Polo Shirt Quotes

He dropped his pants and went at it looking like Winnie-the-Pooh in his red polo shirt.

At this, Gansey rolled over onto his back and folded his hands on his chest. He wore a salmon polo shirt, which, in Blue’s opinion, was far more hellish than anything they’d discussed to this point.

Larry had brought me blue jeans, a red polo shirt, jogging socks, my white Nikes, an extra cross from my suitcase, the silver knives, the Firestar complete with inner pants holster, and the Browning and its shoulder holster. He'd forgotten a bra, but hey, except for that it was perfect.

I never said this was your fault, Woods. But when did you become the Angel of Drama?” Smiling, he stares at his crossword book. “What’s a five-letter word for polo participant?” “I dunno, man…a shirt? Like a polo shirt?” •••

The female guard in R&D explained that they had no women's street clothes, so she gave me the smallest pair of men's jeans they had, a green polo shirt, a windbreaker, and a cheap pair of fake-suede lace-up shoes with thin plastic soles. They also provided me with what she called "a gratuity": $28.30. I was ready for the outside world.

You enjoy solitude?" she asked, leaning her cheek on her hand. "Traveling alone, eating alone, sitting off by yourself in lecture halls..." "Nobody likes being alone that much. I don't go out of my way to make friends, that's all. It just leads to disappointment.” The tip of one earpiece in her mouth, sunglasses dangling down, she mumbled, "'Nobody likes being alone. I just hate to be disappointed.' You can use that line if you ever write your autobiography." "Thanks," I said. "Do you like green?" "Why do you ask?" "You're wearing a green polo shirt." "Not especially. I'll wear anything." "'Not especially. I'll wear anything.' I love the way you talk. Like spreading plaster nice and smooth. Has anybody ever told you that?" "Nobody," I said.

The first day of kindergarten when the little boy in a blue polo shirt had sat next to me and told me he’d be my friend when I couldn’t stop crying after my dad had dropped me off. The boy who’d brought me a tray of brownies, a stack of movies, and sat with me on the couch all week after I broke my leg in fifth grade. The boy who’d blushed whenever I talked to him or looked his way when we became teenagers. The same boy who made it his business to make sure all the other boys treated me right.

Hey,' he said, touching my waist. 'Hey. It's okay.' I nodded and wiped my face with the back of my hand. 'He sucks.' I nodded again. 'I'll write you an epilogue,' Gus said. That made me cry harder. 'I will,' he said. 'I will. Better than any sh*t that drunk could write. His brain is Swiss cheese. He doesn't even remember writing the book. I can write ten times the story that guy can. There will be blood and guts and sacrifice. An Imperial Affliction meets The Prince of Dawn. You'll love it.' I kept nodding, faking a smile, and then he hugged me, his strong arms pulling me into his muscular chest, and I sogged up his polo shirt a little but then recovered enough to speak.

Sup, Andrews?” he says. ’Sup? He’s a white boy in a polo shirt. ’Sup is he’s a poser. I don’t respond.

Walked past me, his shoulders filling out his green knit polo shirt, WATCH IT AGAIN!

So, okay ka na? Aba, dapat lang ‘no? Pagkatapos mong basain ang polo shirt ko at pagkatapos kitang yakapin, dapat lang na maging okay ka na.

Luckily, I had been dressed in my all-purpose crime-fighting gear. Superman has his blue tights. I had my blue jeans, sneakers and polo shirt. Good

aggressively green polo shirt.

in a teal polo shirt could perish of anything other than heart disease at age eighty-six, possibly at a polo match.

Marcus was Chuck Norris in an off-pink polo shirt.

My father worked behind closed doors inside the house, had a huge ancient Latin dictionary on a wrought-iron stand, spoke Spanish on the phone, and drank sherry and ate raw meat, in the form of chorizo, at five o'clock. Until the day in the yard with my playmate I thought this was what fathers did. Then I began to catalog and notice. They mowed lawns. They drank beer. They played in the yard with their kids, walked around the block with their wives, piled into campers, and, when they went out, wore joke ties or polo shirts, not Phi Beta Kappa keys and tailored vests.

Her laughter sounded like music. “What, you don’t hang out with missionaries in your downtime? When the rest of us go home and slip into sweatpants and T-shirts, you kick back in a polo shirt and khakis.” No one but Isaiah and Beth teased me. People ran from me. Yet this little nymph thoroughly enjoyed this game. “Keep it up, Echo. I’m all about foreplay.” She laughed so loudly, she slapped a hand over her mouth, yet the giggles escaped. “You are so full of yourself. You think because girls swoon over you and let you into their pants on the first try that I’ll follow suit. Think again. Besides, I have your number now. Every time you try to look all dark and dangerous, I’ll picture you wearing a pink striped polo, collar up, and a pair of pleated chinos.”

That night he got up out of bed and put on his maroon polo shirt, which everyone said he looked so handsome in, and went downstairs and drove off in his car, where he did not know. He just drove.

That night he got up out of bed and put on his maroon polo shirt, which everyone said he looked so handsome in, and went downstairs and drove off in his car, where he did not know. He just drove.

That night he got up out of bed and put on his maroon polo shirt, which everyone said he looked so handsome in, and went downstairs and drove off in his car, where he did not know. He just drove.

New Rule: Let the Pope be Pope. An animal-rights group in Italy has asked Pope Benedict to give up his fur-trimmed cape and hat. To which the Pope replied, "Don't be hatin' on my cape, bitch." Sorry, but Popes are the original divas, they invented bling, they've been wearing outlandish outfits for a thousand years--almost as long as Elton John. The clothes, the jewels, the fancy palace...Those aren't just symbols of the Papacy, they are the Papacy. The day the Pope shows up on the balcony in a pair of jeans and polo shirt is the day a billion Catholics go, "What the hell were we thinking?

Jobs described Mike Markkula's maxim that a good company must "impute"- it must convey its values and importance in everything it does, from packaging to marketing. Johnson loved it. It definitely applied to a company's stores. " The store will become the most powerful physical expression of the brand," he predicted. He said that when he was young he had gone to the wood-paneled, art-filled mansion-like store that Ralph Lauren had created at Seventy-second and Madison in Manhattan. " Whenever I buy a polo shirt, I think of that mansion, which was a physical expression of Ralph's ideals," Johnson said. " Mickey Drexler did that with the Gap. You couldn't think of a Gap product without thinking of the Great Gap store with the clean space and wood floors and white walls and folded merchandise.

Everyone in yuppie-land — airports, for example — looks like a nursing baby these days, inseparable from their plastic bottles of water. Here, however, I sweat without replacement or pause, not in individual drops but in continuous sheets of fluid soaking through my polo shirt, pouring down the backs of my legs ... Working my way through the living room(s), I wonder if Mrs. W. will ever have occasion to realize that every single doodad and objet through which she expresses her unique, individual self is, from another vantage point, only an obstacle between some thirsty person and a glass of water.

I moved to Chicago in 1992 to study improv and it was everything I wanted it to be. It was like a cult. People ate, slept, and definitely drank improv. They worked at crappy day jobs just to hand over their money for improv classes. Eager young people in khakis and polo shirts were willing to do whatever teachers like Del Close and Martin de Maat told them to. In retrospect, it may actually have been a cult.

Dickie has a unique ability to forage deep into the peripheries of the perverse and come back, polo shirt collar popped and grinning like a guy in a beer commercial, like life is just one big, hilarious frat boy stunt.

During one of our infrequent dinners, he had a revelation. After an awkward pause, he stammered, “I’m afraid I ruined your life.” It was the closest he ever got to admitting fault. He looked so small underneath his too-big white polo shirt. He had always been fragile, but now he looked it. “You’re very lucky,” I said. “I turned out fine.” But still, he must have had the sense that there were amends to be made. Because months later, he asked me, “What can I do to be closer to you?” “I don’t know,” I said. “Make a list,” he replied. “Make me a list of what you want, and give it to me, and I’ll do it.” I never made the list. I didn’t make the list because I was confused about what to put on it. What would fix things? Was there really anything that could make up for what had happened?

He lifted his gaze to hers. "I have a lot of other things I should be doing, but I'm here." He stared into her eyes for several heartbeats before he returned his attention to the big box. "I've tried to stay away. After you threw me out of the house, I thought it was probably for the best. You're a distraction, and I don't need a distraction right now." He handed the screwdriver back to her and ripped the box open with his big hands. "I've got tapes I need to review, and plays I need to go over in my head before today's practice, yet here I am. Putting baby furniture together for you because I can't get you out of my head. I plug in a tape, and all I do is think about you." He peeled back the cardboard and reached for the instruction sheet that had fallen to the floor. "But the thing is, Adele, I'm not really sure whether you want me to be here or not." His polo shirt pulled out of the waistband of his Levi's and slid up the tan muscles of his back. He straightened and looked at her over the top of the instructions. "I don't know what you want.

Through the open drapes behind the nightstand, moonlight pouring through shadowy leaves fell haphazardly on the plastic bag full of shattered memories of his wife. He sat down on the bed, a dark silent gaze spreading over his face. Opening the bag released the flowery scent of licorice and violets—Summer’s signature perfume, Lolita Lempicka. He remembered she always said the aroma reminded her of childhood lullabies, fairies, and magic kingdoms. Matt buried his face in the tattered polo shirt she was wearing that day inhaling the faint trail of his lost love.

Homeschooling? What was she thinking? All I could envision were those religious families, the ones with the little girls wearing Amish dresses and the boys with their slicked-back hair and matching polo shirts. I’d seen groups of them at the mall, following their mother single file, pretending it was a field trip.

expression on his face. He’s in his early thirties, tall and broad-shouldered, dressed in jeans, a black polo shirt, and black flip-flops. With his short brown hair, reddish goatee, and sideburns, McHugh looks like a typical Gen Xer, but he speaks in the soothing, considered tones of a college professor. McHugh doesn’t preach or worship at Saddleback, but we’ve chosen to meet here because it’s such an important symbol of evangelical culture. Since services are just about to start, there’s little time to chat. Saddleback offers six different “worship venues,” each housed in its own building or tent and set to its own beat: Worship Center,

Blaine, basketball, football and baseball are for commoners, the lower ninety-nine percent. We need our own thing to play when we’re not sitting around talking about our family’s money. You’re right Sterling, How about a game called lacrosse? It’s a cross between an actual sport and just being fancy like la-dee-da. That’s why we call it lacrosse. We could wear polo shirts….

blue jeans by Armani, a white Polo shirt, an Armani sport coat, no tie, hair slicked back with Thompson mousse; since it’s drizzling, a pair of black waterproof lace-ups by Manolo Blahnik; three knives and two guns carried in a black Epi leather attaché case ($3,200) by Louis Vuitton; because it’s cold and I don’t want to fuck up my manicure, a pair of Armani deerskin gloves.

He was looking at me in complete innocence and I didn’t know what to say. A part of me wanted badly to tell him what was going on, and I suppose I knew that to do anything else would be to betray the trust we’d built up since the moment I’d reminded him about his polo shirt. And for me to strap up his arm in a splint would have meant my becoming one of the main perpetrators of the joke.

Then Toraf opens the passenger side door…Wait. That’s not Toraf. I’ve never seen this man before, yet he’s eerily familiar. His silhouette sitting next to Galen was definitely classic Syrena male, but the glare from the sun had hidden his face. I’d naturally just assumed that where there’s a Galen, there’s a Toraf. Now that his face is in full view though, I see that this man looks like a slightly older version of Galen. Slightly older as in slightly more jaded. Other than that, he could be his twin brother. It may be because he’s wearing some of Galen’s clothes, a wrinkled brown polo shirt and plaid shorts. But he shares other things, too, besides clothes. He’s handsome like Galen, with the same strong jaw and the same eyebrow shape and the way he’s wearing the same expression on his face that Galen is-that he’s found what he’s been looking for. Only, the stranger’s expression clearly divulges that he’s been looking for a lot longer than Galen has-and this man is not looking at me. And that’s when I know just exactly who he is. That’s when I believe the look in Galen’s eyes. That he didn’t lie to me, that he loves me. Because this man has to be Grom. Mom confirms it with a half cry, half growl. “No. No. It can’t be.” Even if she weren’t handcuffed to Rachel right now, I’m not sure she’d actually be able to move. Disbelief has a special way of paralyzing you. With every step the man takes toward Rachel’s car, he shakes his head more vigorously. It’s like he’s deliberately taking his time, drinking in the moment, or maybe he just can’t believe this moment is actually happening. Yep, disbelief is a cruel hag.

It was the real loose-sausage-eating, brown-liquor-drinking Southern face of a white athlete turned forty and covered with a smooth well-fed layer of flesh. His neck, which seemed a foot wide, rose up out of a yellow polo shirt and a blue blazer as if it were unit-welded to his trapezius muscles and his shoulders. He was like a single solid slab of meat clear up to his hair, which was a head of hair and a half, a strange silvery blond color, coiffed with bouncy fullness and little flips that screamed $65 male hairdo. Not a single cilium was out of place. Amid the vast smooth meat of his head and neck, his eyes and his mouth seemed terribly tiny, but they were both going all out to register pleasure at the sight of Counselor Roger White, this black man who had arrived at the door at 7:42 on Freaknic Saturday night.

It's the little things that make you want to kill someone, the way Milo drinks Diet Dr Pepper and ties his Jewfro in a bun and lifts his shirt to show off his stomach and wipes his glasses down even though they're not dirty. Yes, Milo got glasses, and seafoam green Topsiders, and a navy blue Polo-style shirt with a popped collar, and didn't I already kill this guy when he was schilling Home Soda and fucking Guinevere Beck?

These were my countrymen, these were the new Californians. With their bright polo shirts and sunglasses, they were in paradise, they belonged. But down on Main Street, down on Towne and San Pedro, and for a mile on lower Fifth Street were the tens of thousands of others; they couldn't afford sunglasses or a four-bit polo shirt and they hid in the alleys by day and slunk off to flop houses by night. A cop won't pick you up for vagrancy in Los Angeles if you wear a fancy polo shirt and a pair of sunglasses. But if there is dust on your shoes and that sweater you wear is thick like the sweaters they wear in the snow countries, he'll grab you. So get yourselves a polo shirt boys, and a pair of sunglasses, and white shoes, if you can. Be collegiate. It'll get you anyway. After a while, after big doses of the Times and the Examiner, you too will whoop it up for the sunny south. You'll eat hamburgers year after year and live in dusty, vermin-infested apartments and hotels, but every morning you'll see the mighty sun, the eternal blue of the sky, and the streets will be full of sleek women you never will possess, and the hot semi-tropical nights will reek of romance, you'll never have, but you'll still be in paradise, boys, in the land of sunshine. As for the folks back home, you can lie to them, because they hate the truth anyway, they won't have it, because soon or late they want to come out to paradise, too.

The elevator opened up to the apartment’s lobby—the apartment had its own lobby—and Todd was there to meet him in a polo shirt and mid-thigh shorts. He was probably five-ten. Yes, Todd, Toby thought, but when was the last time you were blown in a stairwell? “How is the good doctor?” he said, putting his hand out and grabbing Toby’s and pumping it so that his body moved like a tide he was fighting against. “I’m doing okay.” This was the kind of soft, pampered bro that Rachel wished he were. This was what Rachel would have preferred.

That night he got up out of bed and put on his maroon polo shirt, which everyone said he looked so handsome in, and went downstairs and drove off in his car, where he did not know. He just drove. ..drove around in that crimson glow of doughnut shops and new-car showrooms, in which all things, cars, faces, bodies, gleam with an otherworldly light, and he kept driving—never admitting what he was about—until he came to Dupont Circle and there he stopped and got out under the green trees and met a man and went into the park and blew him.

That night he got up out of bed and put on his maroon polo shirt, which everyone said he looked so handsome in, and went downstairs and drove off in his car, where he did not know. He just drove. (...)drove around in that crimson glow of doughnut shops and new-car showrooms, in which all things, cars, faces, bodies, gleam with an otherworldly light, and he kept driving—never admitting what he was about—until he came to Dupont Circle and there he stopped and got out under the green trees and met a man and went into the park and blew him.

Da waren vier junge muskulöse Männer in kurzen T-Shirts und hautengen Jeans und ich raubte ihnen gerade ihr letztes bisschen Verstand. Einem Teil in mir gefiel, wie die vier Typen mich so anstarrten. Und es war vielleicht auch nicht der beste Teil meiner selbst, dem dies gefiel.

Oh, crap. The last person she wanted to run into this morning when she had to be super-professional was Hot Pool Guy. Before she had a chance to hide behind a plant or something, his gaze connected with hers and held her hostage. He flashed a smile and headed her way. Shit. She got to her feet thinking she'd say a quick hello before telling him she was meeting someone and excuse herself. Look away from those amazing dark eyes before you get yourself in trouble. She forced her attention down. And found a logo on the breast pocket of his white polo shirt. Word. Heritage. Fund. Kill her now.

I told him it would be a week, seven to ten days to get a new line. He said through his teeth he needed an exact day. I gave him my supervisor's number. This whole time, his wife was in the kitchen wiping a clean counter. I was filling out the work orders and emailing my supervisor to give him a heads-up on a possible call from a member of every cable tech's favorite rage cult when his wife knocked on my van window. She stepped back and called me "ma'am." Which was nice. Her husband with the tucked-in polo shirt had asked my name and I told him Lauren. He heard Lawrence because it fit what he saw and asked if he could call me Larry. Guys like that use your name as a weapon. "Larry, explain to me why I had to sit around here from one to three waiting on you and you show up at 3:17. Does that seem like good customer service to you, Larry? And now you're telling me seven to ten days? Larry, I'm getting really tired of hearing this shit." Guys like that, it was safer to just let them think I was a man. She said she was sorry about him. I said, "It's fine." I said there really wasn't anything I could do. She blinked back the flood of tears she'd been holding since god knows when. She said, "It's just, when he has Fox, he has Obama to hate. If he doesn't have that . . . " She kept looking over her shoulder. She was terrified of him. "I'm sorry," she said. "I just need him to have Fox." I got out of my van.

The sharpie uniform is perhaps the most unlikely fashion statement you will ever see, a Frankenstein’s monster of baby-doll plucked eyebrows, skinhead-meets-mullet hair, 1970s fat ties and just a hint of bovver boy. Clothes worn too tight and too small. Kerry had prepared a shopping list: • bluebird earrings • three-inch Mary Jane corkie platform shoes • treads (shoes made using recycled tyres for the sole with suede thonging for the upper) • Lee canvas jeans • beachcombers • short white bobby socks • ribbed tights • a short, flared, preferably panelled skirt • satin baggies • a striped Golden Breed t-shirt or a KrestKnit polo shirt • a tight coral necklace from the surf shop • a Conti brand striped cardigan • blue metallic eye shadow from a small pot or a crayon

It has been over forty years since the Gay Liberation Front first took trans seriously, but the gay men who wore those shirts with the polo players or alligator emblems didn't want trans people as the representation of their community. Their revisionist history has been accepted into popular culture because they were the ones with connections to publishers, the influence, as well as the money and time to sit back and write about what "really" happened.

I left you with my address and you wrote me a gorgeous letter, but you included a photograph of yourself in a blue Polo shirt. "In front of my car," you'd written on the back, and the car was a cherry-red Lamborghini, but it was clearly also in motion, driving away from you. I was naïve but not entirely so, and it made me sad to think that you believed I'd believe this. And so I never answered, and I never discovered whether your gentleness that afternoon was truly kindness for a bedraggled stranger, or whether you were the predator two decades have taught me you might have been. But this is the power of memory: the person who owns it can morph it to her desire. I'd like to judge you for the intense courtliness with which you treated me, the conversation, the sunlight in which we sat. I won't ever know the truth, but I choose to believe you were good and that your arrival took me away from worse. So thank you, Enrico Ferrante, for what didn't happen, for what you didn't do, for what I didn't find in that menacing dreamland of Palermo, for the way your gentle intervention sent me away.

When Sebastian, cearly delighted to be treated like one of the guys, didn't move, Alex bared his teeth. "Depeche-toi!" Sebastian depeched. Alex turned back, all Cheshire cat smile. "No," I said. "No what?" "No,you are not going to teach me all the cool words so I can go to Chamonix and be conversational." "Good." He leaned in so I could see the faint dusting of freckles on his nose and smell spearmint gum. "Chamonix is so 1990s. Everyone who is anyone goes to Courchevel these days." I turned on my heel and started to walk off. "Jeez. Ella." He loped after me. "What if your problem? Conversational, my ass. Talking to you is like dancing around a fire in paper shoes." I stopped. "What is that supposed to mean?" "It's an expression my Ukranian babushka likes. I'll explain it at our first turtoring session." I scowled at his shirt. This one had what looked like a guy riding a dolphin instead of the ubiquitos alligator or polo player. "There isn't going to be a tutoring session." "Winslow seems to think otherwise." "Wouldn't be the first thing she's wrong about," I muttered. He gave an impressive sigh. The dolphin lurched, but the little guy on it held tight. "You don't want to fail French, do you? That would be a serious admission of weakness from an Italian girl." I almost smiled. Instead, I announced. "Fuhgeddaboudit. I'll buy a 'Teach Your Poodle French in Ten Easy Lessons' online. Problem solved, and Winslow will never be the wiser." "Yeah. Good luck with that. So how's this Friday? I don't have practice." When I shook my head, he demanded, " What is it? I'm a good tutor. Ask Sebastian. I was just teaching him how to tell the obnoxious French dudes on the slopes that they suck.

What are you doing?” “Coming to pick you up in a little bit,” he said. I loved it when he took charge. It made my heart skip a beat, made me feel flushed and excited and thrilled. After four years with J, I was sick and tired of the surfer mentality. Laid-back, I’d discovered, was no longer something I wanted in a man. And when it came to his affection for me, Marlboro Man was anything but that. “I’ll be there at five.” Yes, sir. Anything you say, sir. I’ll be ready. With bells on. I started getting ready at three. I showered, shaved, powdered, perfumed, brushed, curled, and primped for two whole hours--throwing on a light pink shirt and my favorite jeans--all in an effort to appear as if I’d simply thrown myself together at the last minute. It worked. “Man,” Marlboro Man said when I opened the door. “You look great.” I couldn’t focus very long on his compliment, though--I was way too distracted by the way he looked. God, he was gorgeous. At a time of year when most people are still milky white, his long days of working cattle had afforded him a beautiful, golden, late-spring tan. And his typical denim button-down shirts had been replaced by a more fitted dark gray polo, the kind of shirt that perfectly emphasizes biceps born not from working out in a gym, but from tough, gritty, hands-on labor. And his prematurely gray hair, very short, was just the icing on the cake. I could eat this man with a spoon. “You do, too,” I replied, trying to will away my spiking hormones. He opened the door to his white diesel pickup, and I climbed right in. I didn’t even ask him where we were going; I didn’t even care. But when we turned west on the highway and headed out of town, I knew exactly where he was taking me: to his ranch…to his turf…to his home on the range. Though I didn’t expect or require a ride from him, I secretly loved that he drove over an hour to fetch me. It was a throwback to a different time, a burst of chivalry and courtship in this very modern world. As we drove we talked and talked--about our friends, about our families, about movies and books and horses and cattle.

EVEN BEFORE HE GOT ELECTROCUTED, Jason was having a rotten day. He woke in the backseat of a school bus, not sure where he was, holding hands with a girl he didn’t know. That wasn’t necessarily the rotten part. The girl was cute, but he couldn’t figure out who she was or what he was doing there. He sat up and rubbed his eyes, trying to think. A few dozen kids sprawled in the seats in front of him, listening to iPods, talking, or sleeping. They all looked around his age…fifteen? Sixteen? Okay, that was scary. He didn’t know his own age. The bus rumbled along a bumpy road. Out the windows, desert rolled by under a bright blue sky. Jason was pretty sure he didn’t live in the desert. He tried to think back…the last thing he remembered… The girl squeezed his hand. “Jason, you okay?” She wore faded jeans, hiking boots, and a fleece snowboarding jacket. Her chocolate brown hair was cut choppy and uneven, with thin strands braided down the sides. She wore no makeup like she was trying not to draw attention to herself, but it didn’t work. She was seriously pretty. Her eyes seemed to change color like a kaleidoscope—brown, blue, and green. Jason let go of her hand. “Um, I don’t—” In the front of the bus, a teacher shouted, “All right, cupcakes, listen up!” The guy was obviously a coach. His baseball cap was pulled low over his hair, so you could just see his beady eyes. He had a wispy goatee and a sour face, like he’d eaten something moldy. His buff arms and chest pushed against a bright orange polo shirt. His nylon workout pants and Nikes were spotless white. A whistle hung from his neck, and a megaphone was clipped to his belt. He would’ve looked pretty scary if he hadn’t been five feet zero. When he stood up in the aisle, one of the students called, “Stand up, Coach Hedge!” “I heard that!” The coach scanned the bus for the offender. Then his eyes fixed on Jason, and his scowl deepened. A jolt went down Jason’s spine. He was sure the coach knew he didn’t belong there. He was going to call Jason out, demand to know what he was doing on the bus—and Jason wouldn’t have a clue what to say. But Coach Hedge looked away and cleared his throat. “We’ll arrive in five minutes! Stay with your partner. Don’t lose your worksheet. And if any of you precious little cupcakes causes any trouble on this trip, I will personally send you back to campus the hard way.

He owned an apricot polo shirt, and ironed it himself. Yes, he was probably gay.

I WAS wearing jeans and a slightly grubby polo shirt, partly to remind Koblenz that I wasn’t on official Stoddard Associates business. And to let him know I wasn’t playing by the rules of the suit-and-tie world. Also because it was more comfortable than a suit.

EVEN BEFORE HE GOT ELECTROCUTED, Jason was having a rotten day. He woke in the backseat of a school bus, not sure where he was, holding hands with a girl he didn’t know. That wasn’t necessarily the rotten part. The girl was cute, but he couldn’t figure out who she was or what he was doing there. He sat up and rubbed his eyes, trying to think. A few dozen kids sprawled in the seats in front of him, listening to iPods, talking, or sleeping. They all looked around his age…fifteen? Sixteen? Okay, that was scary. He didn’t know his own age. The bus rumbled along a bumpy road. Out the windows, desert rolled by under a bright blue sky. Jason was pretty sure he didn’t live in the desert. He tried to think back…the last thing he remembered… The girl squeezed his hand. “Jason, you okay?” She wore faded jeans, hiking boots, and a fleece snowboarding jacket. Her chocolate brown hair was cut choppy and uneven, with thin strands braided down the sides. She wore no makeup like she was trying not to draw attention to herself, but it didn’t work. She was seriously pretty. Her eyes seemed to change color like a kaleidoscope—brown, blue, and green. Jason let go of her hand. “Um, I don’t—” In the front of the bus, a teacher shouted, “All right, cupcakes, listen up!” The guy was obviously a coach. His baseball cap was pulled low over his hair, so you could just see his beady eyes. He had a wispy goatee and a sour face, like he’d eaten something moldy. His buff arms and chest pushed against a bright orange polo shirt. His nylon workout pants and Nikes were spotless white. A whistle hung from his neck, and a megaphone was clipped to his belt. He would’ve looked pretty scary if he hadn’t been five feet zero. When he stood up in the aisle, one of the students called, “Stand up, Coach Hedge!” “I heard that!” The coach scanned the bus for the offender. Then his eyes fixed on Jason, and his scowl deepened. A jolt went down Jason’s spine. He was sure the coach knew he didn’t belong there. He was going to call Jason out, demand to know what he was doing on the bus—and Jason wouldn’t have a clue what to say. But Coach Hedge looked away and cleared his throat. “We’ll arrive in five minutes! Stay with your partner. Don’t lose your worksheet. And if any of you precious little cupcakes causes any trouble on this trip, I will personally send you

I'm the death investigator," the man said in a dry voice. He was wearing gray chinos, plain black walking sneakers, a tucked-in white short-sleeved polo shirt with a pen inserted on the placket, and a gray windbreaker. His head was slightly over-large and his hair was thinning. If he was going for the look of 'quietly angry engineer who will one day explode,' or 'DI by day, super-villain by night,' he had succeeded.

Tony Lamas and fitted polo shirt. And that growing sense

tan cargo shorts, navy blue Polo golf shirt,

You used Neverleak,” Shelley said, eyeing my craftsmanship with a skeptical frown. “The sale’s on Stay-Tite.” Shelley was the store manager, and her slumped shoulders and dour expression were as much a part of her uniform as the blue polo shirts we all had to wear.

each thread can transmit electrical currents…so that Americans will one day…be able to recharge their cellphones with their polo shirts…. Technologically Enabled Clothing…has developed [a vest that conceals]…a “hydration system,” a back pocket for a water bottle with a straw running through the vest’s collar

The IT kids all wore off-brand Polo shirts and New Balance tennis shoes and the same smug look.

college boys working to return to school down South; older advocates of racial progress with Utopian schemes for building black business empires; preachers ordained by no authority except their own, without church or congregation, without bread or wine, body or blood; the community "leaders" without followers; old men of sixty or more still caught up in post-Civil-War dreams of freedom within segregation; the pathetic ones who possessed nothing beyond their dreams of being gentlemen, who held small jobs or drew small pensions, and all pretending to be engaged in some vast, though obscure, enterprise, who affected the pseudo-courtly manners of certain southern congressmen and bowed and nodded as they passed like senile old roosters in a barnyard; the younger crowd for whom I now felt a contempt such as only a disillusioned dreamer feels for those still unaware that they dream -- the business students from southern colleges, for whom business was a vague, abstract game with rules as obsolete as Noah's Ark but who yet were drunk on finance. Yes, and that older group with similar aspirations, the "fundamentalists," the "actors" who sought to achieve the status of brokers through imagination alone, a group of janitors and messengers who spent most of their wages on clothing such as was fashionable among Wall Street brokers, with their Brooks Brothers suits and bowler hats, English umbrellas, black calfskin shoes and yellow gloves; with their orthodox and passionate argument as to what was the correct tie to wear with what shirt, what shade of gray was correct for spats and what would the Prince of Wales wear at a certain seasonal event; should field glasses be slung from the right or from the left shoulder; who never read the financial pages though they purchased the Wall Street Journal religiously and carried it beneath the left elbow, pressed firm against the body and grasped in the left hand -- always manicured and gloved, fair weather or foul -- with an easy precision (Oh, they had style) while the other hand whipped a tightly rolled umbrella back and forth at a calculated angle; with their homburgs and Chesterfields, their polo coats and Tyrolean hats worn strictly as fashion demanded. I could feel their eyes, saw them all and saw too the time when they would know that my prospects were ended and saw already the contempt they'd feel for me, a college man who had lost his prospects and pride. I could see it all and I knew that even the officials and the older men would despise me as though, somehow, in losing my place in Bledsoe's world I had betrayed them . . . I saw it as they looked at my overalls.

weekend hardware shopping clothes: jeans and polo shirts.

Just then someone called his name and he turned and saw the torn and colorless polo shirt, the slacks that couldn’t be patched any more. He saw the sunken-cheeked cadaver, the living waste of time and effort that added up to the face and body of his younger brother.

That look, Blue thought. Ronan Lynch would do anything for Gansey I probably would, too, she thought. It was impossible for her to understand how he managed to pull off such an effect in that polo shirt.

Beau is gorgeous in those fitted jeans and a tight polo shirt that shows off the impeccable shape of his muscled shoulders, but he knows how gorgeous he is and that’s what kills his appeal. If only he finished off the look with a touch of humility, he’d be a ten.

I tugged at the collar of my shirt. It was a dark gray color, rolled up at the sleeves; worlds away from my usual football jersey or polo shirt. But I wanted tonight to be perfect which is why I’d called Flick asking her for some advice. Taking a deep breath, I knocked on Hailee’s door, praying to God she opened it and not her mom, or even worse Mr. Ford. It swung open and my heart skipped a beat. Hailee stood there in a denim skirt, a white t-shirt that scooped low on her chest, and wedged sneakers. Her dirty blonde hair was piled high on her head, her glasses keeping the loose strands off her face. It was simple, understated, but I’d never seen anything more beautiful. “Hey,” I finally said, finding my voice. “I got you these.” Thrusting the box of brownies at her, I rubbed the back of my neck. “Have you been speaking to Flick again?” Her brow quirked up. “Maybe.” I smiled. “She mentioned you liked them when I came by... but we didn’t get around to eating them.” Hailee’s cheeks flushed a deep shade of red, her eyes darkening. I leaned in, unable to resist the pull, and kissed her cheek. “I missed you.

At the age of ten I was threatened by a switchblade-wielding lad who is today the president of a prestigious local bank. At the age of nineteen I watched a gang of Kansas City’s most privileged, in their uniform madras shorts and polo shirts, snort cocaine at a party in some local grandee’s sprawling Tudor-baronial pile. Growing up here teaches the indelible lesson that wealth has some secret bond with crime—also with drug use, bullying, lying, adultery, and thundering, world-class megalomania.

Amir is in his element. There are guys decked out in designer clothes, anything from crocodiles and polo players etched on shirts with collars to Versace, Balenciaga and D&G printed on their chests. Girls even more so. He fits right in with The Great Gatsby crowd.

During one of our infrequent dinners, he had a revelation. After an awkward pause, he stammered, “I’m afraid I ruined your life.” It was the closest he ever got to admitting fault. He looked so small underneath his too-big white polo shirt. He has always been fragile, but now he looked it. “You’re very lucky,” I said. “I turned out fine.” But still, he must have had the sense that there were amends to be made. Because months later, he asked me, “What can I do to be closer to you?” “I don’t know,” I said. “Make a list,” he replied. “Make a list of what you want, and give it to me, and I’ll do it.” I never made the list. I didn’t make the list because I was confused about what to put on it. What would fix things? Was there really anything that could make up for what had happened? Remember my birthday? Be there for me when I’m falling apart? Come visit me one time? Decide that for just one Christmas, shit, even one minor holiday, you’re going to spend it with me? Call me, text me, just to ask how I am? Fully acknowledge all the things you’ve done wrong instead of minimising them and claiming that I’m obsessed with the past? Acknowledge how much this hurts?

I’m afraid so.” “He tried to kill a seventeen-year-old girl. A defenseless girl. In a police station. What is more brazen and out of control than that? How could a judge allow it?” Noah sighed. “You know how these things work, Josie. He’s a city councilman. A fine, upstanding citizen with no prior history of violence or a criminal record. Not so much as a parking ticket.” His words dripped with sarcasm, and she knew he was quoting Pierce Fuller’s attorney. “He’s a devoted husband with deep ties to the community. Not a flight risk at all. The judge gave him bail and his wife posted it.” Josie stood up and smoothed down her polo shirt and jeans from the night before. Powder and what looked like oatmeal from the Mills’ kitchen still clung to her pantlegs. “Unbelievable. Not even an ankle bracelet to ensure he doesn’t come near Alison again?” “I’m afraid not.” Josie thought about how this would make Alison feel—knowing this man was still out there, free, after he had walked into a police station and tried to kill her.

Dressed in a crisp white polo shirt, which shows off the deep gold of his skin and stretches around the bulge of his biceps, and slouchy, gray slacks that highlight the narrowness of his hips and drape over his thick thighs, he leans against a red Ferrari, his hands tucked into his pockets. Move over Jake Ryan. When Gabriel smiles—a full one, complete with that cute dimple on his left cheek, the corners of his eyes crinkling in joy—I’m tempted to look around before mouthing, “Who me?

The most senior butlers were a pair of big, round-bellied Black men with sly senses of humor and the wisdom that comes from having a front-row seat to history. Buddy Carter had been around since the tail end of the Nixon presidency, first caring for visiting dignitaries at Blair House and then moving to a job in the residence. Von Everett had been around since Reagan. They spoke of previous First Families with appropriate discretion and genuine affection. But without saying much, they didn’t hide how they felt about having us in their care. You could see it in how readily Von accepted Sasha’s hugs or the pleasure Buddy took in sneaking Malia an extra scoop of ice cream after dinner, in the easy rapport they had talking to Marian and the pride in their eyes when Michelle wore a particularly pretty dress. They were barely distinguishable from Marian’s brothers or Michelle’s uncles, and in that familiarity they became more, not less, solicitous, objecting if we carried our own plates into the kitchen, alert to even a hint of what they considered substandard service from anyone on the residence staff. It would take us months of coaxing before the butlers were willing to swap their tuxedos for khakis and polo shirts when serving us meals. “We just want to make sure you’re treated like every other president,” Von explained. “That’s right,” Buddy said. “See, you and the First Lady don’t really know what this means to us, Mr. President. Having you here…” He shook his head. “You just don’t know.

We work our way back through the crowd. A few steps behind, holding Dad’s hand, I keep my eyes affixed to the back of his white polo shirt. The outline of his wallet is visible through his back pants pocket, stained into the old khakis. A hanky to wipe his brow creeps out of the other pocket. He clips his beeper tightly to his belt—it’s his post-work Sunday casual uniform. As we move faster through the horde, the sweat on our palms intensifies on the humid mid-Atlantic summer day. For a second, his grip slips and we become disconnected. I fall back a few feet as people aggressively pass by. I never lose sight of the man in the white shirt. Immediately Dad turns around, his face concerned but focused. He jogs back and grabs my hand tight, locking his big thumb and fingers around my wrist. He pulls me in. His other hand now sits across my shoulder, a protective hold. “Buddy, if we’re ever separated, just look for me there,” he says, pointing at a hot dog stand with a big, memorable Oriole bird logo. He pauses and looks me up and down. “But we won’t ever be separated.

He was a sudden multimillionaire; she was a world-famous celebrity, but sweetly down-to-earth and not all that wealthy. She didn’t know what to make of him then, and still found him puzzling when she talked about him almost thirty years later. At one dinner early in their relationship, Jobs started talking about Ralph Lauren and his Polo Shop, which she admitted she had never visited. “There’s a beautiful red dress there that would be perfect for you,” he said, and then drove her to the store in the Stanford Mall. Baez recalled, “I said to myself, far out, terrific, I’m with one of the world’s richest men and he wants me to have this beautiful dress.” When they got to the store, Jobs bought a handful of shirts for himself and showed her the red dress. “You ought to buy it,” he said. She was a little surprised, and told him she couldn’t really afford it. He said nothing, and they left. “Wouldn’t you think if someone had talked like that the whole evening, that they were going to get it for you?” she asked me, seeming genuinely puzzled about the incident. “The mystery of the red dress is in your hands. I felt a bit strange about it.” He would give her computers, but not a dress, and when he brought

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She nearly swallowed her tongue as the jogger approached. It was Walter. Exquisite brown hair, kind-looking, oblong face, damp polo shirt. Walter.

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Actually, it’s quite the opposite. She will have to go to bed earlier,” I say, sipping my coffee at the table with the same nonchalance. Faith gasps and her hand, holding toast to her mouth, flings to the table. I continue, “The teenage body needs more rest to function properly with all the new hormones raging.” Hezekiah pads down the steps, handsome in blue slacks and a striped polo shirt. “Daddy, is this true?” Faith says. “Do I have to go to bed earlier after my birthday?” Hezekiah catches my eye and furrows his brow in seriousness. “Absolutely. When I turned thirteen, my bedtime went from nine o’clock to seven o’clock.

All told, there must have been more than a hundred people there, milling about between the makeshift tricycle track in the parking lot and the fraternity house. The freshmen had come sporting a variety of attire, from the East Coasters in polos to Southern Californians in tank tops, most trying too hard to look cool and casual at the same time. All the brothers were wearing yellow t-shirts for rush; the front depicted Curious George passed out next to a tipped-over bottle of ether. The lower right side of the back showed a small anchor with the fraternity’s letters, KΣ, on each side—it was Evan’s signature. The anchor was his way of saying, “This is an Evan Spiegel production.” Evan was born on June 4, 1990, to a pair of highly successful lawyers. His mother, Melissa Thomas, graduated from Harvard Law School and practiced tax law as a partner at a prominent Los Angeles firm before resigning to become a stay-at-home mother when Evan was young. His father, John Spiegel, graduated from Stanford and Yale Law School and became a partner at Munger, Tolles & Olson, an elite firm started by Berkshire Hathaway’s Charlie Munger. His clients included Warner Bros. and Sergey Brin.

Sinclair said, “There’s an apartment in Hamburg, Germany. A fashionable neighborhood, reasonably central, pretty expensive, but maybe a little transitory and corporate. For the last year the apartment has been rented to four men in their twenties. Not Germans. Three are Saudis, and the fourth is an Iranian. All four appear very secular. Clean-shaven, short hair, well dressed. They favor polo shirts in pastel colors with alligator badges. They wear gold Rolex watches and Italian shoes. They drive BMWs and go out to nightclubs. But they don’t go out to work.” Reacher

But maybe she’d have herself a little adventure in there somewhere. Maybe on her cruise, on one of her trips. Not with this kind of man, of course. He was too mature, for one thing. One look convinced her—he knew everything about men and women, while she knew very little. He looked a little dangerous and very, very physical. Scary. He had that warrior appearance, complete with tattoos. The sight of him bare-chested had rattled her, but the big horse beneath her had given her plenty of confidence. His shoulders were so large, strong and muscular, and he had a barbed-wire armband tattooed on his rippling left biceps. His belly was flat and hard with a trail of chest hair that disappeared into his jeans. The stubble along his jaw made his grin a little taunting and definitely naughty; it had made her shiver. And he had an aura of carelessness. He would take a bite of her, then pitch her out, forgetting her before morning. But while Shelby had looked him over, everything inside her had grown warm. Something about him, a forbidden quality, was absolutely delicious. Even the damn dirt looked good on him. Despite her common sense, she wondered, wouldn’t that be interesting? And her very next thought was, no, no, no, not him! My adventure will come in a polo shirt, cheeks as smooth as a baby’s butt, styled hair, no tattoos and hopefully an advanced degree. Not some scary Black Hawk pilot who has a Ph.D. in one-night stands! *

Well, I admit, you’re not exactly what I have in mind, either. I was thinking around twenty-six, more hair, polo shirt, or maybe a sharp, crisp, white button-down,” she said, and then she grinned at him. He was totally shocked. He’d spent all this time fighting the attraction and she had something else in mind anyway? “I’m too old for you, plain and simple,” he pointed out. “Probably, but there don’t seem to be many single men around. You kind of stand out.” “You should throw your net wider,” he suggested. “Until I do, let’s not get ridiculous. It’s a beer and some dinner. It doesn’t really matter how old we are or who my uncle is.” He smiled. Sometimes she seemed a little older than twenty-five. She was awfully bright. Quick. Usually the problem with girls her age was they were dimwits. Not this one. She was honest and direct. Luke respected that.

The September afternoon was pleasant and sunny and she could see that Luke was crouched atop one of the cabins tearing off rotting shingles. Although it was cool enough for her to need a jacket, his broad sunburned bare back was facing her—it was a very enjoyable sight and she drank it in, silent. Then Plenty whinnied and Luke glanced over his shoulder. He stood and carefully turned toward her, balanced on the sloping roof. A smile found its way to her lips. What a sight he was, bare-chested, whiskers on his cheeks and chin, wearing jeans and a tool belt. She briefly wondered what it was about a tool belt… What was it she had said about the guy she had in mind? Clean-shaven, starched and pressed, polo shirt…? Nah…. “Looks

So what was Jonah like before high school? As a kid?” “As a kid?” Hallelujah brings up the picture in her mind. “He was . . . sweet, I guess. Dorky. He’d wear these outfits his mom picked out—pleated khaki pants and polo shirts, with his hair slicked down with gel. And he would get really enthusiastic about things. Too enthusiastic. He went through this cowboy phase where he wore a cowboy hat and boots to school every day. Didn’t care what anyone thought.” The mental image makes her smile. “And he and Luke were best friends?” “Starting in middle school, yeah. They played soccer together.” “Huh.” Rachel pauses. “So when did Jonah get cute?” “He was still pretty short in middle school. And skinny. But he did start dressing better.” “No more pleated khakis?” “No more pleated khakis. And then the summer before ninth grade, he had this growth spurt. And he started to, uh, fill out. So I guess ninth grade is when I noticed . . .” Hallelujah fades off. “This is embarrassing.” “No, it’s not. This is what girls talk about.” Rachel grins. “Besides. I wanted to see if you were paying as close attention to him as he was to you.” “I didn’t realize I was. We were just friends.” “You can be friends and still objectively notice someone’s cuteness.

Riley stared at the vest and polo shirt. “Is this necessary?” “Protocol,” Wesley said. Riley tugged the shirt over her head and shoved her arms into the vest. “This isn’t going to be dangerous, is it? The vest is just a formality, right?” “Right,” Emerson said. “There’s nothing to worry about.” One of the men handed Riley an AR-15 assault rifle. “Just in case,” he said.

Win’s real name was Windsor Horne Lockwood III, as in Lock-Horne Investments and Securities and the Lock-Horne Building on Park Avenue. His family was old money, the kind of money that got off the Mayflower with a pink polo shirt and desirable tee time. Myron

It was horrifying. Khaki pants and polo shirts and exclamation points at the end of every sentence. Each introduction was like a kick in the groin. When someone made a bad joke it was like they’d taken a running start. I had to drop to one knee after this pale turtle-looking man with a huge Adam’s apple and a headset touched his finger to his earpiece and said, “Houston, we have a new temp.” I would never be able to have children.

chubby face was hidden underneath a thick beard. His gut stuck out just a little bit over his waist but that didn’t stop him from wearing these tight polo shirts and a pair of slacks every night. Maybe he thought it added a little class to the place. But people weren’t here

Yacht kids were wading manfully across the delta, barefoot and tanned, their shorts exactly the right length. Some of us stood up proudly. Others adopted more submissive postures. “Hey, guys!” said the tall one in the lead. A sweep of blond hair fell over his brow. He wore a polo shirt. He was a billboard for Abercrombie & Fitch. “Dudes! What an awesome burn! I’ve got some weed. Anyone want a smoke?” Grinning broadly. “Shit yeah,” said Juice. And so the empire crumbled.

He/She Gets Angry When Questioned Where you were until now just riles him/her up like the Hulk. He/she hates being questioned about their whereabouts. Their stories won’t match, their tone and pitch will change paces and they will try to avoid talking about it altogether. He/She Stays Up Late A sudden shift in their bedtime routine indicates an affair. Cheating partners consider a partner’s sleeping time as the safest to text or message their new love interest. His/Her Stories Seem Inconsistent Sometimes they won’t say a word about where they were and sometimes they would give away too much. When asked if a friend was there with them too, they will not only confirm their presence but also tell you about all the other people who were there, including someone’s pets. Too much information is another sign that there is something fishy going on or else they won’t be this particular about it. There Is No Intimacy Not just physically, but you also find them emotionally distant from you. Even when they are with you, their mind doesn’t seem to be. They have also lost interest in sex and always make excuses like being tired, not in the mood, had chili beef in the office and feeling bloated, etc. They Never Put Their Phone Down If they seem to be stuck with their phone all the time and even taking it with them when taking the trash or going for a bath, it is a sure tell sign that there is something in that phone they don’t want you to know about. He/She Pays Attention to Himself/Herself It’s always appraisable that your spouse dresses up for you, but if they are suddenly worried about how they look naked or whether they should get a bikini wax or not, it’s probably an effort to look good for someone other than you. You Only Get One-Word Answers from Them You sense a barrier in your communications because they have resorted to a yes, no, or hmm at most. When partners lose interest in their spouses or are having an affair, they fear to communicate too much. They want to play it carefully and not say or do something that would get them caught. They Are Spending Too Much If all of a sudden you notice too many credit card bills and receipts in their pockets and yet you don’t receive any supposed gifts, then someone else is on the receiving end of them. When asked, they will always have an explanation over how they had to lend some money to a friend, how they had to pitch in the last minute for an office party for a guy’s farewell or how they had to pay a medical bill of some relative. He/He’s Doing Things They Hated Before Remember the time you asked them to go golfing with you and they flat out refused and joked about how it’s an old man’s sport? Look who is all polo shirts and hats now! If their interests have changed all of a sudden and they are doing stuff they hated, know something is up.

They Are Spending Too Much If all of a sudden you notice too many credit card bills and receipts in their pockets and yet you don’t receive any supposed gifts, then someone else is on the receiving end of them. When asked, they will always have an explanation over how they had to lend some money to a friend, how they had to pitch in the last minute for an office party for a guy’s farewell or how they had to pay a medical bill of some relative. He/He’s Doing Things They Hated Before Remember the time you asked them to go golfing with you and they flat out refused and joked about how it’s an old man’s sport? Look who is all polo shirts and hats now! If their interests have changed all of a sudden and they are doing stuff they hated, know something is up.

ardently yellow polo shirt

I'm pretty sure dad-khakis and pastel polo shirts aren't it,” she said. The eight ball shook violently in my hand. I looked at it. “She's right. Lose the outfit. You're dressed like a pedophile.

We both turned to see Olaf standing in the far doorway. He was wearing black dress slacks, and a black polo-style shirt, the shirtsleeves a little short for his long arms. I guess there just aren’t a lot of choices when you wear Jolly Green Giant sizes. He

Coach Phil’s shorts probably fit him okay twenty, thirty pounds ago. His red polo shirt with the word “Coach” stitched in script across the left breast was also snug enough to double as sausage casing. He had the look of an ex-jock gone to seed, which, Maya surmised, he probably was. He was big and intimidating, and his size probably scared people. Keeping

would not be joining the family festivities at their six-thousand-square-foot home in Greenwich, Connecticut. Claire’s sister Abby would be going, of course, with her perfect husband Andrew and her two perfect children, four-year-old Andrew Junior, nicknamed Drew Drew, and six-year-old Skylar. Claire could picture them now; Drew Drew in his Rachel Riley polo shirt and crisp khakis, Skylar in Lily Pulitzer. The beautiful, perfect family, poster children for prosperity and happiness. Claire didn’t want to be around all the glossy perfection, not when she fell so short of the mark. So, she’d hole up in Ledstow, in Yorkshire, reading books and marking essays, enjoying the luxuries of solitude and quiet, a bottle of wine, and a roaring fire. It sounded like bliss. It also sounded like

That night he got up out of bed and put on his maroon polo shirt, which everyone said he looked so handsome in, and went downstairs and drove off in his car, where he did not know. He just drove. (..) Drove around in that crimson glow of doughnut shops and new-car showrooms, in which all things, cars, faces, bodies, gleam with an otherworldly light, and he kept driving—never admitting what he was about—until he came to Dupont Circle and there he stopped and got out under the green trees and met a man and went into the park and blew him.

I hear the door open and close, and I peek to see the one and only. “What do you want?” I ask, staring back up at the stars, taking a large sip of my beer. He doesn’t answer, but takes a seat next to me. I turn to see he’s also drinking a beer. He’s back in his work attire, sporting a pair of kakis and a button up polo. “What happened to your Guns-N-Roses shirt? Don’t want anyone to know your alter ego? They might find out you’re really some sort of party animal who raves to heavy metal and goes on drinking binges instead of science fairs?” I laugh taking another swig. We connect eyes and something in them tells me that I might be on to something. “No way. Tell me I’m not wrong. The science teacher secretly has a bad side.” He stands quickly sticking out his hand. “Come with me.” Huh? “No way. Why? You gonna try and retaliate? Avenge all teachers I’ve tried to take out this week?” His laugh is like a tickle to my lady parts. I fight to admit that I seriously love that sound. “No, but it would be fitting though, Peter Parker, saving the world from the reckless bad girl.” I give him my evil eye while he smiles wider. “Come with me. I promise, I’ll bring you back in one piece.” His hand taunting, I decide, what the hell. I stick my hand out, sliding it into his, the feel of his warm skin wrapped around mine. He walks me around to the front of the house and a few cars down, until he stops beside a Jeep. Unlocking the door, he says, “Jump in,” and walks around the other side. Knowing I have a pretty loud voice if he does try and kill me, I jump in. The inside smells just like him. Of spice and aftershave.

Have you ever noticed that the things people LOVE says a lot about them? Even random stuff like your favourite band, movie or lip gloss colour can be a reflection of YOU. The same thing can be said for your friends and other important people in your life. What “other important people” you ask? Hmmm . . . like maybe . . . your CRUSH!!! YEP! That super cute guy who gives you a severe case of RCS! So, just for fun, I’ve made a little guide about what YOUR choice in boys says about you. Enjoy!!! IF YOU LIKE EMO GUYS (Think Edward from Twilight) You like to talk about things . . . A LOT! You crush on emo boys because they’re all sensitive and stuff. Just beware; sometimes dark and brooding guys can be kind of a downer! IF YOU LIKE TROUBLE MAKERS (the boy who’s on a first name basis with the principal’s receptionist) You don’t like following the rules and you crush on boys who make their own. Let’s face it: there’s something kind of exciting about them. But a word of caution my rebel loving friends: sometimes the bad boy is BAD BAD news!! IF YOU LIKE PREPPY GUYS (think shirts, polos and a general feel of being ironed from head to toe) You’re totally organized. You probably have colour-coordinated folders for every subject, and maybe, just MAYBE, you aspire to fold sweaters at the Gap. A preppy boy makes you weak in the khaki knees!! IF YOU LIKE MUSICIAN TYPES (OK, so this one is fairly obvious, but in case you’ve just arrived on Earth, I’m talking about future Justin Biebers) You’re totally into music, and you’re probably also super creative. And (let’s be honest) you also like the attention of walking around with band boy. Everyone’s always like, “Nice set for the talent show!” or “Saw you on YouTube!” or “Would you sign my forehead?!?

If you really want to be traumatized, then consider this: Why the hell isn’t Pooh wearing pants? He’s a bear who lives in a house and sleeps in a bed. He drinks tea out of a cup. And yet he wears no pants with his polo shirt? I mean, is Pooh fully anthropomorphized or not? Because, if he is, then he’s a ‘public lewdness’ charge waiting to happen.

You used Neverleak,” Shelley said, eyeing my craftsmanship with a skeptical frown. “The sale’s on Stay-Tite.” Shelley was the store manager, and her slumped shoulders and dour expression were as much a part of her uniform as the blue polo shirts we all had to wear. “I thought you said Neverleak,” I said, because she had. “Stay-Tite,” she insisted, shaking her head regretfully, as if my tower were a crippled racehorse and she the bearer of the pearl-handled pistol. There was a brief but awkward silence in which she continued to shake her head and shift her eyes from me to the tower and back to me again. I stared blankly at her, as if completely failing to grasp what she was passive-aggressively implying. “Ohhhhhh,” I said finally. “You mean you want me to do it over?” “It’s just that you used Neverleak,” she repeated. “No problem. I’ll get started right away.” With the toe of my regulation black sneaker I nudged a single box from the tower’s foundation. In an instant the whole magnificent structure was cascading down around us, sending a tidal wave of diapers crashing across the floor, boxes caroming off the legs of startled customers

Those vestal virgins found guilty of being unchaste”—their leader’s voice ricochets off the surrounding walls—“were whipped to death in the public square.” She pauses so they can take photos and ask questions. “Public deaths were popular,” I hear her answer someone. “As were blood shows—known as munera. After lunch we will see the slave quarters beneath the Colosseum.” There are collective oohhs and aahhs, and I wonder if they would watch one, or if I would. The ripping of flesh, the breaking of man. Suddenly I get a cramp. When was the last time I had my period? Three, five weeks ago? I can’t remember. I should have been recording it in that damn diary. One of the tour members is watching the couple, who are back at it. Our eyes meet, and I feel myself blush. He’s short and hefty, wearing pleated pants and a sweat-stained polo shirt. His hand rests on a camera that hangs around his neck. He smiles, waggles his eyebrows. Yes, hi, hello. I give him a polite grimace and turn so I can sit more comfortably. Then slowly, out of the corner of my eye I see him raise his camera and click. I don’t know if he’s taking a picture of me or the couple or the ruins. Maybe all three. When the cramp subsides, the tour has moved on. The couple too. At the entrance, I flag down a cab, feeling more spent than I should. “Signora, signora.” The cabby rattles off something in Italian. Usually a migraine precedes my period, and I think I feel one coming on. “Where to?” he finally asks in English.