Caroline’s mother had been an expert in makeup and its various applications.  A local beauty, she had seen the glittering stage of many pageants in their sleepy mid-western town.  Grace, beauty and a detailed knowledge of all things feminine was how nature had equipped her.  In each of her daughters she had instilled that same knowledge so that they could go forth secure in their own skills.  Each daughter able to turn a brighter side to the world, to work away with worries with the touch of a brush.  Caroline took comfort in the ritual of makeup and took solace in the ability to take back something distinctly feminine for herself.  Certainly there were writers and columnists that would tell her to celebrate being who she truly was, but they had never been able to beat the football captain of their high school in an arm wrestling match.<br/><br/>The trick of makeup was to look as if there was none.  Some occasions did call for decorations, such as the infamous Smokey eye that was plastered all over television.  Subtlety was more often than not the friend of any teenage girl; at least those were the words of her mother.  Around her other girls had tried t o experiment with the techniques with varying success.  Some used far too much blush to come across as clowns, while many others showed their insecurity with foundation to cover up perceived blotches.  There was definitely an art to the practice.  Caroline had made use of the brushes and containers to highlight the delicate structure of her face.  Planes of her cheeks were softly brushed and made smooth with the touch of powders, a hint of blush making them draw the eye.  The light color of red reflected on the tiers of her lips.  Her eyes of course lined and dressed to focus an onlooker’s attention to the deep brown gaze she held.<br/><br/>Yet for all her work and skill, her body was the area that would draw the most attention and remarks.  Not the hair that she painstakingly brushed each morning to give a shine.  Each strand pulled back into her pony tail to be tied with a blue ribbon.  Instead the height she commanded would draw the first gasps.  Her chest would find itself eye level with many of the younger boys and her face at the same height for the older.  Only the tallest or largest of the men could hope to stand above her.  For the other women there was rarely anyone that could rise up to her eye level.  Most of those women were on professional basketball teams.  From there the nature of the comments would steadily become focused on the muscular nature of her frame.<br/><br/>Veins were cast like cords down the length of her arm while she hoisted her book bag in one hand.  For her the satchel of books and supplies weighed near to nothing, yet the bulging pockets seemed another matter to those around her.  Biceps flexed when she hoisted the bag upward and over a passerby.  After the flash of lights and music, everyone’s adrenaline was pumping.  People were pushing and moving with a gusto they had lacked before.  A few collided with her considerable frame, registering a skirt as someone that could be easily moved.  Their curses were a testament to the opposite.  More than a few “excuse me sirs” touched her ears before she made her way outside the assembly.  People were gathering near the yogurt, but she did not push into the crowd to join them.  Instead she meandered on the outskirts, hoping the throng would dissipate so that she might indulge in what was left.<br/>