17 WinnieWinnie was shaken. The white-painted, flat-roofed structure in front of her looked like the building five hundred miles to the south where heartless teachers had tortured her when she was thirteen years old.
Twenty tall windows along its rear side reflected sunshine in a glare that made her feel small and stupid. The cafeteria had to be behind some of them. She could smell Sloppy Joe sauce. The memory of free school lunch made her stomach churn.
To soothe herself, she concentrated on reknotting the flouncy tie at the hemline of her short-sleeve print shirt. The viscose fabric was silky against her fingers. She liked how the huge tropical flowers dressed up her black pencil-leg slacks. The pants had been part of her shampoo-girl uniform. She was a full-fledged stylist now and she
