Thirty years earlier it never would have occurred. In my day, boys and girls had separate hockey teams. However, the rules changed. Today every team must have at least six girls on the bench for the peewee and bantam age groups.
The game hasn’t suffered. Until hormones strike, the girls are just as fast, strong and aggressive. It does m
They were there to scatter her ashes at the same pond where she had committed canoeicide—deliberately taking the aluminum Grumman out during a thunderstorm and letting fate decide.
“Biracial, I think.”
Luciana glanced up into the mirror to see who had said it, but it was impossible to tell; the chatter of thirty-one, day-tripping blue hairs and silver tops muddled any trace of its origin.
Truth wasn’t one of my strong points. I believed that the more intelligent were adroit liars, able to manipulate the truth for their own purposes, …
She and Dante took a flat in Chatham. They weren’t married. She could never invite her sister for a visit. When Dante’s family paid a call, she hid in the bedroom. Even Dante’s friends were ignorant of their living arrangement.
I’m looking for him. Even among the crowds he was taller than almost everyone else. I would look for his smile, his encouragement. But today I won’t see him. I won’t hear him scream “Run, Anna, run!” while he waves his arms above the rest of the crowd so that I can’t miss him.
Rita Zumpano was the topic of neighborhood gossip, a widow who’d gotten over the death of her husband a decade ago, a woman who lit no candles at church, who favored floral patterns over black, who took tango lessons at the community center.
Jacee worked at the Waffle House on I-95 in Haswick, Georgia going on five years. She’d started the day after graduating high school when her mother told her to get a job or “move on.”
As if to remind you that, regardless of what they say, you yourself are an island. Nothing but the grass grows there.
Sonny, face deadpan, flings his ballpoint across the reflective marble of the conference table. It flies with unintended precision, hitting his older sister Maya in the center of her chest like a dart. A tentative smile twitches across her face, because he’s fifty-six and he’s never been good at anger, never had reason to be. The pen was the best he could manage.