Straight Allies Quotes

So in the middle of all the noise, I point to the sky. I hope he understands what I mean, because I mean so many things: My heart will always fly his name. I won't go gentle. I'll find a way to soar like the angels in the stories and I will find him. And I know he understands as he looks straight at me, deep into my eyes. His lips move silently, and I know what he says: the words of a poem that only two people in the world know. Tears well up but I blink them away. Because if there is one moment in my life that I want to see clearly, this is it.

But on the upside, I guess we're getting ready to find out if you really only love me for my jet." "I might love you for your jet," Gabrielle said, straight-faced. He smiled a Kat. "What about you?" "Yeah," Kat said, nodding. "I guess that is the question.

Ky smiles then, a smile I've never seen before. It's the kind of daring, reckless smile that could make people follow him straight into a firing, a flood.

But I do have conversations about the Patriarchy and I am having them with gay men. At eighteen, I am discovering what generations of women have long known. The natural ally of the straight woman is the gay man because they are others losers too.

Totally straight-faced, Ally replied, “Sorry, I don’t take orders unless I’m naked.

As we came out of the hallway, I pretended that the whole world had secret tunnels, where people could walk straight to wherever they really wanted to be and ignore all the meanness in the middle.

It’s easy to be an ally when you don’t have to give anything up.

He envied straight couples the easy openness of their relationships. At that moment, he would've given anything to know what it was like to take his lover's hand without a second's consideration for what anyone else might think, or do.

British diplomats, constantly exposed to American political-ethical rhetoric, find their professional skills tested to the limits by the need to keep a straight face. For illustrations of what I mean, study the photographs of the expressions worn by Mr Douglas Hurd at any international conference involving all the Western allies.

I already live like you," Evan lifted his head and looked straight into Christian's eyes. "I'm living like you right now, without her. If she leaves me when I ask her to marry me, or at the altar, or tomorrow, I could still say I tried. I could still say I loved her, that I kissed her, I held her." Evan inhaled a deep breath, his chest swelling with the intensity of it. "Without her, I'll just rot into nothing.

Whether or not the United States has saved the world, it did save France a time or two. When the American Expeditionary Forces commanded by General John J. Pershing came to the aid of France during World War I, they marched into Paris on July 4, 1917, heading straight for Picpus Cemetery. Colonel Charles E. Stanton, whose uncle had been Abraham Lincoln’s secretary of war, addressed the French people while standing before Lafayette’s tomb. “America has joined forces with the Allied Powers,” he said, “and what we have of blood and treasure are yours. Therefore it is that with loving pride we drape the colors in tribute of respect to this citizen of your great republic. And here and now, in the presence of the illustrious dead, we pledge our hearts and our honor in carrying this war to a successful issue. Lafayette, we are here.” •

body-fitting dress with tiny straps at the top. Her blond hair is usually straight but

I now know our survival is not predicted on the conditional help of fair-weathered allies, or even the rock-solid kindness of outsiders who put in the work. We've made it this far because of each other.

Max rocked back on his heels, shoving his hands into his pockets, and said, 'So. Juliet Cavanaugh. I assume my parents have been talking your ear off for the last however many months, telling you how awesome I am, and filling your head full of stories of my impressive talents in the kitchen.' 'Um. Not so much,' Jules said, shooting a glance at Danny, who shook his head and went back to his prep work. 'No? I should take this opportunity to set the record straight, then.' Max heaved a deep sigh. 'It's all true.' 'What?' 'Everything they should've told you about me,' Max explained. 'And I don't know why they didn't, because it's all true. No exaggeration or family bias plays into it at all--I am the best chef in the entire world.

Wanna know how I know I'm straight? On a 3 week road trip through Scotland right after high school, my best friend (gayyy!) and I slept in the same bed at quaint little B&Bs every night. And nothing ever happened in bed between us, except for the occasional fart. If I was gay, I would have totally fucked the shit out of his cute little gay ass.

During World War I, a play would have had short shrift here which showed up General Pershing for a coward; ridiculed the Allies’ cause; brought in Uncle Sam as a blustering bully; glorified the peace party. But when Athens was fighting for her life, Aristophanes did the exact equivalent of all these things many times over and the Athenians, pro-and anti-war alike, flocked to the theatre. The right of a man to say what he pleased was fundamental in Athens. “A slave is he who cannot speak his thought,” said Euripides. Socrates drinking the hemlock in his prison on the charge of introducing new gods and corrupting the youth is but the exception that proves the rule. He was an old man and all his life he had said what he would. Athens had just gone through a bitter time of crushing defeat, of rapid changes of government, of gross mismanagement. It is a reasonable conjecture that he was condemned in one of those sudden panics all nations know, when the people’s fears for their own safety have been worked upon and they turn cruel. Even so, he was condemned by a small majority and his pupil Plato went straight on teaching in his name, never molested but honored and sought after.

When society first starts flirting with accepting a marginalized group, that acceptance is often wrapped up in a born this way type narrative. For example, in the early 2000s, many straight allies claimed to support gay people because being gay wasn't a choice, and we couldn't help being the way that we are. There was a lot of pop science writing at that time exploring the search for the "gay gene," and suggesting that certain hormone exposures in the womb might predispose a fetus to being gay. Today we don't have conversations about the biological causes of gayness very much anymore. In the United States at least, being gay has started becoming accepted enough that queer people don't have to justify our existence by saying that we can't help but be this way. If someone were to choose to be gay, that wouldn't be a problem, because being gay is good. Similarly, Autistic people deserve acceptance not because we can't help but have the brains we have, but because being Autistic is good.

I’m worried that telling Jay will be the equivalent of stomping on his foot. To throw out my lack of sexuality when Jay is getting harangued every day for the expression of his own? It seems so insensitive. It’s not like people are telling me I can’t get married or that I’m going to hell. I’ve been part of Calhoun’s gay-straight alliance since freshman year. When I joined, I identified myself as an ally. During one of our meetings this past year, Tara Rhodes said, “Allies are important. They’re the ‘A’ in all our acronyms, after all!” And I wanted to stand up right then. I wanted to shout, “I’m real and here and just as confused as a lot of you!” But I stayed quiet, because I didn’t want to come out right there, in a basement classroom that smelled like whiteboard cleaner. Still, Tara’s comment bothered me for months after that. It made me feel like no one saw my “kind of people.” That we didn’t exactly count. And if I didn’t count in an effing GSA meeting, then where the hell was I supposed to go?

Pershing’s expedition into Mexico after Villa had exploded one of our myths for a little while. We had truly believed that Mexicans can’t shoot straight and besides were lazy and stupid. When our own Troop C came wearily back from the border they said that none of this was true. Mexicans could shoot straight, goddam it! And Villa’s horsemen had outridden and outlasted our town boys. The two evenings a month of training had not toughened them very much. And last, the Mexicans seemed to have outthought and outambushed. Black Jack Pershing. When the Mexicans were joined by their ally, dysentery, it was godawful. Some of our boys didn’t really feel good again for years.

Some may say asexual people don’t have problems (or the right problems, or enough problems), and therefore they should just go ally with heterosexual people, but this ignores the fact that heteronormative attitudes influence the heterosexual world to also exclude asexual people. If “not LGB” is understood to mean “heterosexual” in queer spaces, those who say so are processing heterosexual as the default, which is an attitude that also hurts them. Even aromantic asexual people, who are less likely to be assumed heterosexual because they are unlikely to have romantic partners, are sometimes told “you don’t belong here because you’re just straight.” Perceived blank spaces being interpreted as heterosexual by default is a heteronormative assumption.

This is more noble, my son, to honor equality, which ever links friends with friends, and states with states, and allies with allies: for equality is sanctioned by law among men. But the lesser share is ever at enmity with the greater, and straight begins the day of hatred. For equality arranged also among mortals measures, and the divisions of weights, and defined numbers. And the dark eye of night, and the light of the sun, equally walk their annual round, and neither of them being overcome hath envy of the other. Thus the sun and the night are subservient to men, but wilt not thou brook having an equal share of government, and give his share to him? Then where is justice? Why dost thou honor so unboundedly that prosperous injustice, royalty, and think so highly of her? Is the being conspicuous honorable? At least, it is empty honor. Or dost thou desire to labor much, possessing much in thy house? but what is superfluity? It possesses but a name; since a sufficiency indeed to the temperate is abundance

Amber was painfully aware of the mismatch between her politics and her desires. She was an intersectional feminist, an advocate for people with disabilities, and a wholehearted ally of the LGBT community in all its glorious diversity. As a straight, cisgender, able-bodied, neurotypical, first-world, middle-class white woman, she struggled to maintain a constant awareness of her privilege, and to avoid using it to silence or ignore the voices of those without the same unearned advantages, who had more of a right to speak on many, many subjects than she did. It went without saying that she was a passionate opponent of capitalism, patriarchy, racism, homophobia, transphobia, rape culture, bullying, and microaggression in all its forms. But when it came to boys, for some reason, she only ever liked jocks. It kind of sucked ... And of course they used her like a disposable object, without regret or apology, because that’s what privilege is—the license to treat other people like shit while still getting to believe that you’re a good person.

Again you must learn the point which comes next. Every circle, of those which are by the act of man drawn or even turned on a lathe, is full of that which is opposite to the fifth thing. For everywhere it has contact with the straight. But the circle itself, we say, has nothing in either smaller or greater, of that which is its opposite. We say also that the name is not a thing of permanence for any of them, and that nothing prevents the things now called round from being called straight, and the straight things round; for those who make changes and call things by opposite names, nothing will be less permanent (than a name). Again with regard to the definition, if it is made up of names and verbal forms, the same remark holds that there is no sufficiently durable permanence in it. And there is no end to the instances of the ambiguity from which each of the four suffers; but the greatest of them is that which we mentioned a little earlier, that, whereas there are two things, that which has real being, and that which is only a quality, when the soul is seeking to know, not the quality, but the essence, each of the four, presenting to the soul by word and in act that which it is not seeking (i.e., the quality), a thing open to refutation by the senses, being merely the thing presented to the soul in each particular case whether by statement or the act of showing, fills, one may say, every man with puzzlement and perplexity. [...] But in subjects where we try to compel a man to give a clear answer about the fifth, any one of those who are capable of overthrowing an antagonist gets the better of us, and makes the man, who gives an exposition in speech or writing or in replies to questions, appear to most of his hearers to know nothing of the things on which he is attempting to write or speak; for they are sometimes not aware that it is not the mind of the writer or speaker which is proved to be at fault, but the defective nature of each of the four instruments. The process however of dealing with all of these, as the mind moves up and down to each in turn, does after much effort give birth in a well-constituted mind to knowledge of that which is well constituted. [...] Therefore, if men are not by nature kinship allied to justice and all other things that are honourable, though they may be good at learning and remembering other knowledge of various kinds-or if they have the kinship but are slow learners and have no memory-none of all these will ever learn to the full the truth about virtue and vice. For both must be learnt together; and together also must be learnt, by complete and long continued study, as I said at the beginning, the true and the false about all that has real being. After much effort, as names, definitions, sights, and other data of sense, are brought into contact and friction one with another, in the course of scrutiny and kindly testing by men who proceed by question and answer without ill will, with a sudden flash there shines forth understanding about every problem, and an intelligence whose efforts reach the furthest limits of human powers. Therefore every man of worth, when dealing with matters of worth, will be far from exposing them to ill feeling and misunderstanding among men by committing them to writing. In one word, then, it may be known from this that, if one sees written treatises composed by anyone, either the laws of a lawgiver, or in any other form whatever, these are not for that man the things of most worth, if he is a man of worth, but that his treasures are laid up in the fairest spot that he possesses. But if these things were worked at by him as things of real worth, and committed to writing, then surely, not gods, but men "have themselves bereft him of his wits".

Mattis and Gary Cohn had several quiet conversations about The Big Problem: The president did not understand the importance of allies overseas, the value of diplomacy or the relationship between the military, the economy and intelligence partnerships with foreign governments. They met for lunch at the Pentagon to develop an action plan. One cause of the problem was the president’s fervent belief that annual trade deficits of about $500 billion harmed the American economy. He was on a crusade to impose tariffs and quotas despite Cohn’s best efforts to educate him about the benefits of free trade. How could they convince and, in their frank view, educate the president? Cohn and Mattis realized they were nowhere close to persuading him. The Groundhog Day–like meetings on trade continued and the acrimony only grew. “Let’s get him over here to the Tank,” Mattis proposed. The Tank is the Pentagon’s secure meeting room for the Joint Chiefs of Staff. It might focus him. “Great idea,” Cohn said. “Let’s get him out of the White House.” No press; no TVs; no Madeleine Westerhout, Trump’s personal secretary, who worked within shouting distance of the Oval Office. There wouldn’t even be any looking out the window, because there were no windows in the Tank. Getting Trump out of his natural environment could do the trick. The idea was straight from the corporate playbook—a retreat or off-site meeting. They would get Trump to the Tank with his key national security and economic team to discuss worldwide strategic relations. Mattis and Cohn agreed. Together they would fight Trump on this. Trade wars or disruptions in the global markets could savage and undermine the precarious stability in the world. The threat could spill over to the military and intelligence community. Mattis couldn’t understand why the U.S. would want to pick a fight with allies, whether it was NATO, or friends in the Middle East, or Japan—or particularly with South Korea.

Charles Bean, the official historian of Australia’s part in World War I, was unusual in dealing closely with the deeds of the soldiers on the front line, and not just the plans and orders of their leaders. At the end of his account of the Gallipoli landing in the Official History, he asked what made the soldiers fight on. What motive sustained them? At the end of the second or third day of the Landing, when they had fought without sleep until the whole world seemed a dream, and they scarcely knew whether it was a world of reality or of delirium – and often, no doubt, it held something of both; when half of each battalion had been annihilated, and there seemed no prospect before any man except that of wounds or death in the most vile surroundings; when the dead lay three deep in the rifle-pits under the blue sky and the place was filled with stench and sickness, and reason had almost vanished – what was it then that carried each man on? It was not love of a fight. The Australian loved fighting better than most, but it is an occupation from which the glamour quickly wears. It was not hatred of the Turk. It is true that the men at this time hated their enemy for his supposed ill-treatment of the wounded – and the fact that, of the hundreds who lay out, only one wounded man survived in Turkish hands has justified their suspicions. But hatred was not the motive which inspired them. Nor was it purely patriotism, as it would have been had they fought on Australian soil. The love of country in Australians and New Zealanders was intense – how strong, they did not realise until they were far away from their home. Nor, in most cases was the motive their loyalty to the tie between Australia and Great Britain. Although, singly or combined, all these were powerful influences, they were not the chief. Nor was it the desire for fame that made them steer their course so straight in the hour of crucial trial. They knew too well the chance that their families, possibly even the men beside them, would never know how they died. Doubtless the weaker were swept on by the stronger. In every army which enters into battle there is a part which is dependent for its resolution upon the nearest strong man. If he endures, those around him will endure; if he turns, they turn; if he falls, they may become confused. But the Australian force contained more than its share of men who were masters of their own minds and decisions. What was the dominant motive that impelled them? It lay in the mettle of the men themselves. To be the sort of man who would give way when his mates were trusting to his firmness; to be the sort of man who would fail when the line, the whole force, and the allied cause required his endurance; to have made it necessary for another unit to do his own unit’s work; to live the rest of his life haunted by the knowledge that he had set his hand to a soldier’s task and had lacked the grit to carry it through – that was the prospect which these men could not face. Life was very dear, but life was not worth living unless they could be true to their idea of Australian manhood.

But Larson was also more than even his combined, prolific creative output. While he was known for leaving parties to go home and fix songs, he would also charm the ladies, attend New York’s most exclusive nightclub, and obsessively follow the New York Mets. He was the man who called his friends in the middle of the day to play Frisbee, sent cards on every possible occasion, and hosted generous holiday meals. An awkward introvert who wanted to be a star. A self-confident composer who knew how good his work was - and how terrified he was of never being able to make a living from it. A broke waiter who produced some of the most advanced demo recordings of his day. A ladies’ man who became one of the gay community’s most important straight allies in the 1990s, as his work spread a message of tolerance around the world. A man who composed fun, catchy songs but rarely listened to music for pleasure as an adult. A performer who wanted to be Billy Joel but wrote lyrics like Harry Chapin. A driven creative who took as few shifts as possible to focus on his music, turning poverty into creativity: a simple 4th of July party meant a hand-coloured collage for an invitation, and Larson’s annual Peasant Feast pot-luck meals at Christmas were the season’s highlight for all attending. A passionate progressive who would be endlessly disappointed that RENT could still cause controversy after so many years.

President Trump was asked if he believed his own intelligence agencies or the Russian president when it came to the allegations of meddling in the US presidential elections. ‘President Putin says it’s not Russia. I don’t see any reason why it would be,’ he replied. In other words, given a straight choice between accepting the unanimous assessment of the CIA, FBI and the director of National Intelligence, Donald Trump chose the word of the Russian leader. It caused a furore back in Washington. In a strongly worded statement, the Republican Speaker of the House Paul Ryan said Mr Trump ‘must appreciate that Russia is not our ally’. Senator John McCain weighed in too: ‘No prior president has ever abased himself more abjectly before a tyrant.

Anna,” he began, but he saw his use of her name made her bristle. “Please sit, and I do mean will you please.” She sat, perched like an errant schoolgirl on the very edge of her chair, back straight, eyes front. “You are scolding me without saying a word,” the earl said on a sigh. “It was just a kiss, Anna, and I had the impression you rather enjoyed it, too.” She looked down, while a blush crept up the side of her neck. “That’s the problem, isn’t it?” he said with sudden, happy insight. “You could accept my apology and treat me with cheerful condescension, but you enjoyed our kiss.” “My lord,” she said, addressing the hands she fisted in her lap, “can you not accept that were I to encourage your… mischief, I would be courting my own ruin?” “Ruin?” He said with a snort. “Elise will be enjoying an entire estate for the rest of her days as a token of ruin at my hands—among others—if ruin you believe it to be. I did not take her virginity, either, Mrs. Seaton, and I am not a man who casually discards others.” She was silent then raised her eyes, a mulish expression on her face. “I will not seek another position as a function of what has gone between us so far, but you must stop.” “Stop what, Anna?” “You should not use my name, my lord,” she said, rising. “I have not given you leave to do so.” He rose, as well, as if she were a lady deserving of his manners. “May I ask your permission to use your given name, at least when we are private?” He’d shocked her, he saw with some satisfaction. She’d thought him too autocratic to ask, and he was again reminded of his father’s ways. But she was looking at him now, really looking, and he pressed his advantage. “I find it impossible to think of you as Mrs. Seaton. In this house, there is no other who treats me as you do, Anna. You are kind but honest, and sympathetic without being patronizing. You are the closest thing I have here to an ally, and I would ask this small boon of you.” He watched as she closed her eyes and waged some internal struggle, but in the anguish on her face, he suspected victory in this skirmish was to be his. She’d grant him his request, precisely because he had made it a request, putting a small measure of power exclusively into her hands. She nodded assent but looked miserable over it. “And you,” he said, letting concern—not guilt, surely—show in his gaze, “you must consider me an ally, as well, Anna.” She speared him with a stormy look. “An ally who would compromise my reputation, knowing without it I am but a pauper or worse.” “I do not seek to bring you ruin,” he corrected her. “And I would never force my will on you.” Anna stood, and he thought her eyes were suspiciously bright. “Perhaps, my lord, you just did.” He

As he and Beth hit the stairs, he called out to his brothers, “Thanks for having my back once again.” The group stopped and turned to face him. After a beat of silence, they formed a half circle around the foot of the grand staircase, each making a thick fist with his weapon hand. With a great whoop! of a war cry, they went down on their right knee and slammed their heavy knuckles into the mosaic floor. The sound was thunder and bass drums and bomb explosions, ricocheting outward, filling all the rooms of the mansion. Wrath stared at them, seeing their heads bent, their broad backs curled, their powerful arms planted. They had each gone to that meeting prepared to take a bullet for him, and that would ever be true. Behind Tohr’s smaller form, Lassiter, the fallen angel, stood with a straight spine, but he wasn’t cracking any jokes at this reaffirmation of allegiance. Instead, he was back to staring at the damn ceiling. Wrath glanced up at the mural of warriors silhouetted against a blue sky and could see nothing much of the pictures that he’d been told were there. Getting back with the program, he said in the Old Language, “No stronger allies, no greater friends, no better fighters of honor could a king behold than these assembled afore me, mine brothers, mine blood.” A rolling growl of ascent lifted as the warriors got to their feet again, and Wrath nodded to each one of them. He had no more words to offer as his throat had abruptly choked, but they didn’t seem to need anything else. They stared at him with respect and gratitude and purpose, and he accepted their enormous gifts with grave appreciation and resolve. This was the ages-old covenant between king and subjects, the pledges on both sides made with the heart and carried out by the sharp mind and the strong body. “God, I love you guys,” Beth said. There was a lot of deep laughter, and then Hollywood said, “You want us to stab the floor for you again? Fists are for kings, but the queen gets the daggers.” “I wouldn’t want you to take chips out of this beautiful floor. Thank you, though.” “Say the word and it’s nothing but rubble.” Beth laughed. “Be still, my heart.” The Brothers came over and kissed the Saturnine Ruby that rode on her finger, and as each paid his honor, she gave him a gentle stroke of the hair. Except for Zsadist, who she smiled tenderly at. “Excuse us, boys,” Wrath said. “Little quiet time, feel me?” There was a ripple of male approval, which Beth took in stride—and with a blush—and then it was time for some privacy.

True, as villains go, Saddam was straight out of central casting. He had killed hundreds of thousands of Iranians, thousands of his own citizens, used chemical weapons, and committed atrocity after atrocity. But because Saddam had long been an ally of the Reagan and Bush administrations, such heinous crimes had gotten little attention in the media and few Americans thought of him as a dangerous enemy.

Listen.” Kat threw her arm on Allie’s shoulder. “I’m fine with the chanting shit, but I was raised Catholic, so I feel it’s my duty to tell you that you’re headed straight to Hell—

Deke smiled at the long, straight highway ahead of him. “Then again, I’d give it all up if I could have what Fiona and Jud have. Or Allie and Blake or Toby and Lizzy. All of them make my heart hurt to have someone to go home at night to like they do,” he said. “I should have listened to Granny Irene when she kept telling me that I couldn’t find a woman to settle down with in the bars.” Cheyenne, Wyoming, was bitter cold that night when he stopped at a small motel with a neon sign that said truckers were welcome. That usually meant they wouldn’t fuss about a dog, and besides it was past nine o’clock. The manager was most likely eager to rent out whatever rooms he could at that point. “Help you, sir?” An older lady looked up from the check-in desk. “Just need a room. Be out early in the morning, but I do have a dog. He’s housebroken and old, so he won’t cause any damage.” “Ten-dollar fee for any animals. It’s not one of those yippy little dogs, is it? I only got one room left and it’s right next door to an elderly couple. Wouldn’t want them calling me because your dog barked

Now the question is, which part of me is going to win? That’s the fucked up part. I already know the answer. She’s my kryptonite, my drug of choice, and the only one who can bring me straight down to my knees. I can’t push her away, no matter how badly I want to.

The blonde over there with perfectly straight hair? Maybe her alarm went off while you were still in dreamland, so she had an extra hour before work to get it just right. (Or maybe she went to Drybar at 7 a.m.?!) The brunette with the big bouncy curls? There’s a chance she slept in rollers last night—if she slept at all. The woman with the pink textured bob and the perfect bed head? Well, she just woke up like that (but she does do a deep conditioning treatment twice a week and has to touch up her color at least once a month).

He sits ramrod straight, like a man beaten out of slouching and twitching as a boy. Like a man of gentility, unaccustomed to dark corners and dank basements--at least from this side of them. He does not seem exactly unfamiliar with the unsightly. With the putrid. And maybe that's only from having to scrounge out a living in it, now that he's lost everything--a man of misfortunes. Maybe it's because at another time, he was the man with the power to snuff things out in the dark.

You know, I used to think that the word of a woman who'd made a mistake was worth more than the word of a man with good reason to deny it. But you and Harold set me straight that night. Nobody believes a woman. They ain't allowed to make mistakes.

With the Allies on the advance nearly everywhere and invasion talk in the air, London was a welcoming place for young airmen who were taking the fight to Hitler’s doorstep. The first stop for American airmen was usually the nearest Red Cross Club, where helpful volunteers made bookings free of charge at commercial hotels or at one of the Red Cross’s own dormitory-like facilities. After checking in and dropping off their kits, most men headed straight for Rainbow Corner. Located on the corner of Shaftesbury Avenue and Piccadilly Circus, it was a place as close to home as a GI could find in all of England. Administered by the American Red Cross, Rainbow Corner had been designed “to create a strictly American atmosphere.” There was an exact replica of a small-town corner drugstore in the club’s basement, where ice-cold Cokes were sold for a nickel and grilled hamburgers for a dime. Upstairs, in the grand ballroom, servicemen danced with volunteer hostesses to the driving music of soldier bands—the Flying Forts, the Thunderbolts, the Sky Blazers. There was also a lounge with a jukebox and a small dance floor with tables and chairs around it. Lonely GIs dunking donuts in fresh coffee would loaf there, listening to the latest American hits. Rainbow Corner never closed its doors. The key had been symbolically thrown away the day of the grand opening in November 1942.

Easy does it,” Sidney murmured in his smooth as silk voice. “Do you want to come closer?” Allie was already out of her chair before her rational brain could stop her. He didn’t protest one bit when she climbed straight into his lap and pressed her nose to his throat. “Fuuucking hell, you smell so good. Why do I feel like this?

You have nothing to worry about.” She smiled longingly. “Allies are drawn to those with a greater purpose.” She looked me straight in the eye and gave a reassuring nod.

the Girl Scout Cookie drives I’d organized, and how I’d been class mother for both Paul and Allie in their grade-school years. The last year Paul was in junior high, I’d been president of the PTA. My kids’ teeth were straight, and they both were grounded and obtained above-average grades.

If you want to have power in others, you should learn how to see your rivals straight in eyes by stepping them back or by making them your allies.

But when I look down at her, her brown eyes blaze up at me. And it’s only when she excuses herself and walks away, marching straight out of the tent that I finally register the unnamed cocktail of anguish that’s been churning in me all day. It is the comfort of having an ally. It is the powerlessness of infatuation. It is the terrifying beginning of more.