The Truth is Bad Enough: What Became of the Happy Hustler? by Michael Kearns

makeover. For one thing, she needed to let her hair grow. Bigger hair was in order. The longer it got, the more creative I could be, finding many elaborate ways to make her more glamorous.
    In terms of my reinvention, I would often choose my friends, especially the male ones, based on their physicality, hoping to assimilate some of their beauty by osmosis. Guys like Terry Greenberg, a very handsome young man with dark hair and a face of perfectly symmetrical contours.

CHAPTER 11                
    Terry was my best friend, my worst enemy, my nemesis and my main competition. In other words, Terry was probably my first boyfriend.
    Terry wanted to be an actor, too, but did not have the benefit of Miss Epstein’s tutelage when we both auditioned for a community theater production of Critic’s Choice , the Ira Levin Broadway hit that was now making it to the hinterlands.
    There were at least a dozen other high-strung boys vying for the role, which demanded an expansive emotional range. Because of the role’s requirements and taking the actor’s age into consideration, the part would be double cast.
    The chosen actors would alternate in the weekend performances. Terry and I both got the part, heightening our evolving bond. Our similarities cemented our relationship while simultaneously threatening it.
    Miss Vineyard, our fifth-grade teacher, was probably most aware of the complicated dynamics that existed between Terry and me since she observed us several hours a day, five days a week.
    A bit of a floozy, Miss Vineyard wore more lipstick and higher heels than any other teacher in our elementary school. She also had a habit of wearing a black—or red!—bra under a light-colored flimsy blouse. She was the only woman I knew who was sexier than my mom.
    “I want to have a little talk with you,” she said, in that soothing two-packs-a-day baritone that some women in the Fifties didn’t regret having. When all the other kids, including Terry, had vacated the classroom, Miss Vineyard focused all of her attention on me. I had never noticed how big her breasts were.
    “I’d like you to do something for me,” she said. “Tomorrow I want you to stand back and observe your friend Terry very closely throughout the day. And at the end of the school day, I want you to ask yourself if that’s how you want people to see you.”
    She let it sink in as she reached into her purse for a tube of cherry red lipstick and applied it, almost in slow motion. Then she smiled, like a movie actress in a close-up.
    “That’s all, darlin’,” she said, a bit archly, sounding almost like a haughty drag queen and tossing the lipstick in her bag, as if she’d just taught me a geometry equation rather than a life lesson I would never forget.
    I said nothing, maybe not even “thank you.” As instructed, the following day I carefully studied my buddy’s every move. He was loud and desperate, constantly demanding everyone’s attention without ever really connecting to anyone.
    Was Miss Vineyard suggesting that I acted like that? Yes, of course she was, and she cared enough about me to tell me.
    At the conclusion of the day, as everyone was storming out of the classroom, I deliberately walked slowly enough so that I could make eye contact, thanking her without words.
    To this day, I don’t know why she chose me over Terry. Maybe it was arbitrary. For years I told myself it was because I showed more potential. But at some point I realized that she could have gone through the same machinations with Terry, having him observe me.
    It didn’t matter. I learned that I needed to lessen the volume on my quest to be accepted. The additional benefit was to know that she cared; to know that I mattered to the fifth-grade teacher with high, high heels.
    Miss Ellis, my sixth-grade instructor, could not have been a greater contrast to the flashy Miss Vineyard. Fulfilling the stereotype of the old-maid teacher, she wore flowered print dresses that