Excitement

Passages

Every passage tagged with this emotion in the Vela corpus. Search the body text, narrow by source or register, click through to a book’s profile to see how the passage sits with the rest of the work.

Page 43 of 182 · 20 per page

• From Middlesex (2002)

  "We just moved in," I said. "We live in the house behind yours." Now she frowned. I thought I'd said something wrong— my first etiquette mistake in Grosse Pointe. Mrs. Stark said, "Why don't you girls go upstairs?" We did. In her bedroom Clementine mounted a rocking horse. For the next three minutes she rode it without saying another word. Then she abrupdy got off. "I used to have a turtle but he escaped." "He did?" "My mom says he could survive if he made it outside." "He's probably dead," I said. Clementine accepted this bravely. She came over and held her arm next to mine. "Look, I've got freckles like the Big Dipper," she an- nounced. We stood side to side before the full-length mirror, making faces. The rims of Clementine's eyes were inflamed. She yawned. She rubbed her nose with the heel of her hand. And then she asked, "Do you want to practice kissing?" I didn't know what to answer. I already knew how to kiss, didn't I? Was there something more to learn? But while these questions were going through my head, Clementine was going ahead with the lesson. She came around to face me. With a grave expression she put her arms around my neck. The necessary special effects are not in my possession, but what I'd like for you to imagine is Clementine's white face coming close to mine, her sleepy eyes closing, her medicine-sweet lips puckering up, and all the other sounds of the world going silent— the rusding of our dresses, her mother counting leg lifts downstairs, the airplane outside making an exclamation mark in the sky— all silent, as Clem- entine's highly educated, eight-year-old lips met mine. 264 And then, somewhere below this, my heart reacting. Not a thump exactly. Not even a leap. But a kind of swish, like a frog kicking off from a muddy bank. My heart, that amphibian, mov- ing diat moment between two elements: one, excitement; the other, fear. I tried to pay attention. I tried to hold up my end of things. But Clementine was way ahead of me. She swiveled her head back and forth the way actresses did in the movies. I started doing the same, but out of the corner of her mouth she scolded, "You're the man." So I stopped. I stood stiffly with arms at my sides. Finally Clementine broke off the kiss. She looked at me blankly a moment, and then re- sponded, "Not bad for your first time."

• From Middlesex (2002)

  No one had ever talked to me like this before. I liked it. As we drove on through the yellow country, Scheer told me other interest- ing things. I learned about Ionesco and the Theater of the Absurd. Also about Andy Warhol and the Velvet Underground. It's hard to express the excitement such phrases instilled in a kid like me from the cultural sticks. The Charm Bracelets wanted to pretend they were from the East, and I guess I had picked up that urge, too. "Did you ever live in New York?" I asked. "Used to." "I was just there. I want to live there someday." "I lived there ten years." "Why did you leave?" Again the direct look. "I woke up one morning and realized, if I didn't, I'd be dead in a year." This, too, seemed marvelous. Scheer's face was handsome, pale, with an Asiatic cast to his gray eyes. His light brown frizzy hair was scrupulously brushed, and parted by fiat. After a while I noticed other niceties of his dress, the monogrammed cufflinks, the Italian loafers. I liked him immediately. Scheer was the kind of man I thought I would like to be myself. Suddenly, from the rear of the car there erupted a magnificent, weary, soul-emptying sigh. "How ya doin', Franklin?" Scheer called. On hearing his name, Franklin lifted his troubled, regal head from the recesses of the hatchback, and I saw the black-and-white markings of an English setter. Ancient, rheumy-eyed, he gave me the once-over and dropped back out of sight. Scheer was meanwhile pulling off the highway. He had a breezy highway driving style, but when making any kind of maneuver he snapped into military action, pummeling the wheel with strong 454 hands. He pulled into the parking lot of a convenience store. "Back in a minute." Holding a cigarette at his hip like a riding crop, he walked with clipped steps into the store. While he was gone I looked around the car. It was immaculately clean, the floor mats freshly vacuumed. The glove box contained orderly maps and tapes of Mabel Mercer. Scheer reappeared with two full shopping bags. "I think road drinks are in order," he said. He had a twelve-pack carton of beer, two bottles of Blue Nun, and a bottle of Lancers rose, in a faux clay bottle. He set all of these on the backseat. This was part of being sophisticated, too. You drank cheap Liebfraumilch in plastic cups, calling it cocktails, and carved off hunks of Cheddar cheese with a Swiss Army knife. Scheer had assem- bled a nice hors d'oeuvre platter from meager sources. There were also olives. We headed back out across the no-man's-land, while Scheer directed me to open the wine and serve him snacks. I was now his page. He had me put in the Mabel Mercer tape and then enlight- ened me about her meticulous phrasing.

• From Holy Ghost Girl (2012)

  And then the baby came and it really was too much of a burden. Pam still sat with her mama and the baby, and her absence made the tedium of the daytime services almost more than I could bear. I watched my foot swing round and round, then switched directions. A horsefly landed on my wrist and crawled up my arm, feathery-legged and red-eyed. I gave him a limp swat and slumped lower in my chair. Just when I thought I couldn’t take another minute, Randall slid into the seat next to me and whispered, “If it’s this hot in hell, they may as well not send me ’cause I won’t stay.”I rolled my eyes at him. “At least you don’t have to sweat to death on Earth.”He grinned.“What is it?”“That new tent man, John, the young one, said he would take us swimming.”“Swimming?”Laverne cut her eyes at us.“I’ll talk to your mama. I’m gonna get Pam. You and Gary meet us round back.”In less than a couple of minutes, Randall was on the platform, whispering in Mama’s ear. She nodded and they left the stage together. How did he do that? Pam and the new tent guy appeared at the side of the tent, and Mama and Randall joined them. My mother waved Gary and me outside. Yes. We walked up just as John told Mama he wanted to take us and a couple of other kids who traveled with the tent to a big swimming hole outside of town. He would have us back before church that night. Mama didn’t look convinced.“My kids don’t know how to swim.”Pam and Randall stood on either side of her and tugged at her hands. “Please, Carolyn, let ’em go. Please.”John reassured us. “Don’t worry, Sister Johnson, I’ll keep ’em in the shallow water.”Pam and Randall piled into the cab of the pickup with John, and Gary and I climbed into the bed of the truck with two boys from one of the families who followed the tent. We held on to the sides of the truck as we bounced across the field toward the highway. I made Gary sit between my legs; that way I could keep him safe and he could hold my dress down. As we turned onto the highway and the tent grew smaller, the thrill of what we were doing rushed through me. Swimming was one of those things Holy Roller kids didn’t do. When our parents felt sorry for us they might let us stick our feet in one of the slimy pools of whatever motor court we happened to spend the night in. And if my mother or Betty Ann felt especially guilty, we might do a drive-by vacation, as in we drove by the Gulf of Mexico or the Atlantic Ocean en route to the next revival.

• From Looking for Alaska (2005)

  And then with me sitting watching The Brady Bunch, watching Marcia Marcia Marcia up to her Brady antics, Lara unbuttoned my pants and pulled my boxers down a little and pulled out my penis. “Wow,” she said. “What?” She looked up at me, but didn’t move, her face nanometers away from my penis. “It’s weird.” “What do you mean weird? ” “Just beeg, I guess.” I could live with that kind of weird. And then she wrapped her hand around it and put it into her mouth. And waited. We were both very still. She did not move a muscle in her body, and I did not move a muscle in mine. I knew that at this point something else was supposed to happen, but I wasn’t quite sure what. She stayed still. I could feel her nervous breath. For minutes, for as long as it took the Bradys to steal the key and unlock themselves from the ghost-town jail, she lay there, stock-still with my penis in her mouth, and I sat there, waiting. And then she took it out of her mouth and looked up at me quizzically. “Should I do sometheeng?” “Um. I don’t know,” I said. Everything I’d learned from watching porn with Alaska suddenly exited my brain. I thought maybe she should move her head up and down, but wouldn’t that choke her? So I just stayed quiet. “Should I, like, bite?” “Don’t bite! I mean, I don’t think. I think—I mean, that felt good. That was nice. I don’t know if there’s something else.” “I mean, you deedn’t—” “Um. Maybe we should ask Alaska.” So we went to her room and asked Alaska. She laughed and laughed. Sitting on her bed, she laughed until she cried. She walked into the bathroom, returned with a tube of toothpaste, and showed us. In detail. Never have I so wanted to be Crest Complete. Lara and I went back to her room, where she did exactly what Alaska told her to do, and I did exactly what Alaska said I would do, which was die a hundred little ecstatic deaths, my fists clenched, my body shaking. It was my first orgasm with a girl, and afterward, I was embarrassed and nervous, and so, clearly, was Lara, who finally broke the silence by asking, “So, want to do some homework?” There was little to do on the first day of the semester, but she read for her English class. I picked up a biography of Argentinian revolutionary Che Guevara—whose face adorned a poster on the wall—that Lara’s roommate had on her bookshelf, then I lay down next to Lara on the bottom bunk. I began at the end, as I sometimes did with biographies I had no intention of reading all the way through, and found his last words without too much searching. Captured by the Bolivian army, Guevara said, “Shoot, coward.

• From Looking for Alaska (2005)

  Hyde’s class isn’t total bullshit.” And both of us lying on our sides, she smiled, our noses almost touching, my unblinking eyes on hers, her face blushing from the wine, and I opened my mouth again but this time not to speak, and she reached up and put a finger to my lips and said, “Shh. Shh. Don’t ruin it.” fifty-one days before THE NEXT MORNING, I didn’t hear the knocking, if there was any. I just heard, “UP! Do you know what time it is?!” I looked at the clock and groggily muttered, “It’s seven thirty-six.” “No, Pudge. It’s party time! We’ve only got seven days left before everyone comes back. Oh God, I can’t even tell you how nice it is to have you here. Last Thanksgiving, I spent the whole time constructing one massive candle using the wax from all my little candles. God, it was boring. I counted the ceiling tiles. Sixty-seven down, eighty-four across. Talk about suffering! Absolute torture.” “I’m really tired. I—” I said, and then she cut me off. “Poor Pudge. Oh, poor poor Pudge. Do you want me to climb into bed with you and cuddle?” “Well, if you’re offering—” “NO! UP! NOW!” She took me behind a wing of Weekday Warrior rooms—50 to 59—and stopped in front of a window, placed her palms flat against it, and pushed up until the window was half open, then crawled inside. I followed. “What do you see, Pudge?” I saw a dorm room—the same cinder-block walls, the same dimensions, even the same layout as my own. Their couch was nicer, and they had an actual coffee table instead of COFFEE TABLE . They had two posters on the wall. One featured a huge stack of hundred-dollar bills with the caption THE FIRST MILLION IS THE HARDEST . On the opposite wall, a poster of a red Ferrari. “Uh, I see a dorm room.” “You’re not looking, Pudge. When I go into your room, I see a couple of guys who love video games. When I look at my room, I see a girl who loves books.” She walked over to the couch and picked up a plastic soda bottle. “Look at this,” she said, and I saw that it was half filled with a brackish, brown liquid. Dip spit. “So they dip. And they obviously aren’t hygienic about it. So are they going to care if we pee on their toothbrushes? They won’t care enough, that’s for sure. Look. Tell me what these guys love.” “They love money,” I said, pointing to the poster. She threw up her hands, exasperated. “They all love money, Pudge. Okay, go into the bathroom. Tell me what you see there.” The game was annoying me a little, but I went into the bathroom as she sat down on that inviting couch. Inside the shower, I found a dozen bottles of shampoo and conditioner. In the medicine cabinet, I found a cylindrical bottle of something called Rewind.

• From Looking for Alaska (2005)

  I opened it—the bluish gel smelled like flowers and rubbing alcohol, like a fancy hair salon. (Under the sink, I also found a tub of Vaseline so big that it could have only had one possible use, which I didn’t care to dwell on.) I came back into the room and excitedly said, “They love their hair.” “Precisely!” she shouted. “Look on the top bunk.” Perilously positioned on the thin wooden headboard of the bed, a bottle of STA-WET gel. “Kevin doesn’t just wake up with that spiky bedhead look, Pudge. He works for it. He loves that hair. They leave their hair products here, Pudge, because they have duplicates at home. All those boys do. And you know why?” “Because they’re compensating for their tiny little penises?” I asked. “Ha ha. No. That’s why they’re macho assholes. They love their hair because they aren’t smart enough to love something more interesting. So we hit them where it hurts: the scalp.” “Ohh-kaay,” I said, unsure of how, exactly, to prank someone’s scalp. She stood up and walked to the window and bent over to shimmy out. “Don’t look at my ass,” she said, and so I looked at her ass, spreading out wide from her thin waist. She effortlessly somersaulted out the half-opened window. I took the feetfirst approach, and once I got my feet on the ground, I limboed my upper body out the window. “Well,” she said. “That looked awkward. Let’s go to the Smoking Hole.” She shuffled her feet to kick up dry orange dirt on the road to the bridge, seeming not to walk so much as cross-country ski. As we followed the almost-trail down from the bridge to the Hole, she turned around and looked back at me, stopping. “I wonder how one would go about acquiring industrial-strength blue dye,” she said, and then held a tree branch back for me. forty-nine days before TWO DAYS LATER —Monday, the first real day of vacation—I spent the morning working on my religion final and went to Alaska’s room in the afternoon. She was reading in bed. “Auden,” she announced. “What were his last words?” “Don’t know. Never heard of him.” “Never heard of him? You poor, illiterate boy. Here, read this line.” I walked over and looked down at her index finger. “You shall love your crooked neighbour / With your crooked heart,” I read aloud. “Yeah. That’s pretty good,” I said. “Pretty good? Sure, and bufriedos are pretty good. Sex is pretty fun. The sun is pretty hot. Jesus, it says so much about love and brokenness—it’s perfect.” “Mm-hmm.” I nodded unenthusiastically. “You’re hopeless. Wanna go porn hunting?” “Huh?” “We can’t love our neighbors till we know how crooked their hearts are. Don’t you like porn?” she asked, smiling. “Um,” I answered. The truth was that I hadn’t seen much porn, but the idea of looking at porn with Alaska had a certain appeal.

• From Middlesex (2002)

  And so we come to the preceding Saturday night, July 20, 1974. A night full of departures and secret plans. In the early hours of Sun- day morning (which was still Saturday night back in Michigan), Turkish jets took off from bases on the mainland. They headed south- east over the Mediterranean Sea toward the island of Cyprus. In the ancient myths, gods favoring mortals often hid them away. Aphrodite blotted out Paris once, saving him from certain death at the hands of Menelaus. She wrapped Aeneas in a coat to sneak him off the battlefield. Likewise, as the Turkish jets roared over the sea, they were also hidden. That night, Cypriot military personnel re- ported a mysterious malfunctioning of their radar screens. The screens filled with thousands of white blips: an electromagnetic 353 cloud. Invisible inside this, the Turkish jets reached the island and be- gan dropping their bombs. Meanwhile, back in Grosse Pointe, Fred and Phyllis Mooney were also leaving home base, heading to Chicago. On the front porch, waving goodbye, stood their children, Woody and Jane, who had secret plans of their own. Flying toward the Mooneys' house at that moment were the silver bombers of beer kegs and the tight for- mations of six-packs. Cars full of teenagers were on their way. And so were the Object and I. Powdered and glossed, our hair hot- combed into wings, we had set off for the party ourselves. In thin corduroy skirts and clogs we came up the front lawn. But the Object stopped me on the porch before we went in. She was biting her lip. "You're my best friend, right?" "Right." "Okay. Sometimes I think I have bad breath." She stopped. "The thing is, you can never tell if you have bad breath or not. So the thing is"— she paused—"I want you to check it for me." I didn't know what to say and so said nothing. "Is that too disgusting?" "No," I said, finally. "Okay, here goes." She leaned toward me and huffed a single breath into my face. "It's okay," I said. "Good. Now you." I leaned down and exhaled in her face. "It's fine," she said, decisively. "Okay. Now we can go to the party." I'd never been to a party before. I felt for the parents. As we squeezed by the throngs in the throbbing house, I cringed at the de- struction under way. Cigarette ashes were dropping on Pierre Deux upholstery. Beer cans were spilling onto heirloom carpets. In the den I saw two laughing boys urinating into a tennis trophy. It was mosdy older kids. A few couples climbed the stairs, disappearing into bed- rooms. The Object was trying to act older herself. She was copying the superior, bored expressions of the high school girls. She crossed to the back porch ahead of me and got in the line for the keg. "What are you doing?" I asked. 354

• From Middlesex (2002)

  By the time I closed myself into a church bathroom stall, news of the Turkish invasion of Cyprus had reached the United States. When Tessie and I arrived back home, the living room was filled with shouting men. "Our battleships are sitting off the coast to intimidate the Greeks," Jimmy Fioretos was yelling. "Sure they're sitting off the coast," Milton now, "what do you ex- pect? The Junta comes in and throws Makarios out. So the Turks are getting anxious. It's a volatile situation." "Yeah, but to help the Turks-" "The U.S. isn't helping the Turks," Milton went on. "They just don't want the Junta to get out of hand." In 1922, while Smyrna burned, American warships sat idly by. Fifty-two years later, off the coast of Cyprus, they also did nothing. At least ostensibly. "Don't be so naive, Milt," Jimmy Fioretos again. "Who do you think's jamming the radar? Ifs the Americans, Milt. It's us." "How do you know?" my father challenged. And now Gus Panos through the hole in his throat: "It's that god- damned— sssss— Kissinger. He must have— ssssss— made a deal with the Turks." "Of course he did." Peter Tatakis nodded, sipping his Pepsi. "Now that the Vietnam crisis is over, Herr Doktor Kissinger can get back to playing Bismarck. He would like to see NATO bases in Turkey? This is his way to get them." Were these accusations true? I can't say for sure. All I know is this: on that morning, somebody jammed the Cypriot radar, guaranteeing the success of the Turkish invasion. Did the Turks possess such tech- nology? No. Did the U.S. warships? Yes. But this isn't something you can prove . . . Plus, it didn't matter to me, anyway. The men cursed, and shook their fingers at the television and pounded the radio, until Aunt Zo unplugged them. Unfortunately, she couldn't unplug the men. All through dinner the men shouted at each other. Knives and forks 359 waved in the air. The argument over Cyprus lasted for weeks and would finally put an end to those Sunday dinners once and for all. But as for myself, the invasion had only one meaning. As soon as I could, I excused myself and ran off to call the Object. "Guess what?" I cried out with excitement. "We're not going on va- cation. There's a war!" Then I told her I had cramps and that I'd be right over. 360 FLESH flllD BLOOD 'm quickly approaching the moment of discovery: of myself by myself, which was something I knew all along and yet didn't know; and the discovery by poor, half-blind Dr. Philobosian of what he'd failed to notice at my birth and continued to miss during every annual physical thereafter; and the discovery by my parents of what kind of child they'd given birth to (answer: the same child, only

• From Middlesex (2002)

  the Society for the Scientific Study of Sexuality in 1968 (held that year in Mazatian among lots of suggestive pinatas), Dr. Luce intro- duced the concept of "periphescence." The word itself means noth- ing; Luce made it up to avoid any etymological associations. The state of periphescence, however, is well known. It denotes the first fever of human pair bonding. It causes giddiness, elation, a tickling on the chest wall, the urge to climb a balcony on the rope of the beloved's hair. Periphescence denotes the initial drugged and happy bedtime where you sniff your lover like a scented poppy for hours running. (It lasts, Luce explained, up to two years— tops.) The an- cients would have explained what Desdemona was feeling as the workings of Eros. Now expert opinion would put it down to brain chemistry and evolution. Still, I have to insist: to Desdemona peri- phescence felt like a lake of warmth flooding up from her abdomen and across her chest. It spread like the 180-proof, fiery flood of a mint-green Finnish liqueur. With the pumping of two efficient glands in her neck, it heated her face. And then the warmth got other ideas and started spreading into places a girl like Desdemona didn't allow it to go, and she broke off the stare and turned away. She walked to the window, leaving the periphescence behind, and the breeze from the valley cooled her down. "I will speak to die girls' parents," she said, trying to sound like her mother. "Then you must go pay court." The next night, the moon, like Turkey's future flag, was a crescent. Down in Bursa the Greek troops scrounged for food, caroused, and shot up another mosque. In Angora, Mustafa Kemal let it be printed 34 in the newspaper that he would be holding a tea at Chankaya while in actuality he'd left for his headquarters in the field. With his men, he drank the last raki he'd take until the battle was over. Under cover of night, Turkish troops moved not north toward Eski§ehir, as everyone expected, but to the heavily fortified city of Afyon in the south. At Eski§ehir, Turkish troops lit campfires to exaggerate their strength. A small diversionary force feinted northward toward Bursa. And, amid these deployments, Lefty Stephanides, carrying two corsages, stepped out the front door of his house and began walking to the house where Victoria Pappas lived. It was an event on the level of a birth or a death. Each of the nearly hundred citizens of Bithynios had heard about Lefty's upcom- ing visits, and the old widows, the married women, and the young mothers, as well as the old men, were waiting to see which girl he would choose. Because of the small population, the old courting rit- uals had nearly ceased. This lack of romantic possibility had created a vicious cycle. No one to love: no love. No love: no babies. No ba- bies: no one to love.

• From Middlesex (2002)

  Neither my new long reach nor Chapter Eleven's beetle-browed con- centration was sufficient to counter Milton's wicked spin or his "killer shot" which left red marks on our chests, through our clothes. But that summer, something was different. When Milton used his extra-fast serve, Chapter Eleven returned it with a minimum of ef- fort. When Milton employed the "English" he'd learned in the Navy, Chapter Eleven counter-spun. Even when Milton smashed a winner across the table, Chapter Eleven, with stupendous reflexes, sent it back where it came from. Milton began to sweat. His face turned red. Chapter Eleven remained cool. He had a strange, distracted look on his face. His pupils were dilated. "Go!" I cheered him on. "Beat Dad!" 12-12. 12-14. 14-15. 17-18. 18-21! Chapter Eleven had done it! He'd beaten Milton! "I'm on acid," he explained later. "What?" "Windowpane. Three hits." The drug had made everything seem as if it were happening in slow motion. Milton's fastest serves, his most arching spin shots and smashes, seemed to float in the air. LSD? Three hits? Chapter Eleven had been tripping the whole time! He had been tripping during dinner! "That was the hardest part," he said. "I was watching dad carve the chicken and then it flapped its wings and flew away!" "What's the matter with that kid?" I heard my father ask my mother through the wall separating our rooms. "Now he's talking about dropping out of engineering. Says it's too boring." "It's just a stage. It'll pass." "It better." Shortly thereafter, Chapter Eleven had returned to college. He hadn't come back for Thanksgiving. And so, as Christmas of '73 approached, we all wondered what he would be like when we saw him again. We quickly found out. As my father had feared, Chapter Eleven had scuttled his plans to become an engineer. Now, he informed us, he was majoring in anthropology. As part of an assignment for one of his courses, Chapter Eleven conducted what he called "fieldwork" during most of that vacation. He carried a tape recorder around with him, recording everything we 313 said. He took notes on our "ideation systems" and "rituals of kin bonding." He said almost nothing himself, claiming that he didn't want to influence the findings. Every now and then, however, while observing our extended family eat and joke and argue, Chapter Eleven would let out a laugh, a private Eureka that made him fall back in his chair and lift his Earth shoes off the floor. Then he would lean forward and begin writing madly in his notebook. As I've mentioned, my brother didn't pay much attention to me while we were growing up. That weekend, however, spurred on by his new mania for observation, Chapter Eleven took a new interest in me. On Friday afternoon while I was diligentiy doing some advance homework at the kitchen table, he came and sat down. He stared at me thoughtfully for a long time.

• From Holy Ghost Girl (2012)

  “Looky there, kids,” they said, and we would jump up and down and clap our hands at the sight of the waves rolling up on a Mississippi or Florida beach. It never occurred to them to stop, and it never occurred to us to ask them to do so. And now, here we were, here I was, about to do the impossible. Yes, Lord. My legs and arms wanted to pound the bed of the truck. My voice wanted to whoop. I looked at the two skinny tent boys who sat beside Gary and me. They were about my age with blond crew cuts that shimmered in the sun. Their faces wore the serious, self-conscious expression of the true believer. One of them smoothed his long-sleeved white shirt deeper into the waist of his dark, baggy dress pants and tightened his belt. Neither would meet my eye. I clamped my jaw shut. The wind whipped my hair into my face and stung my eyes. I didn’t care.The pool parking lot was a field, not unlike the field on which the tent sat, only with large pecan trees that cast a generous shade over the parked cars. Kids and grown-ups lazed against the cars or strolled casually between them, arms and legs long, brown, and naked, chests and bellies forested with thick black hair or smooth as stones. Swimsuits stretched tight over curves that dipped and swelled, a mound of breast here, a crescent of white buttock over there. So much skin. The tent boys dropped their jaws. I knew how they felt. My mother screamed and crossed her arms over her chest if I caught a glimpse of her in a full slip. Gary stared and pointed up into the trees. “Look. Look.”“It’s a bird,” I said, but my eyes never left the bodies around us.Doors slammed and Randall, Pam, and John were at the back of the pickup, letting down the tailgate. The seven of us stood there for a moment, feeling exposed and unsure what to do or where to go. The two tent boys shoved their hands as far into their pockets as they would go, hunched their shoulders, and pulled their heads in like turtles. Randall slapped one on his back. “Come on outta there, Lynn. Let’s have some fun.”“This way, kids.” John led us toward a clump of buildings in the distance.Uneasiness mounted as we approached the line of kids waiting to enter the pool. Most wore swimsuits, but some were still clothed, in shorts and sleeveless shirts mostly. They turned to look as we joined the line, all of us dressed in what appeared to be our Sunday best.“Why don’t they mind their own beeswax,” Pam muttered. I shrugged and focused my attention on the ant that crawled into a crack between the light-green cinder-block walls. The girl in front of me leaned one tanned arm against the wall. She threw the other one around her friend. Someone yelled. Someone else laughed.

• From Looking for Alaska (2005)

  A dozen white tulips in a plastic vase were precariously perched atop one of the book stacks, and when I asked her about them, she just said, “Jake and my’s anniversary,” and I didn’t care to continue that line of dialogue, so I went back to scanning titles, and I was just wondering how I could go about learning Edgar Allan Poe’s last words (for the record: “Lord help my poor soul”) when I heard Alaska say, “Pudge isn’t even listening to us.” And I said, “I’m listening.” “We were just talking about Truth or Dare. Played out in seventh grade or still cool?” “Never played it,” I said. “No friends in seventh grade.” “Well, that does it!” she shouted, a bit too loud given the late hour and also given the fact that she was openly drinking wine in the room. “Truth or Dare!” “All right,” I agreed, “but I’m not making out with the Colonel.” The Colonel sat slumped in the corner. “Can’t make out. Too drunk.” Alaska started. “Truth or Dare, Pudge.” “Dare.” “Hook up with me.” So I did. It was that quick. I laughed, looked nervous, and she leaned in and tilted her head to the side, and we were kissing. Zero layers between us. Our tongues dancing back and forth in each other’s mouth until there was no her mouth and my mouth but only our mouths intertwined. She tasted like cigarettes and Mountain Dew and wine and ChapStick. Her hand came to my face and I felt her soft fingers tracing the line of my jaw. We lay down as we kissed, she on top of me, and I began to move beneath her. I pulled away for a moment, to say, “What is going on here?” and she put one finger to her lips and we kissed again. A hand grabbed one of mine and she placed it on her stomach. I moved slowly on top of her and felt her arching her back fluidly beneath me. I pulled away again. “What about Lara? Jake?” Again, she sshed me. “Less tongue, more lips,” she said, and I tried my best. I thought the tongue was the whole point, but she was the expert. “Christ,” the Colonel said quite loudly. “That wretched beast, drama, draws nigh.” But we paid no attention. She moved my hand from her waist to her breast, and I felt cautiously, my fingers moving slowly under her shirt but over her bra, tracing the outline of her breasts and then cupping one in my hand, squeezing softly. “You’re good at that,” she whispered. Her lips never left mine as she spoke. We moved together, my body between her legs. “This is so fun,” she whispered, “but I’m so sleepy. To be continued?” She kissed me for another moment, my mouth straining to stay near hers, and then she moved from beneath me, placed her head on my chest, and fell asleep instantly. We didn’t have sex.

• From Looking for Alaska (2005)

  But she wanted to save it to be our senior prank. But it’s good. It’s really good. It’s historic.” “Are you going to tell me?” I asked, thinking back to the time when he and Alaska had left me out of prank planning for Barn Night. “Sure,” he said. “The prank is entitled ‘Subverting the Patriarchal Paradigm.’” And he told me, and I have to say, Alaska left us with the crown jewel of pranks, the Mona Lisa of high-school hilarity, the culmination of generations of Culver Creek pranking. And if the Colonel could pull it off, it would be etched in the memory of everyone at the Creek, and Alaska deserved nothing less. Best of all, it did not, technically, involve any expellable offenses. The Colonel got up and dusted the dirt and moss off his pants. “I think we owe her that.” And I agreed, but still, she owed us an explanation. If she was up there, down there, out there, somewhere, maybe she would laugh. And maybe—just maybe—she would give us the clue we needed. eighty-three days after TWO WEEKS LATER, the Colonel returned from spring break with two notebooks filled with the minutiae of prank planning, sketches of various locations, and a forty-page, two-column list of problems that might crop up and their solutions. He calculated all times to a tenth of a second, and all distances to the inch, and then he recalculated, as if he could not bear the thought of failing her again. And then on that Sunday, the Colonel woke up late and rolled over. I was reading The Sound and the Fury , which I was supposed to have read in mid-February, and I looked up as I heard the rustling in the bed, and the Colonel said, “Let’s get the band back together.” And so I ventured out into the overcast spring and woke up Lara and Takumi, then brought them back to Room 43. The Barn Night crew was intact—or as close as it ever would be—for the Alaska Young Memorial Prank. The three of us sat on the couch while the Colonel stood in front of us, outlining the plan and our parts in it with an excitement I hadn’t seen in him since Before. When he finished, he asked, “Any questions?” “Yeah,” Takumi said. “Is that seriously going to work?” “Well, first we gotta find a stripper. And second Pudge has to work some magic with his dad.” “All right, then,” Takumi said. “Let’s get to work.” eighty-four days after EVERY SPRING, Culver Creek took one Friday afternoon off from classes, and all the students, faculty, and staff were required to go to the gym for Speaker Day. Speaker Day featured two speakers—usually small-time celebrities or small-time politicians or small-time academics, the kind of people who would come and speak at a school for the measly three hundred bucks the school budgeted.

• From Middlesex (2002)

  Suddenly he raised his voice. "Cops. Keep your glass down." I quickly lowered my Blue Nun and we drove on, acting cool as the state trooper passed on our left. By now Scheer was doing the cop's voice. "I know city slickers when I see 'em and them mar's two of the slickest of 'em all. I'd wa- ger they're up to no good." To all this I responded with laughter, happy to be in league against the world of hypocrites and rulemongers. When it began to grow dark, Scheer chose a steak house. I was worried it might be too expensive, but he told me, "Dinner's on me tonight." Inside, it was busy, a popular place, the only table open a small one near the bar. To the waitress Scheer said, "I'll have a vodka martini, very dry, two olives, and my son here will have a beer." The waitress looked at me. "He got any ID?" "Not on me," I said. "Can't serve you, then." 455 "I was there at his birth. I can vouch for him," said Scheer. "Sorry, no ID, no alcohol." "Okay, then," said Scheer. "Changed my mind. I'll have a vodka martini, very dry, two olives, and a beer chaser." Through her tight lips the waitress said, "You gonna let your friend drink that beer I can't serve it to you." "They're both for me," Scheer assured her. He deepened his voice a little, opened the tone a little, injecting it with an Eastern or Ivy League authority whose influence did not entirely dissipate even all the way out here in the steak house on the plains. The waitress, re- sentful, complied. She walked off and Scheer leaned toward me. He did his hick voice again. "Nothing wrong with that gal that a good poke in the hay barn wouldn't fix. And you're just the stud for the job." He didn't seem drunk, but this crudeness was new; he was a little less precise in his movements now, his voice louder. "Yeah," said Scheer, "I think she's sweet on you. You and Mayella could be happy together." I was feeling the wine strongly, too, my head like a mirrored ball, flashing lights. The waitress brought the drinks, setting them demonstratively on Scheer's side of the table. As soon as she disappeared, he pushed the beer toward me and said, "There you go." "Thanks." I drank the beer in gulps, pushing it back across the table whenever the waitress passed by. It was fun to be sneaking it like this. But I was not unobserved. A man at the bar was watching me. Wearing a Hawaiian shirt and sunglasses, he looked as though he dis- approved. But then his face broke into a big, knowing smile. The smile made me uncomfortable and I looked away.

• From Middlesex (2002)

  "A what!" "A vibrator. Liz Clark saw it. It's in her bottom drawer." "I can't believe it!" The Object was shocked, amused. But then she squinted, thinking. In a confidential voice she asked, "What are those for, anyway?" "Vibrators?" "Yeah." She knew she was supposed to know. But she trusted I wouldn't make fun of her. This was the form of the pact we made that day: I would handle the deep intellectual matters, like vibrators; she would handle the social sphere. "Most women can't have orgasms by regular intercourse," I said, quoting from the copy of Our Bodies, Ourselves Meg Zemka had given me. "They need clitoral stimulation." Behind her freckles, a blush rose to the Object's face. She was, of course, transfixed by such information. I was speaking into her left ear. The blush spread across her face from that side, as if my words left a visible trace. "I can't believe you know all this stuff." "I'll tell you who knows about it. Miss Schuyler, that's who." The laugh, the hoot, shot out of her mouth like a geyser, and then the Object was falling back on the couch. She screamed, with delight, with revulsion. She kicked her legs, knocking her cigarettes off the table. She was fourteen again, instead of twenty-four, and against all odds we were becoming friends. " 'Unwept, unfriended, without marriage song, I am led forth in my horror—' " '—sorrow—' " " '— in my sorrow on this journey that can be delayed no more. No longer . . .'" . hapless one . . .'" 'Hapless one!' I hate that! 'No longer, hapless one, may I behold yon day-star's sacred eye; but for my fate no tear is shed, no . no . " .' . . . " 'No friend makes moan.' " 'No friend makes moan.' " " 334 We were at the Object's house again, going over our lines. We were in the sun room, sprawled on the Caribbean sofas. Parrots flocked behind the Object's head as she squeezed her eyes shut, recit- ing. We'd been at it for two hours. The Object had gone through al- most a full pack. Beulah, the maid, brought us sandwiches on a tray along with two sixty-four-ounce bottles of Tab. The sandwiches were white, crustiess, but not cucumber or watercress. A salmon-colored spread caked the spongy bread. We took frequent breaks. The Object required constant refresh- ment. I still wasn't comfortable in the house. I couldn't get used to being waited on. I kept jumping up to serve myself. Beulah was black, too, which didn't make it any easier. "I'm really glad we're in this play together," the Object said, munching. "I would've never talked to a kid like you." She paused, realizing how this sounded. "I mean, I never knew you were such a cool kid." Cool? Calliope cool? I had never dreamed of such a thing. But I was ready to accept the Object's judgment.

• From Looking for Alaska (2005)

  No matter how miserably hot it got, I resolved, I would sleep in my clothes every night at the Creek, feeling—probably for the first time in my life—the fear and excitement of living in a place where you never know what’s going to happen or when. one hundred twenty-six days before “WELL, NOW IT’S WAR,” the Colonel shouted the next morning. I rolled over and looked at the clock: 7:52. My first Culver Creek class, French, started in eighteen minutes. I blinked a couple times and looked up at the Colonel, who was standing between the couch and the COFFEE TABLE , holding his well-worn, once-white tennis shoes by the laces. For a long time, he stared at me, and I stared at him. And then, almost in slow motion, a grin crept across the Colonel’s face. “I’ve got to hand it to them,” he said finally. “That was pretty clever.” “What?” I asked. “Last night—before they woke you up, I guess—they pissed in my shoes.” “Are you sure?” I said, trying not to laugh. “Do you care to smell?” he asked, holding the shoes toward me. “Because I went ahead and smelled them, and yes, I am sure. If there’s one thing I know, it’s when I’ve just stepped in another man’s piss. It’s like my mom always says: ‘Ya think you’s a-walkin’ on water, but turns out you just got piss in your shoes.’ Point those guys out to me if you see them today,” he added, “because we need to figure out why they’re so, uh, pissed at me. And then we need to go ahead and start thinking about how we’re going to ruin their miserable little lives.” — When I received the Culver Creek Handbook over the summer and noticed happily that the “Dress Code” section contained only two words, casual modesty, it never occurred to me that girls would show up for class half asleep in cotton pajama shorts, T-shirts, and flip-flops. Modest, I guess, and casual. And there was something about girls wearing pajamas (even if modest), which might have made French at 8:10 in the morning bearable, if I’d had any idea what Madame O’Malley was talking about. Comment dis-tu “Oh my God, I don’t know nearly enough French to pass French II” en français? My French I class back in Florida did not prepare me for Madame O’Malley, who skipped the “how was your summer” pleasantries and dove directly into something called the passé composé, which is apparently a verb tense. Alaska sat directly across from me in the circle of desks, but she didn’t look at me once the entire class, even though I could notice little but her. Maybe she could be mean…but the way she talked that first night about getting out of the labyrinth—so smart.

• From Middlesex (2002)

  specific instructions andcontraindications. TheObjectandIhad workedinthe dark.Shehad neverreallyexploredmy apparatus much. TheClinic hadmedicalizedmygenitals. Duringmytimethere they werenumb orslightiytenderfromtheconstant examinations. My bodyhad shut downin ordertogetthroughtheordeal. Buttrav- eling woke it up. Alone,withthedoorlockedandthechainon,Iex- perimented with myself.I putpillowsbetweenmylegs.Ilayontop ofthem. Halfpaying attention,while Iwatched Johnny Carson,my handprospected. TheanxietyI'dalwaysfeltabouthowIwasmade hadkeptme from exploring thewaymostkidsdid.Soitwasonly now,losttotheworld andeveryone Iknew,thatIhadthecourageto tryitout. Ican'tdiscounttheimportanceofthis.IfI haddoubts aboutmy decision,ifIsometimesthoughtaboutturningback,run- ningbacktomyparentsandtheClinicandgivingin,what stopped mewasthisprivateecstasybetweenmylegs.Iknewitwould be taken fromme. Idon'twanttooverestimatethesexual.Butitwas a powerfulforce forme,especiallyat fourteen, withmynervesbright andjangling,readytolaunchinto a symphony atthe slightest provo- cation.ThatwashowCaldiscoveredhimself,involuptuous, liquid, sterileculmination,couchantupontwoorthreedeformed pillows, withtheshades drawnandthedrainedswimmingpooloutsideand thecarspassing, endlessly, allnight. Outside NebraskaCity, a silverNovahatchback pulledover.Iran upwith mysuitcaseandopenedthepassenger door.Atthewheel was a good-looking maninhisearlythirties.Hewore atweedcoat and yellowV-necksweater. His plaid shirtwasopenatthecollar, but thewings were crisp withstarch.Theformality ofhisclothes con- trasted with hisrelaxedmanner."Hellodeh,"he said,doingaBrook- lynaccent. "Thanks forstopping." He litacigarette andintroducedhimself, extendinghishand. "Ben Scheer." "My name's Cal." Hedidn't askthe usualquestionsaboutmy originanddestina- tion. Instead, aswe drove off,heasked,"Where didyou getthat suit?" "Salvation Army." "Realnice." 453 "Really?"I said.And thenreconsidered."You're teasing." "No,I'm not,"said Scheer."Ilikeasuitsomebody died in.It's very existential." "What's that?" "What's what?" "Existential?" He gave mea directlook."An existentialistis someonewholives forthemoment." Noonehadevertalked to melike thisbefore.Ilikedit. As we droveonthroughtheyellowcountry,Scheer toldme other interest- ingthings.IlearnedaboutIonesco andtheTheateroftheAbsurd. AlsoaboutAndyWarhol and the VelvetUnderground.It's hardto expresstheexcitementsuchphrasesinstilledin akidlikemefromthe culturalsticks.TheCharmBracelets wantedtopretendtheywere fromtheEast, and I guessIhadpickedupthaturge,too. "Didyoueverlivein New York?"I asked. "Usedto." "Iwasjustthere.Iwanttolivetheresomeday." "Ilivedthere tenyears." "Whydidyouleave?" Againthedirectlook."I wokeuponemorning andrealized, ifI didn't,I'dbedeadinayear." This,too,seemedmarvelous. Scheer'sfacewashandsome,pale,withanAsiaticcasttohis gray eyes.Hislightbrownfrizzyhairwasscrupulouslybrushed,and partedbyfiat.After a whileInoticedothernicetiesofhisdress,the monogrammed cufflinks,theItalianloafers.I likedhimimmediately. Scheer wasthekindofmanIthoughtIwouldliketobemyself. Suddenly,from the rearofthecarthereerupteda magnificent, weary, soul-emptying sigh. "How yadoin',Franklin?"Scheercalled. Onhearing his name,Franklinliftedhistroubled, regalheadfrom therecesses ofthe hatchback,andIsawthe black-and-whitemarkings ofanEnglish setter.Ancient,rheumy-eyed,he gavemetheonce-over anddropped back outofsight. Scheer wasmeanwhile pullingoffthe highway.Hehada breezy highwaydriving style, butwhenmakingany kindof maneuverhe snapped into military action,pummeling the wheelwithstrong 454 hands.He pulled intotheparkinglot of a conveniencestore. "Back ina minute." Holdinga cigaretteathishiplikearidingcrop,he walkedwith clipped stepsintothe store.Whilehe was goneIlooked aroundthe car. Itwas immaculatelyclean,thefloormatsfreshly vacuumed.The glovebox containedorderlymaps andtapes ofMabelMercer.Scheer reappeared withtwofullshoppingbags. "Ithinkroad drinks areinorder,"hesaid. He hada twelve-packcarton ofbeer,twobottlesofBlueNun, andabottleof Lancersrose,in a faux clay bottle. Hesetallof these onthebackseat. This was partofbeingsophisticated,too.Youdrankcheap Liebfraumilchinplasticcups,callingitcocktails,andcarvedoff hunksofCheddar cheese withaSwissArmyknife.Scheerhadassem- bledanicehors d'oeuvreplatter frommeagersources.Therewere also olives. We headed backoutacross the no-man's-land,while Scheerdirectedmeto open thewineandserve him snacks. Iwasnow hispage.HehadmeputintheMabelMercer tape andthen enlight- enedmeabouthermeticulousphrasing. Suddenlyheraisedhisvoice."Cops.Keepyourglass down." Iquickly loweredmyBlueNunandwedroveon,actingcool as thestatetrooper passedon ourleft. BynowScheer was doingthecop'svoice. "Iknowcityslickers whenI see'emandthemmar'stwooftheslickest of'emall.I'dwa- gerthey're uptonogood." To allthis Iresponded withlaughter, happy tobeinleague against theworldofhypocritesandrulemongers. When itbegantogrowdark,Scheerchose asteakhouse.I was worried itmight betooexpensive,buthetoldme, "Dinner'sonme tonight." Inside, itwas busy,a popularplace,the onlytableopen asmall onenear thebar. To the waitressScheersaid,"I'llhave avodkamartini, verydry, two olives, and mysonherewillhave abeer." The waitress looked atme. "He gotany ID?" "Noton me,"Isaid. "Can't serve you,then." 455

• From Looking for Alaska (2005)

  “And finally, Front Three: The Progress Reports: We’re going to hack into the faculty computer network and use their grading database to send out letters to Kevin et al.’s families saying that they are failing some of their classes.” “We are definitely going to get expelled,” I said. “I hope you didn’t bring the Asian kid along thinking he’s a computer genius. Because I am not,” Takumi said. “We’re not going to get expelled and I’m the computer genius. The rest of you are muscle and distraction. We won’t get expelled even if we get caught because there are no expellable offenses here—well, except for the five bottles of Strawberry Hill in Alaska’s backpack, and that will be well hidden. We’re just, you know, wreaking a little havoc.” The plan was laid out, and it left no room for error. The Colonel relied so heavily on perfect synchronicity that if one of us messed up even slightly, the endeavor would collapse entirely. He had printed up individual itineraries for each of us, including times exact to the second. Our watches synchronized, our clothes black, our backpacks on, our breath visible in the cold, our minds filled with the minute details of the plan, our hearts racing, we walked out of the barn together once it was completely dark, around seven. The five of us walking confidently in a row, I’d never felt cooler. The Great Perhaps was upon us, and we were invincible. The plan may have had faults, but we did not. After five minutes, we split up to go to our destinations. I stuck with Takumi. We were the distraction. “We’re the fucking Marines,” he said. “First to fight. First to die,” I agreed nervously. “Hell yes.” He stopped and opened his bag. “Not here, dude,” I said. “We have to go to the Eagle’s.” “I know. I know. Just—hold on.” He pulled out a thick headband. It was brown, with a plush fox head on the front. He put it on his head. I laughed. “What the hell is that?” “It’s my fox hat.” “Your fox hat?” “Yeah, Pudge. My fox hat .” “Why are you wearing your fox hat? ” I asked. “Because no one can catch the motherfucking fox.” Two minutes later, we were crouched behind the trees fifty feet from the Eagle’s back door. My heart thumped like a techno drumbeat. “Thirty seconds,” Takumi whispered, and I felt the same spooked nervousness that I had felt that first night with Alaska when she grabbed my hand and whispered run run run run run . But I stayed put. I thought: We are not close enough. I thought: He will not hear it. I thought: He will hear it and be out so fast that we will have no chance. I thought: Twenty seconds. I was breathing hard and fast. “Hey, Pudge,” Takumi whispered, “you can do this, dude. It’s just running.” “Right.” Just running. My knees are good. My lungs are fair.

• From Looking for Alaska (2005)

  “Do you have a plan for how, exactly, we’re going to steal the Breathalyzer from inside the Eagle’s house? ” The Colonel looked over at me and said, “Do you suck at this game?” and then, without turning back to the screen, shot my skater in the balls with a blue paint blast. “But first, we gotta get some liquor, because the ambrosia’s sour and my booze connection is—” “POOF . Gone,” I finished. — When I opened his door, Takumi was sitting at his desk, boxy headphones surrounding his entire head, bouncing his head to the beat. He seemed oblivious to us. “Hey,” I said. Nothing. “Takumi!” Nothing. “TAKUMI!” He turned around and pulled off his headphones. I closed the door behind me and said, “You got any alcohol?” “Why?” he asked. “Uh, because we want to get drunk?” the Colonel answered. “Great. I’ll join you.” “Takumi,” the Colonel said. “This is—we need to do this alone.” “No. I’ve had enough of that shit.” Takumi stood up, walked into his bathroom, and came out with a Gatorade bottle filled with clear liquid. “I keep it in the medicine cabinet,” Takumi said. “On account of how it’s medicine.” He pocketed the bottle and then walked out of the room, leaving the door open behind him. A moment later, he peeked his head back in and, brilliantly mimicking the Colonel’s bossy bass voice, said, “Christ, you comin’ or what?” “Takumi,” the Colonel said. “Okay. Look, what we’re doing is a little dangerous, and I don’t want you caught up in it. Honestly. But, listen, we’ll tell you everything starting tomorrow.” “I’m tired of all this secret shit. She was my friend, too.” “Tomorrow. Honestly.” He pulled the bottle out of his pocket and tossed it to me. “Tomorrow,” he said. “I don’t really want him to know,” I said as we walked back to the room, the Gatorade bottle stuffed in the pocket of my sweatshirt. “He’ll hate us.” “Yeah, well, he’ll hate us more if we keep pretending he doesn’t exist,” the Colonel answered. — Fifteen minutes later, I stood at the Eagle’s doorstep. He opened the door with a spatula in hand, smiled, and said, “Miles, come in. I was just making an egg sandwich. Want one?” “No thanks,” I said, following the Eagle into his kitchen. My job was to keep him out of his living room for thirty seconds so the Colonel could get the Breathalyzer undetected. I coughed loudly to let the Colonel know the coast was clear. The Eagle picked up his egg sandwich and took a bite. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?” he asked. “I just wanted to tell you that the Colonel—I mean, Chip Martin—he’s my roommate, you know, he’s having a tough time in Latin.” “Well, he’s not attending the class, from what I understand, which can make it very difficult to learn the language.” He walked toward me.

• From Middlesex (2002)

  a yearaway.) It wasasblack asspaceitselfandshapedlikearocket lying onitsside.Thelong frontend cametoapoint, like a nose cone, and fromtherethe craftstretched backalongthedrivewayin a long, beautiful, ominously perfectshape.There wasa silver multi- chambered grille,asthough tofilter Stardust.Chromepiping,like the housingfor circuitry, ledfrom conicalyellow turnsignalsalong the rounded sidesofthe car,allthe waytotherear,where thevehicle flared propulsivelyinto jetfinsandrocket boosters. Inside, theCadillacwas asplushlycarpeted andsoftlylit as thebar atthe Ritz.Thearmrests wereequippedwith ashtraysandcigarette lighters. Theinterioritself wasblackleatherand gaveoffastrong newsmell.Itwaslikeclimbinginto somebody'swallet. Wedidn'tmoverightaway. Weremainedparked,asifitwere enoughjusttosit in thecar, as ifnow thatweownedit,wecould forgetaboutour livingroom andstayinthedrivewayeverynight. Miltonstartedtheengine.Keepingthetransmission inpark,he showed us themarvels.Heopened and closedthewindows by press- ing a button.Helockedthedoorsbypressinganother.Hebuzzed thefrontseatforward,thentilteditback untilI couldseethedan- druffonhisshoulders.Bythetimeheputthe carintogearwewere allslightiygiddy.We droveawaydownSeminole,pastourneigh- bors' houses,already sayingfarewellto IndianVillage.At thecorner, Milton putthe blinkeronand itticked,countingthesecondsdown tooureventualdeparture. The '67 Fleetwoodwas myfather's firstCadillac, but therewere many moretocome. Overthe nextseven years,Miltontraded upal- mostevery year,soit's possibleforme tochartmylifeinrelation to thestylingfeaturesofhis long lineofCadillacs.Whentailfins disap- peared, I was nine; when power antennasarrived, eleven. Myemo- tional life accords withthe designs,too.Inthe sixties,whenCadillacs were futuristically self-assured, I wasalsoself-confidentand forward- looking. In the gas-short seventies, however,whenthe manufacturer came outwith the unfortunate Seville— a carthatlookedasthoughit had been rear-ended— Ialso felt misshapen.Picka yearandI'lltell youwhat carwehad. 1970: the cola-colored Eldorado.1971: the redsedan DeVille. 1972: the golden Fleetwood withthepassenger sunvisor that opened up intoa starlet's dressingroommirror (in which Tessiechecked her makeup andI my firstblemishes). 1973: 253 thelong,black,dome-roofed Fleetwoodthatmade othercars stop, thinkingafuneralwaspassing. 1974:thecanary-yellow, two-door "FloridaSpecial"withwhitevinyl top,sunroof,andtan leather seats thatmymotherisstilldriving today,almostthirty yearslater. Butin1967itwasthespace-ageFleetwood. Once we gotgoing therequiredspeed,Miltonsaid, "Okay.Nowgetaloadofthis." He flipped a switchunder thedash.Therewasahissingsound, likebal- loonsinflating. Slowly,asifliftedonamagic carpet,thefourofus rose totheupperreachesofthecar'sinterior. "That's whattheycallthe c Air-Ride.'Brand-newfeature. Smooth, huh?" "Isitsomekindofhydraulicsuspension system?"ChapterEleven wantedtoknow. "Ithink so." "MaybeIwon'thavetousemypillowwhenIdrive,"saidTessie. For a momentafterthat, noneofusspoke.Wewereheadedeast, outofDetroit,literallyfloatingonair. Which bringsmetothesecondpartofourupwardmobility. Shortlyaftertheriots,likemanyotherwhiteDetroiters,myparents beganlookingforahouseinthesuburbs.Thesuburbtheyhadtheir sightson was theaffluentlakefrontdistrictoftheautomagnates: Grosse Pointe. Itwasmuchharderthantheyeverexpected.IntheCadillac, scouting thefiveGrossePointes(thePark,theCity, theFarms,the Woods,theShores), my parentssawforsalesignsonmany lawns.Butwhen theystoppedinatthe realtyofficesandfilledout applications, theyfoundthatthehousessuddenly went offthe mar- ket, orweresold, ordoubledinprice. Aftertwomonths ofsearching,Miltonwas downtohislastreal estate agent, a Miss Jane MarshofGreatLakes Realty.Hehadher— andsome growing suspicions. "This property israthereccentric,"MissMarshis tellingMilton one Septemberafternoon assheleads him up thedriveway. "Ittakes abuyerwitha littlevision." Sheopensthe frontdoorandleads him inside. "But itdoeshave quiteapedigree. Itwasdesignedby Hud- son Clark."She waitsforrecognition. "Ofthe Prairie School?" Milton nods, dubiously.He swivels hishead, lookingoverthe place. Hehadn't muchcaredforthepictureMiss Marshhad shown him over atthe office.Tooboxy-looking.Too modern. 254 "I'm notsuremywifewould goforthiskindofthing, Miss Marsh." "I'm afraidwedon'thave anything moretraditionalto showat the moment." She leads himalong asparewhitehallway anddown asmallflight ofopen stairs.Andnow,asthey stepinto thesunkenlivingroom, Miss Marsh'sheadbeginstoswivel, too.Smiling apolitesmilethat reveals a rabbity expanse ofupper gum,sheexaminesMilton's com- plexion, hishair,hisshoes. Sheglances at his realestateapplication again. "Stephanides.Whatkind ofnameisthat?" "It's Greek." "Greek.Howinteresting." MoreuppergumflashesasMissMarshmakes anotationon her pad.Thenshe resumesthe tour:"Sunkenlivingroom.Greenhouse adjoining thedining area. And, asyou can see,thehouseiswell sup- pliedwith windows." "Itprettymuchis a window,MissMarsh."Miltonmovescloser to the glassandexaminesthebackyard.Meanwhile,afewfeetbehind, MissMarshexaminesMilton. "MayIaskwhatbusiness you'rein,Mr.Stephanides?" "Therestaurantbusiness." Another markof penonpad."Can Itellyouwhatchurches we have inthearea?What denominationareyou?" "Idon't goin forthat sortofthing. Mywife takesthekidstothe Greekchurch." "She'saGrecian,too?" "She's aDetroiter. We're bothEast Siders." "Andyouneedspace for yourtwo children,isthatright?" "Yes, ma'am.Pluswe havemy folkslivingwithus,too." "Oh,I see."And now pink gums disappearasMissMarshbegins toadd itallup.Let'ssee. Southern Mediterranean.Onepoint.Notinone of the professions. One point. Religion? Greek church.That'ssomekind of Catholic, isn'tit?So there's anotherpoint there.Andhehas hisparents liv- ingwith him! Two more points! Which makes— five!Oh, that won'tdo. That won't doat all. To explainMiss Marsh's arithmetic: back inthose days,thereal estate agents in Grosse Pointe evaluated prospectivebuyers bysome- thing called the Point System. (Milton wasn'ttheonlyonewho wor- 255