Heated Driveway Quotes

You’re awfully quiet.” Her head snapped the other way, heat creeping up into her cheeks as she focused on the ocean below. “Just waiting for all of this to sink in.” “Oh.” He chuckled. “I was hoping you were staring at me because you liked what you saw.” Clio grinned, shaking her head. “I thought you were concentrating on the road.” He pulled into a cobblestone driveway. The truck vibrated as they rumbled over the uneven surface. When he stopped in front of a cottage, he turned off the engine and met her eyes. “I have a hard time concentrating on anything but you when you’re around.” Her heart pounded. “No one’s ever had that problem around me before.” “I call bullshit.” He rolled his eyes. “I’ve been wishing you’d notice me since the day we met.” Her jaw dropped. “I always notice you. Why do you think I’m at the theater site so often?” He reached over to run a finger along her jawline. “You’re beautiful, Clio. But you’re so busy with your books and reading about the past, you must not notice the effect you have on everyone in the present.

About three things I was absolutely positive. First, Edward was a vampire. Second, there was part of him—and I didn’t know how potent that part might be—that thirsted for my blood. And third, I was unconditionally and irrevocably in love with him. 10. INTERROGATIONS IT WAS VERY HARD, IN THE MORNING, TO ARGUE WITH THE PART of me that was sure last night was a dream. Logic wasn’t on my side, or common sense. I clung to the parts I couldn’t have imagined—like his smell. I was sure I could never have dreamed that up on my own. It was foggy and dark outside my window, absolutely perfect. He had no reason not to be in school today. I dressed in my heavy clothes, remembering I didn’t have a jacket. Further proof that my memory was real. When I got downstairs, Charlie was gone again—I was running later than I’d realized. I swallowed a granola bar in three bites, chased it down with milk straight from the carton, and then hurried out the door. Hopefully the rain would hold off until I could find Jessica. It was unusually foggy; the air was almost smoky with it. The mist was ice cold where it clung to the exposed skin on my face and neck. I couldn’t wait to get the heat going in my truck. It was such a thick fog that I was a few feet down the driveway before I realized there was a car

Minutes later, we were back at the sliding glass door that led inside the house--me, leaning against the glass, Marlboro Man anchoring me there with his strong, convincing lips. I was a goner. My right leg hooked slowly around his calf. And then, the sound--the loud ringing of the rotary phone inside. Marlboro Man ignored it through three rings, but it was late, and curiosity took over. “I’d better get that,” he said, each word dripping with heat. He ran inside to answer the phone, leaving me alone in a sultry, smoky cloud. Saved by the bell, I thought. Damn. I was dizzy, unable to steady myself. Was it the wine? Wait…I hadn’t had any wine that night. I was drunk on his muscles. Wasted on his masculinity. Within seconds, Marlboro Man was running back out the door. “There’s a fire,” he said hurriedly. “A big one--I’ve got to go.” Without pausing, he ran toward the pickup. I stood there, still dazed and fizzy, still unable to feel my knees. And then, just as I was beginning to reflect on the utter irony that a prairie fire may have just saved my eternal soul from burning in hell for carnal sin, Marlboro Man’s pickup flew into reverse and screeched abruptly to a halt at the edge of The Porch--our porch. Rolling down his window, he leaned out and yelled, “You comin’?” “Oh…um…sure!” I replied, running toward the pickup and hopping inside. A prairie fire. A real, live prairie fire, I thought as Marlboro Man’s diesel pickup peeled out of his gravel driveway. Cool! This’ll be so neat! Moments later, as the pickup reached the top of the hill by his house, I could see an ominous orange glow in the distance. I shuddered as I felt a chill go through me.

With Marlboro Man’s strong hands massaging my tired shoulders, I walked in front of him down the narrow porch toward the driveway, where my dusty car awaited me. But before I could take the step down he stopped me, grabbing a belt loop on the back of my Anne Kleins, and pulling me back toward him with rapid--almost shocking--force. “Woooo!” I exclaimed, startled at the jolt. My cry was so shrill, the coyotes answered back. I felt awkward. Marlboro Man moved in for the kill, pulling my back tightly against his chest and wrapping his arms slowly around my waist. As I rested my arms on top of his hands and leaned my head back toward his shoulder, he buried his face in my neck. Suddenly, September seemed entirely too far away. I had to have this man to myself 24/7, as soon as humanly possible. “I can’t wait to marry you,” he whispered, each word sending a thousand shivers to my toes. I knew exactly what he meant. He wasn’t talking about the wedding cake. I was speechless, as usual. He had that effect on me. Because whatever he said, when it came to his feelings about me or his reflections on our relationship, made whatever I’d respond with sound ridiculously…lame…bumbling…awkward. If ever I said anything to him in return, it was something along the lines of “Yeah…me, too” or “I feel the same way” or the equally dumb “Aww, that’s nice.” So I’d learned to just soak up the moment and not try to match him…but to show him I felt the same way. This time was no different; I reached my arm backward, caressing the nape of his neck as he nuzzled his face into mine, then turned around suddenly and threw my arms around him with every ounce of passion in my body. Minutes later, we were back at the sliding glass door that led inside the house--me, leaning against the glass, Marlboro Man anchoring me there with his strong, convincing lips. I was a goner. My right leg hooked slowly around his calf. And then, the sound--the loud ringing of the rotary phone inside. Marlboro Man ignored it through three rings, but it was late, and curiosity took over. “I’d better get that,” he said, each word dripping with heat. He ran inside to answer the phone, leaving me alone in a sultry, smoky cloud. Saved by the bell, I thought. Damn. I was dizzy, unable to steady myself. Was it the wine? Wait…I hadn’t had any wine that night. I was drunk on his muscles. Wasted on his masculinity.

I stand so abruptly that Leiza startles. “If Violet wants to find me, I’ll be outside chopping wood,” I tell her, causing her to choke back a sound that suspiciously resembles a smothered laugh. When I eye her, she’s the picture of seriousness, nodding once again. “Of course, Alpha,” she says so graciously. Tearing my shirt over my head, I toss it to the ground. Leiza’s phone rings, and she puts it aside. “A vampire is calling me. That can’t be good,” she says as she meets my eyes, almost asking for permission to answer Shera’s call. “They’re trying to reach me. Not you. They can kiss my ass. I need a minute to deal with this.” “I thought you were tired and going to get some sleep,” Leiza states, and then swallows down whatever else is on the tip of her tongue. “I’m no longer tired,” I point out dryly. Another nod from Leiza, and I walk out shirtless to go chop some fucking wood for the fireplace Violet rarely ever uses. There’s an axe wedged into one of the piles of wood near the chopping block, making this simpler than expected, so I get to work. Before I can even make one small pile, Damien is wheeling into the driveway, barely putting the brake on, before he hops out. His eyes narrow on me, and then his brow furrows. It’s when his lips start to twitch that I bristle, feeling a little too transparent. “Didn’t realize you’d gotten this pathetic, mongrel,” he drawls. “And here I thought our calls were being ignored so you could have Violet to yourself.” “I’m holding an axe,” I warn him. “Not a Van Helsing axe,” he volleys with a growing grin. The side door swings open for Violet as she walks out, eyeing me first from my spot near the sidewalk by the street, and then Damien next. “What’re you doing shirtless?” she asks, looking back over at me. “It’s like ten degrees out here. People are going to think that’s weird.” Damien restrains a smile. “You were almost out of wood,” I tell her, gesturing to the…fucking full wood chamber on the side of her house. I couldn’t squeeze another piece in there if I wanted to. Violet glances from it, to me, to Damien, and then to the wood again. “Tiara keeps it filled, and we hardly use it, since the heat is on…” She lets her words trail off, clearly confused. Damien outright grins. “Just what are you doing, exactly?” Damien muses. Tossing the axe to the ground, I glare over at him. “Why are you here?

Hey,” he said, his hand gently rubbing my back. I heard the diesel rattle of vehicles driving away from the scene. “Hey,” I replied, sitting up and looking at my watch. It was 5:00 A.M. “Are you okay?” “Yep,” he said. “We finally got it out.” Marlboro Man’s clothes were black. Heavy soot covered his drawn, exhausted face. “Can I go home now?” I said. I was only halfway kidding. And actually, I wasn’t kidding at all. “Sorry about that,” Marlboro Man said, still rubbing my back. “That was crazy.” He gave a half-chuckle and kissed my forehead. I didn’t know what to say. Driving back to his house, the pickup was quiet. My mind began to race, which is never good at five in the morning. And then, inexplicably, just as we reached the road to his house, I lost it. “So, why did you even take me there, anyway?” I said. “I mean, if I’m just going to ride in someone’s pickup, why even bring me along? It’s not like I was any help to anyone…” Marlboro Man glanced over at me. His eyes were tired. “So…did you want to operate one of the sprayers?” he asked, an unfamiliar edge to his voice. “No, I just…I mean…” I searched for the words. “I mean, that was just ridiculous! That was dangerous!” “Well, prairie fires are dangerous,” Marlboro Man answered. “But that’s life. Stuff like this happens.” I was cranky. The nap had done little to calm me down. “What happens? You just drive right into fires and throw caution to the wind? I mean, people could die out there. I could have died. You could have died! I mean, do you realize how crazy that was?” Marlboro Man looked straight ahead, rubbing his left eye and blinking. He looked exhausted. He looked spent. We arrived in his driveway just in time to see the eastern sun peeking over the horse barn. Marlboro Man stopped his pickup, put it into park, and said, still looking straight ahead, “I took you with me…because I thought you’d like to see a fire.” He turned off the pickup and opened his door. “And because I didn’t want to leave you here by yourself.” I didn’t say anything. We both exited the pickup, and Marlboro Man began walking toward his house. And then, still walking, he said it--words that chilled me to the bone. “I’ll see you later.” He didn’t even turn around. I stood there, not knowing what to say, though deep down I knew I wouldn’t have to. I knew that just as he’d always done anytime I’d ever been rendered speechless in his presence, he’d speak up, turn around, come to my rescue, hold me in his arms…and infuse love into my soul, as only he could do. He always swooped in to save me, and this time would be no different. But he didn’t turn around. He didn’t speak up. He simply walked toward the house, toward the door on his back porch--the same porch door where, hours earlier, he and I had stood in a complete fit of romance and lust, where the heat between us was but a foreshadowing of the fire waiting for us in that distant prairie.

Every Saturday, heat or cold, rain or shine, Milly would see Avery running up their road, her long blond ponytail swishing in time with her legs, just as the sun was making gemstones out of the fields and the hills and the bales of hay scattered across the landscape. Twiss would still be snoring away upstairs. Years of sleep remedies had failed to subdue her; she still slept like a wild animal and woke like one, too. On warm mornings, Milly would take her cup of tea out to the porch to watch Avery run by. Though she'd never been a runner herself- she didn't like the sensation of breathlessness, or the hard thunk of her heart- she'd loved to watch Twiss run. And Avery was an even better runner than Twiss had been, and certainly more graceful. She'd run first on the Spring Green high school team and then on the university team and now was training to run the marathon in the Olympic trials. In an interview, when a reporter from the 'Gazette' asked her why she ran, Avery said, "Why does anybody do anything?" which had made Milly like Avery even more. Each Saturday morning, after she passed the driveway, Avery would pick up speed in order to crest the upcoming hills. Sometimes she ran with a yellow music player and matching headphones, but most of the time, she ran without them. "Something comes in and something goes out," Avery had added in the interview, as if she'd been playing at being coy but couldn't really play when it came to running. "I'd keep running forever if my legs would let me." "Tell me about the routes you run in Spring Green," the reporter had said. "My favorite is my Saturday route," Avery said. "There's this little purple meadow I pass on my way up into the hills. When I was little, my grandpa used to say it was enchanted. He said if you walked through it, you'd never be the same person again." "Where did he hear the story?" the reporter asked. "I guess he used to know the people who lived in that house," Avery said. "The bird sisters?" the reporter said. "All I know is, when I pass that meadow, suddenly I can run faster," Avery said. "Are you superstitious?" "I visualize the meadow during all of my races, if that's what you mean." "Have you ever walked through it?" "I believe in it too much," Avery said. "Can you be more specific?" the reporter asked. "No," Avery said.

soppy smile, but he couldn't help it.  "I'm so glad," he said simply. "Clara's expecting pancakes," Patricia reminded him.  She was so delightfully down-to-earth. Lee swept up his shirt.  "Yes! Pancakes!"  He would stick to the original plan.  A ring with her pancakes, and he'd have Clara there for the moment; all of the most precious people in his life together at once. He rehearsed the moment in his head as they walked down the stairs to the kitchen, and imagined the words and Clara's laughter as he mixed up the pancake batter and heated the griddle.  He was wrapped up in his busy mind until he brought the first stack of cakes to the table–and found Clara setting it for two. "Where is Miss Patricia?" he asked, suddenly aware that she wasn't there, that he couldn't sense her nearby. Clara looked at him with big blue eyes, alarmed at his surprise.  "She drove away!" Lee let the plate of pancakes fall the last few inches to the table and land with a clatter.  "When?  Where?" "In her car!" Clara supplied helpfully.  "She said she had to go." Lee ran the distance to the front door in a matter of seconds, but the car was long gone, tracks in the snow showing her hasty escape.  He stood there with the door open, cold air swirling over his bare feet.  The sound of a car near the tree-shrouded bottom of the driveway gave him a moment of hope, but it moved away down the road.  He'd read her wrong.  Finding out he was a shifter had changed her mind about him.  Mate or not, she didn't want the complication that he was in her life.  This was their goodbye then; a cold, empty driveway and uneaten pancakes.  Lee stood there until Clara drew him back inside by the knees, complaining of the cold that he didn't even feel anymore. PATRICIA FLEW DOWN the driveway much faster than she knew she should, trusting her Subaru to stick to the road and power her through the wet, drifting snow. "I ought to have waited for the snowplows,

In the usual iconography of the temple or the local Wok you would never see him doing such a thing, tossing the dry snow over the mountain of his bare, round shoulder, his hair tied in a knot, a model of concentration. Sitting is more his speed, if that is the word for what he does, or does not do. Even the season is wrong for him. In all his manifestations, is it not warm and slightly humid? Is this not implied by his serene expression, that smile so wide it wraps itself around the waist of the universe? But here we are, working our way down the driveway. one shovelful at a time. We toss the light powder into the clean air. We feel the cold most on our faces. And with every heave we disappear and become lost to each other in these sudden clouds of our own making, these fountain-bursts of snow. This is so much better than a sermon in church, I say out loud, bud Buddha keeps on shoveling. This is the true religion, the religion of snow, and sunlight and winter geese barking in the sky, I say, but he is too busy to hear me He has thrown himself into shoveling snow as if it were the purpose of existence, as if the sign of a perfect life were a clear driveway you could back the car down easily and drive off into the vanities of the world with a broken heater fan and a song on the radio. All morning long we work side by side, me with my commentary and he is inside the generous pocket of his silence, until the house is nearly noon and the snow is piled high all around us; then, I hear him speak. After this, he asks, can we go inside and play cards? Certainly, I reply, and I will heat some milk and bring cups of hot chlorate to the table while you shuffle the deck, and our boots stand dripping by the door. Aaah, says the Buddha, lifting his eyes and leaning for a moment on his shovel before he drives the fun blade again deep into the glittering white snow.

We had been looking at some land adjoining the zoo and decided to purchase it in order to expand. There was a small house on the new property, nothing too grand, just a modest home built of brick, with three bedrooms and one bathroom. We liked the seclusion of the place most of all. The builder had tucked it in behind a macadamia orchard, but it was still right next door to the zoo. We could be part of the zoo yet apart from it at the same time. Perfect. “Make this house exactly the way you want it,” Steve told me. “This is going to be our home.” He dedicated himself to getting us moved in. I knew this would be our last stop. We wouldn’t be moving again. We laid new carpet and linoleum and installed reverse-cycle air-conditioning and heat. Ah, the luxury of having a climate-controlled house. I installed stained-glass windows in the bathroom with wildlife-themed panes, featuring a jabiru, a crocodile, and a big goanna. We also used wildlife tiles throughout, of dingoes, whales, and kangaroos. We made the house our own. We worked on the exterior grounds as well. Steve transplanted palm trees from his parents’ place on the Queensland coast and erected fences for privacy. He designed a circular driveway. As he laid the concrete, he put his own footprints and handprints in the wet cement. Then he ran into the house to fetch Bindi and me. “Come on,” he said. “Let’s all do it.” We grabbed Sui, too, and put her paw prints in, and then did Bindi, who was just eight months old. It took a couple of tries, but we got her handprints and her footprints as well, and then my own. We stood back and admired the time capsule we had created. That afternoon the rains came. The Sunshine Coast is usually bright and dry, but when it rains, the heavens open. We worried about all the concrete we had worked on getting pitted and ruined. “Get something,” Steve shouted, scrambling to gather up his tools. I ran into the house. I couldn’t find a plastic drop cloth quickly enough, so I grabbed one of my best sheets off the bed. As I watched the linen turn muddy and gray in the rain, I consoled myself. In the future I won’t care that I ruined the sheet, I thought. I’ll just be thankful that I preserved our footprints and handprints. “It’s our cave,” Steve said of our new home. We never entertained. The zoo was our social place. Living so close by, we could have easily gotten overwhelmed, so we made it a practice never to have people over. It wasn’t unfriendliness, it was simple self-preservation. Our brick residence was for our family: Steve and me, Bindi, Sui, and Shasta.

I told you not to bother coming. Scott or Travis would have shown up eventually, and now you’re all here,” she grumbles. I see my dad’s head pop into the doorway opening. “Did Lloyd make it?” he asks, searching the driveway with his eyes. My car is actually my dad’s old car from when he was a teenager. He kept it all this time, first giving it to Scott, and then when Scott upgraded to a dependable Toyota he gave the little hatchback to me. I can’t afford to get a new car, but even if I could choose, I would still choose Lloyd. I’ve always been a daddy’s girl and we talk about Lloyd more than is probably healthy. It drives my mother crazy. “Was there any doubt?” I say. “It’s going to take more than a little snow to keep that bad boy down.” Though a heat wave will do it from a cracked radiator, but we both choose not to mention it. My mother rolls her eyes. “Make yourself comfortable you two,” I say. “You’re in for a treat today.” My mother raises her eyebrows at my excited tone. “We’re racing to clear the driveway,” I say with a grin. “Etty, why do you do this to yourself? When have you ever won?” My mother shakes her head and gives me a pitying look. “I’m stronger than I look!” I argue. “I know honey,” she says. “But those boys double you in weight andstrength.” “I’m quicker,” I say, though with not as much conviction as before. She might have a point here. My dad looks amused by the whole thing. “I’ll go boil the kettle, get you some warm water for your tongue,” she offers before going back into the house. “Give ’em hell, honey,” Dad says, winking before closing the door.

So can I tell her owner that we’ll help Lola?” Charles finally asked his mom. She had not been happy to hear that he and his friends had taken someone’s dog, and she had interrupted his story more than a few times to let him know it. She sighed, but Charles knew what that sigh meant. It meant “yes,” as long as Dad agreed. And Dad always agreed. Charles grinned and told her he’d call her back as soon as he knew more. Then he gave his friends a thumbs-up. “We can take her,” he said. “Not so fast,” said David’s father. He gathered Lola into his arms and stood up. “First we have to go talk to her owner.” Outside, the storm was over but the sky was still filled with low, dark clouds. They piled into David’s parents’ tiny red car. David held Lola in his lap as his dad drove back to the blue house on Maple Street. It didn’t look so empty now: some of the curtains were open, and a white truck was parked in the driveway outside the garage. “ ‘Reliable Rod’s Plumbing and Heating,’ ” Charles read from the side of the truck. “ ‘Twenty-four-hour service.’ ” He knew what “reliable” meant: that this plumber was somebody you could count on. He wasn’t sure that this Rod was so reliable when it came to dogs.

Love Worn In a tavern on the Southside of Chicago a man sits with his wife. From their corner booth each stares at strangers just beyond the other's shoulder, nodding to the songs of their youth. Tonight they will not fight. Thirty years of marriage sits between them like a bomb. The woman shifts then rubs her right wrist as the man recalls the day when they sat on the porch of her parents' home. Even then he could feel the absence of something desired or planned. There was the smell of a freshly tarred driveway, the slow heat, him offering his future to folks he did not know. And there was the blooming magnolia tree in the distance— its oversized petals like those on the woman's dress, making her belly even larger, her hands disappearing into the folds. When the last neighbor or friend leaves their booth he stares at her hands, which are now closer to his, remembers that there had always been some joy. Leaning closer, he believes he can see their daughter in her eyes

Justus emerged from the thick shadows and I could almost see the heat licking off him. This was a man built for battle, whose strong arms could wield swords, whose hands could expunge life from an enemy’s throat. He was bigger than life as he strode forward, carrying an air of authority that made the trees quake. Those glittering cobalt eyes promised pain and punishment. Justus threw back his broad shoulders as if he were leading an army. The teeth of his boots bit into the earth as he neared the driveway.

Mom and Dad decided to drive out into the country to get some apple cider at Whipple’s Orchard. They asked if we wanted to come along. We said we’d rather stay home with Grandma. Then, as soon as they pulled out of the driveway, we begged Grandma to take us somewhere. “My turn! My turn! I want to visit her!” “Why, Liz, what a great choice! That’s Remember Allerton. She was your grandpa’s great-great-great-great-well, I forget exactly how many greats it was--aunt. She was one of the Pilgrims who came over on the Mayflower.” “Remember? What a weird name!” “That’s nothing! I know a dog named Sparkplug.” When you travel back in time, you have to put on the kind of clothes that people wore back then. If you don’t, they’ll think you’re really strange. “I have to wear three layers? I’ll bake!” “Trust me, Lenny. You’ll be happy to have them. No central heating, you know.” “Hey, I thought Pilgrims always wore black suits and big hats with buckles on them.” “Nope. They dressed like ordinary working people of their time--and they liked to wear colors, same as anybody else. Of course, on Sundays they put on their best suits and fancy collars.

Drake and Jake stand in the garage as I finish the long walk up the driveway. The chill of my skin evaporates the moment his intense eyes connect with mine. Electricity, present from day one. heats my insides, awakening a thousand butterflies in my stomach. I stand in the rain, not moving another inch, and he doesn't move or smile, either. He just remains stock still with his feet frozen to the garage floor. His eyes are intense, almost pleading to hear what I have to say.

By February 15 we will spread the empty sacks in the driveway in a big circle. In the middle we’ll pile provisions for the trail. I know from experience that the quantity of dog supplies will be shocking: seven hundred pounds of beef, six hundred of kibble, twenty-five hundred booties, to name a few. Everything will be bundled in small usable parcels. There will be 55 one-gallon bags of frozen beef sliced thin like pieces of bread. Thirty-five bags of salmon slices. A hundred and ten quart-sized bags holding five sets of booties in each. My musher supplies will also be plentiful. I’ll have packed thirty gallon-sized bags with my own food, and another thirty with personal items such as glove liners, heat packs, batteries, neck gaiters, and socks.

The heat is a living breathing thing that climbs through windows and creeps into kitchens. It follows people to work and at queues in the bank and on trains home. It crouches in bedrooms, growing restless until at night in fury it throttles those sleeping, leaving them gasping for breath. It sweeps through the streets and bursts open pipes, smashed open green guavas, and splits apart driveways. It burns off fingerprints and scorches hair and makes people forget what they were doing and where they are going so that they wander around beating their heads.

My mother, who somehow managed to stay politically active while raising four children, roped me into canvassing door-to-door for Tom Bradley, Sam Yorty’s opponent for mayor, in our precinct in Woodland Hills. Bradley would be, if he won, the first black mayor of L.A., so it felt like a historic election. Bradley polled well in our precinct, and we were optimistic. Then Yorty won the election, and the precinct breakdowns showed that our neighbors had evidently been lying when they told us canvassers that they would vote for Bradley. It was a well-known phenomenon, apparently, among white voters, these voting-booth reversals. Still, I was outraged, and my cynicism about organized politics and the broad mass of what I was learning to call the bourgeoisie deepened. Robert Kennedy was assassinated, as everyone knows, on the night of the 1968 California primary. I watched the news on a small black-and-white TV, sitting cross-legged on the foot of my girlfriend’s bed. Her name was Charlene. We were fifteen. She was asleep, believing I had left after our evening’s usual heated, inconclusive cuddle. I had stopped, however, to watch the TV after I saw that Kennedy had been shot. It was after midnight and Charlene’s parents were out watching the voting results with friends. They were Republican Party activists. I heard them pull in the driveway and come in the house. I knew that Charlene’s father, who was an older man, always came in to kiss her good night, and I knew, well, the way out her window and how to catfoot it down to the street. Still, I sat there, unthinking yet cruelly resolved, until the bedroom door opened. Her father did not have a heart attack at the sight of me, calmly watching TV in my underwear, though he could have. I snatched up my clothes and dived out the window before he said a word. Charlene’s mother called my mother, and my mother gave me a serious talk about different types of girls, emphasizing the sanctity of “good girls,” such as Charlene, who belonged to some debutante club. I was embarrassed but unrepentant. Charlene and I had never had much to talk about.