-like features. “It was more her face than anything else,” agreed Cal White, who dated Priscilla in Austin. “She had the prettiest features I have ever seen in my life.” Even the boys’ mothers marveled at Priscilla. “Her eyes were outstanding,” Charlie Clements’s mother, Mary, remembers. “[The irises] had a dark ring around them.” Though she didn’t “put on airs,” as her friend Evangeline putit, Priscilla was obsessed with her appearance. A seventh-grade teacher recalled Priscilla opening her mirrored compact in class more often than her textbook. She and Pam handled the attention of their older admirers with aplomb. “They acted like they were twenty,” Taylor Keen remembered. “They were so much more sophisticated.”
For the first time in Priscilla’s childhood, the Beaulieus remained in the same city for three consecutive years, giving their daughter’s life a semblance of permanence. Yet Priscilla herself was not stable. She was still intensely competitive with her best friend, had become quite aggressive around boys, and was developing a finely honed ability to get what she wanted by manipulating others. As one close Texas friend put it: “You like her, you can enjoy her company, but you can’t feel one hundred percent sure of Priscilla. That’s just part of knowing her. And you just have to accept it.”
“She was kinda like a little honeypot,” said Mary Clements, who lived across the street, describing Priscilla at thirteen, the birthday she celebrated on her last day of seventh grade. “She liked older boys and she’d sit in the yard and watch while they played football on our front lawn.” Hoping to attract them, and succeeding. Overall, though, Priscilla was a popular girl in the popular crowd, a cheerleader who was great at the new dance craze, the twist, and friendly to all.
Until that summer, when everything changed.
It began like any other summer evening at the Beaulieus. Priscilla was baby-sitting for Don and Michelle, then six and three, while Paul and Ann attended a party. Bored, she wandered into her parents’ bedroom while her little brother and sister were asleep and began snooping through the closet, “mulling through things.” Her eyes fell on an old trunk buried in the back. Priscilla found herself drawn to it, strangely compelled to see what was inside. “And as I’m opening it,” she recalled, “I had this
unbelievable feeling.”
Inside, folded neatly on top, was an American flag, the type presented to widows of servicemen. Priscilla’s heart raced. “And I kept thinking, I shouldn’t be doing this. It was too private. But as I was exploring, I kept wanting to go on. But then something was saying, Don’t go any further! And I kept going further and further.”
Under the flag she found a cache of carefully preserved, yellowing love letters addressed to Rooney, her mother’s nickname as a girl, from someone named Jimmy; beside them were hermother’s passionate replies. Mesmerized, Priscilla reached inside the trunk for more. On the bottom was a sea of pictures—photographs she had never seen before of herself as a baby. Along with photos of herself alone and with her mother, she found a photograph of Ann beside a dark, handsome stranger as baby Priscilla lay in her arms. On the back, in her mother’s hand-writing, were the words, “Mommy, Daddy, Priscilla.” A chill ran down Priscilla’s spine as she studied the picture
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