Shame

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 230 of 267 · 20 per page

• From Tipping the Velvet (1998)

  It was four, or thereabouts, before we slumbered; and perhaps eleven when I woke. I remembered stumbling to the commode some time in the early morning, and recalled the brief renewal of passion which had followed my return to her arms; but my sleep since then had been a heavy, dreamless one, and when next I knew the bed I was alone in it: she had donned her dressing-gown and stood at the half-opened window, smoking, and gazing thoughtfully at the view beyond. I stirred, and she turned and smiled. ‘You sleep like a child,’ she said. ‘I have been up this half-hour, making a fearful row, and still you’ve slumbered on.’ ‘I was so very weary.’ I yawned - then I recalled all that had wearied me. A slight awkwardness seemed to fall between us. The room last night had been as unreal as a stage-set: a place of lamplight and shadows, and colours and scents of impossible brilliance, in which we had been given a licence to be not ourselves, or more than ourselves, as actors are. Now, in the late morning light that flowed between the partly-drawn drapes, I saw that there was nothing fantastic about the chamber at all; I saw that it was really elegant, and rather austere. I felt, all at once, quite horribly out of place. How does a tart take leave of her customer? I did not know; I had never had to do it. The lady was still gazing at me. She said, ‘I have waited for you to wake, before ringing for breakfast.’ There was a bell-pull set into the wall beside the fireplace: I had not seen that the night before, either. ‘I hope you are hungry?’ I was, I realised, very hungry indeed; but also slightly nauseous. My mouth, moreover, tasted abominable: I hoped she wouldn’t try to kiss me again. She didn’t, but kept her distance. Soon, piqued by her new, queer, self-conscious air, I began to think that she might, at least, come and put her lips to my hand. There was a low, respectful knock on the outer door of the adjoining room. At her call the door was opened; I heard footsteps, and the rattle of china. To my amazement the rattle grew louder, the footsteps approached: the servant - who I thought would deposit her burden in the room next door, and discreetly take her leave - appeared in the doorway of ours.

• From History of the Christian Church: The Complete Set of Eight Volumes (1858)

  Almost the last act of his reign was the nomination of the worthy Felix III. (IV.) to the papal chair, after a protracted struggle of contending parties. With the appointment he issued the order that hereafter, as heretofore, the pope should be elected by clergy and people, but should be confirmed by the temporal prince before assuming his office; and with this understanding the clergy and the city gave their consent to the nomination. Yet, in spite of this arrangement, in the election of Boniface II. (530–532) and John II. (532–535) the same disgraceful quarrelling and briberies occurred;—a sort of chronic disease in the history of the papacy. Soon after the death of Theodoric (526) the Gothic empire fell to pieces through internal distraction and imperial weakness. Italy was conquered by Belisarius (535), and, with Africa, again incorporated with the East Roman empire, which renewed under Justinian its ancient splendor, and enjoyed a transient after-summer. And yet this powerful, orthodox emperor was a slave to the intriguing, heretical Theodora, whom he had raised from the theatre to the throne; and Belisarius likewise, his victorious general, was completely under the power of his wife Antonina. With the conquest of Italy the popes fell into a perilous and unworthy dependence on the emperor at Constantinople, who reverenced, indeed, the Roman chair, but not less that of Constantinople, and in reality sought to use both as tools of his own state-church despotism. Agapetus (535–536) offered fearless resistance to the arbitrary course of Justinian, and successfully protested against the elevation of the Eutychian Anthimus to the patriarchal see of Constantinople. But, by the intrigues of the Monophysite empress, his successor, Pope Silverius (a son of Hormisdas, 536–538), was deposed on the charge of treasonable correspondence with the Goths, and banished to the island of Pandataria, whither the worst heathen emperors used to send the victims of their tyranny, and where in 540 he died—whether a natural or a violent death, we do not know.

• From Birthday Girl (2018)

  Me corro, la ola me recorre y grito en silencio, respirando con dificultad, pero sin hacer ningún sonido. Dios. Colapso contra la pared, casi derrumbándome mientras me estremezco, el orgasmo baja por mis piernas debilitando mis rodillas. Cierro mis ojos con fuerza y tiemblo hasta que se desvanece, dejándome mareada. Cuando la regadera deja de girar y mi respiración ha vuelto a la normalidad, abro mis ojos, y un flujo de emociones me recorre. Oh, Dios mío. Quiero llorar. ¿Qué demonios está mal conmigo? ¿Por qué haría eso? ¿Y con su padre? Yo... Estoy confundida, estresada y buscando consuelo en un tipo porque ha sido amable conmigo unas cuantas veces. Jesús. No importa lo que suceda con Cole y yo, Pike Lawson está fuera de los límites. No olvido eso. Hay cientos de hombres ahí afuera justo como él. No es especial. No puede ser él. Jamás. Me enderezo, respirando profundamente. Aunque al bajar la mirada, veo que la esponja en mi mano no es la rosa. Es la plateada de Pike. —Mierda. Todavía le queda algo de espuma por su ducha de esta mañana. Y la usé para llegar al orgasmo. Genial. Gimo interiormente. Saliendo de la ducha, la entierro debajo del papel higiénico en el bote de basura y hago una nota mental de conseguirle una nueva la próxima vez que salga. Y también creo que un jabón de ducha diferente.

• From Tipping the Velvet (1998)

  I, of course, should have sung all the louder, swept her across the stage, jollied the audience along; but I, of course, was only her shadow. Her sudden silence stopped my throat, and stunned me into immobility, too. I looked from her to the orchestra pit. There, the conductor had seen our confusion. The music had slowed and faded for a second - but now picked up, more briskly than before. But the melody affected neither Kitty nor the audience. At the side of the stalls, the door-men had reached the drunken man at last, and had hold of his collar. The crowd looked not at him, however, but at us. They looked at us, and saw - what? Two girls in suits, their hair close-clipped, their arms entwined. Toms! For all the efforts of the orchestra, the man’s cry still seemed to echo about the hall. Far off in the gallery someone called something that I could not catch, and there was an awkward answering laugh. If the shout cast a spell over the theatre, the laughter broke it. Kitty shifted, then seemed to see for the first time that our arms were joined. She gave a cry, and drew away from me as if in horror. Then she put her hand to her eyes and stepped, with her head bowed, into the wing. For a second I stood, dazed and confounded; then I hurried after her. The orchestra rattled on. There were shouts from the hall, at last, and cries of ‘Shame!’ The curtain, I think, was rung hurriedly down. Back stage, everything was in a state of the greatest confusion. Kitty had run to Walter: he had his arm about her shoulders and looked grave. Flora stood by with a shoe unlaced and ready, shocked and uncertain but desperately curious. A knot of stage-hands and fly-men looked on, whispering amongst themselves. I stepped up to Kitty and reached for her arm; she flinched as if I had raised my hand to strike her, and instantly I fell back. As I did so the manager appeared, more flustered than ever. ‘I should like to know, Miss Butler, Miss King, what the blazes you mean by -’ ‘I should like to know,’ interrupted Walter harshly, ‘what the blazes you mean by sending my artistes on before that rabble you call your audience. I should like to know why a drunken fool is allowed to interfere with Miss Butler’s performance for ten minutes, while your men gather their scattered wits together, and make up their minds to remove him.’ The manager stamped his foot: ‘How dare you, sir!’ ‘How dare you, sir -!’ The debate went on. I didn’t listen to it, only looked at Kitty. Her eyes were dry, but she was white-faced and stiff.

• From Birthday Girl (2018)

  No es que me moleste ella. ¿Qué sé yo? Es una buena clienta, y da buenas propinas, después de todo. Simplemente no puedo evitar vigilarla cuando Cole está cerca. La he visto perseguir a hombres casados, por lo que el novio de alguien ciertamente no la desalentará. Termino de verter el jugo de naranja y coloco una servilleta antes de poner la bebida encima. Toma una pajita y toma su vaso. —Gracias —canturrea y de inmediato se da vuelta, tomando un sorbo mientras camina de regreso a su mesa. La veo irse y deslizarse con otros dos hombres que he visto antes. A veces me hace pensar en mi madre. No estoy segura de por qué, no se parecen en nada. Mi madre era rubia, es rubia y April es morena. El cabello es tan oscuro que casi parece negro. Pero tendrían más o menos la misma edad. April tiene que estar llegando a los cuarenta y se viste como recuerdo que se viste mi madre. Faldas cortas, onduladas, camisetas sin mangas de seda, joyas y tacones de diez centímetros. 2 Un “ombligo borroso” es una bebida mixta hecha de aguardiente de melocotón y jugo de naranja. Como Cam. Mi hermana heredó el estilo sexy de mi madre. Me pregunto si mi madre se ha establecido con alguien o si todavía necesita esa libertad que anhelaba tanto cuando yo tenía siete años. No la extraño. Apenas la recuerdo. Pero todavía me pregunto sobre ella. Me estiro detrás de mí, agrego a la cuenta de April su bebida y tomo una toalla para terminar de secar los vasos. Pero luego la puerta de entrada se abre y una voz retumba. —Mierda, esto está muerto. Alzo la mirada y el vello en mis brazos se eriza al instante. Mi novio entra con algunos de sus amigos, pero es la voz familiar que lidera el grupo la que hace que se erice mi piel. Jay McCabe, mi exnovio, entra lentamente y se toma su tiempo, entrando a la habitación como el mariscal de campo estrella que era en la escuela secundaria y todavía esperando un maldito aplauso. Es gracioso cómo se volvió menos guapo cuanto más lo conocía. Enderezo la espalda como una barra de acero, y la conciencia hace que el calor se extienda por mi cuello. Cole entra detrás con un par de chicos, y Elena Barros los sigue, y veo su ceja arqueada y la leve mueca en su rostro mientras mira a Jay y luego a mí. No se llevan bien, pero a veces se encuentran en las mismas fiestas. Supongo que Jay se dirigió aquí con su grupo y Cole lo siguió para asegurarse que estoy bien. Jay escanea la habitación y luego sus ojos se posan sobre mí, una pequeña sonrisa curva las esquinas de su boca. Inmediatamente aparto mi mirada, se me revuelve el estómago. Trato de fingir que ya no tiene importancia, pero creo que sabe que ganó.

• From Birthday Girl (2018)

  —No creo que esta sea una buena idea —le digo a Cole, sacando mis cajas de leche apiladas de la parte trasera de su auto—. Me siento como una vividora. Mi novio muestra esa peculiar inclinación de sus labios donde solo ves el lado izquierdo de sus dientes. —Entonces, ¿qué vas a hacer? —Me mira, deslizando mi mesa de dibujo plegable hacia él y levantándola—. ¿Quedarte en casa de tus padres? Sus ojos azules están entrecerrados, probablemente por la falta de sueño, mientras ambos caminamos y colocamos nuestras cosas en los escalones del porche de la casa de Pike Lawson. Nuestro nuevo hogar. Los últimos días han sido una locura, y no puedo creer que ese tipo sea su padre. ¿Cuáles son las posibilidades? Ojalá nos hubiéramos conocido de un modo un poco diferente. No conduciendo a la estación de policía a las dos en punto de la mañana para sacar a su hijo, mi novio, de la cárcel. —Vamos, te lo dije —comenta Cole, volviendo al auto por más cosas—. Mi papá fue quien se ofreció a dejar que nos quedáramos aquí. Simplemente ayudamos en las tareas domésticas, y esto nos da la oportunidad de ahorrar para un nuevo lugar. Un mejor lugar. Claro. ¿Y cuántos niños se mudan a casa para hacer eso y terminan quedándose otros tres años en su lugar? Su padre tenía que saber a qué se estaba ofreciendo. Haré todo lo posible para irme lo más pronto posible, pero Cole no ahorra dinero. Conseguir un nuevo lugar, con un depósito, el cual perdimos en el apartamento anterior debido a daños menores en las alfombras, y los servicios públicos requerirán un efectivo sustancial. Una vez que tengamos un lugar, Cole puede ayudar a pagarlo, pero en realidad conseguirlo y asegurarlo dependerá de mí. Han pasado tres días desde el teatro y de conocer a Pike Lawson. Una vez que sacamos a Cole, llegué a casa y encontramos nuestro departamento completamente destrozado. Aparentemente, estaba tratando de hacerme una fiesta de cumpleaños tarde en nuestra casa, pero nuestros amigos, sus amigos, no esperaron para

• From Birthday Girl (2018)

  Al día siguiente mi hermana no me pregunta por qué dormí en su sofá. Nos lleva a su hijo y a mí a desayunar, y luego vamos a Farmer’s Market 4 por algún producto. Hablamos sobre la feria del condado que se aproxima, qué hay de nuevo en los cines y qué tipo de fiesta quiere tener Killian para su cumpleaños en septiembre. A mi hermana le gusta hacerme pasar un mal rato, pero también es buena al ver cuando estoy herida. Sabe cuándo retroceder. Después de su baile de anoche, la seguí a la parte trasera del club y conseguí sus llaves, así pude usar su auto e ir a su casa. No sabía qué decirle sobre por qué necesité quedarme a dormir con ella, así que no expliqué nada. ¿Por dónde debería empezar? ¿Cole dejándome plantada al no recogerme la noche anterior? ¿Yo sola con Jay en su auto, en una calle desierta a mitad de la noche por primera vez en dos años? ¿Yo pasando la noche en una mesa de billar? ¿Pike acusándome de jugar con su hijo y tomar ventaja de su generosidad? ¿Su jefe presionándome de nuevo para trabajar con él? ¿Cole apenas actuando como si yo existiera? Siento un sollozo tensar mi garganta. No puedo regresar ahí. Preferiría dormir en mi auto. La chica de tres años en mí, con el orgullo del tamaño del Pacífico, se lo enseñará ¿no es así? Viviré en mi auto destartalado sin aire acondicionado y las manillas de la puerta rotas, porque no necesito a nadie, ¿cierto? A través de mis ojos llenos de lágrimas, sonrío un poco mientras conduzco el auto de mi hermana. En realidad no es tan malo como eso. Tengo la casa de mi padre. Puede que mi madrastra no me quiera ahí, pero no me rechazarán. No siempre será así. Giro en el vecindario de Pike, frenando el Mustang de mi hermana y acercándome a su casa. Mi hermana no tiene que trabajar hoy, así que me dejó usar su auto para sacar mis cosas de casa de Pike. Cuando su casa aparece a la vista, veo su camioneta en el camino de entrada y me da un vuelco el estómago. No quiero verlo ahora mismo. Debería volver más tarde. 4 Farmer’s Market: Es un mercado minorista físico destinado a vender alimentos directamente por los agricultores a los consumidores.

• From Delta of Venus (1977)

  When she reached home her husband was reading. He looked up and smiled at her mischievously. She did not want to confess that she was not affected. She was immensely disappointed in herself. What a cold woman she was, whom nothing could affect—not even this which had once made a nobleman in the eighteenth century make love for three nights and three days without stopping. What a monster she was. Even her husband must not know. He would laugh at her. In the end he would look for a more sensitive woman. So she began to undress in front of him, walking back and forth half-naked, brushing her hair in front of the mirror. Usually she never did this. She did not want him to desire her. She did not enjoy it. It was something to be done quickly, for his sake. For her it was a sacrifice. His excitement and his enjoyment that she did not share were rather repulsive to her. She felt like a whore who was receiving money for this. She was a whore who had no feelings, and in exchange for his love and devotion she would fling this empty, unfeeling body at him. She felt ashamed to be so dead in her body. But when she had finally slipped into bed, he said, “I don’t think the Spanish fly has affected you enough. I feel sleepy. You wake me up if . . .” Lilith tried to sleep, but all of the time she was waiting to go wild with desire. After an hour she got up and went to the bathroom. She took the little tube along and took about ten pills, thinking, “This will do it now.” And she waited. During the night her husband came into her bed. But she was so tight between her legs that no moisture would come, and she had to wet his penis with saliva. The next morning she awakened weeping. Her husband questioned her. She told him the truth. Then he laughed. “But Lilith, it was a prank I played on you. That was not Spanish fly at all. I just played a prank on you.” But from that moment Lilith was haunted by the idea that there might be ways of arousing herself artificially. She tried all the formulas she had heard about. She tried drinking big cups of chocolate with a great deal of vanilla in it. She tried eating onions. Alcohol did not affect her as it affected other people, because she was on her guard against it from the first. She could not forget herself.

• From Tipping the Velvet (1998)

  His cock seemed rather small; again, however, I said how thick and fine it was. ‘You’re a beautiful boy,’ he whispered to me afterwards. There was no trouble over the coin. Thus easily - as easily, and fatefully, as I had first begun my music-hall career - thus easily did I refine my new impersonations, and become a renter. Chapter 15 Y ou might think that, having sunk so low already, I should not have scrupled to have banged upon the door that had been closed on me, or even tried to scale the gate, to plead with my old mistress from the top of it. Perhaps I considered such things, in the moments that I stood, stunned and snivelling, in that dark and lonely alley. But I had seen the look that Diana had turned on me - a look that was devoid of any fire, kind or lustful. Worse, I had seen the expressions upon the faces of her friends. How could I go to them, and ever hope to walk before them again, handsome and proud? The thought made me weep still harder; I might have sat and wept before that gate, perhaps, till dawn. But after a moment there came a movement at my side, and I looked up to see Zena standing there, with her hands across her breast, her face very pale. In all my agony, I had forgotten her. Now I said, ‘Oh, Zena! What an end to it all! What are we to do?’ ‘What are we to do?’ she answered: she sounded not at all like her old self. ‘What are we to do? I know what I should do. I should leave you here, and hope that woman comes back for you, and takes you in and treats you nasty. It’s all you deserve!’ ‘Oh, she won’t come back for me - will she?’ ‘No, of course she won’t; nor for me, either. See where all your soft talk has landed us! Out in the dark, on the coldest night in January, with not a hat nor even a pair of drawers; nor even a handkerchief! I wish I was in gaol. You have lost me my place, you have lost me my character. You have lost me my seven pounds’ wages, what I was keeping for the colonies - oh! What a fool I was, to let you kiss me! What a fool you was, to think the mistress wouldn’t - oh! I could hit you!’ ‘Hit me then!’ I cried, still snivelling. ‘Black my other eye for me, I deserve it!’ But she only tossed her head, and wrapped her arms still tighter about her, and turned away. I wiped my eyes upon my sleeve, then, and tried to grow a little calmer.

• From Birthday Girl (2018)

  La puerta se abre, y Pike se queda allí, sosteniendo la perilla, pero se mantiene plantado en el pasillo. —Voy a pedir pizza para la cena —me dice—. ¿Cole estará en casa pronto? Jugueteo con el lápiz en mis manos. —Uno de sus amigos fue promovido en la compañía de cable —le explico—, así que van a tener una fiesta en la granja de su padre. Estoy segura que llegará bastante tarde. Se queda allí un momento, su gran cuerpo llena toda la puerta. Mis ojos siguen moviéndose hacia los tatuajes en sus brazos, así que simplemente miro hacia abajo, pretendiendo estar absorta en mi trabajo. —¿No vas a ir? —presiona. Extiendo las manos, haciendo un gesto hacia la tarea frente a mí. Asiente, comprendiendo. —Bueno… —me mira por un momento, parece inseguro y luego continúa—, tienes que comer también, ¿no? ¿Qué tipo de pizza te gusta? —No, está bien —le digo, negando—. Ya comí. Sus ojos se posan en el plato con el sándwich de mantequilla de maní a medio comer en la cama, y sé lo que está pensando. —Bueno. Se mueve para cerrar la puerta, pero luego se detiene. —Sabes que no necesitas esconderte aquí, ¿verdad? Miro hacia arriba, enderezando mi columna vertebral. —No me estoy escondiendo. —Me río un poco para disimular, pero creo que me ha atrapado. —Estás haciendo los quehaceres —afirma—. Estás pagando por tu derecho a estar en la casa. Entonces, si quieres usar la piscina o traer un amigo o te gusta… salir de la habitación, está bien. Me lamo los labios secos. —Sí, lo sé. —Está bien —dice finalmente—. Supongo que comeré la pizza solo entonces. Tendré sobras durante días, como de costumbre. —Suspira, sonando más patético. —Entonces no pidas una grande —balbuceo, mirando mi libreta de nuevo. Pero su risa silenciosa antes de cerrar la puerta me dice que escuchó mi comentario sabihondo. Estoy segura que ha pedido muchas pizzas en todos los años que ha vivido aquí solo. Solo está tratando de ser amable y hacerme sentir bienvenida. Lo cual es genial por su parte, y lo aprecio, pero aun así no me hace sentir como menos que una vividora. No puedo dejar que me compre pizza también. Y pienso en lo sola que me sentí al crecer en el remolque de mi padre e incluso lo sola que me he sentido con Cole a veces. Tal vez Pike Lawson está cansado de estar solo, de comer solo y de ver televisión solo, soy una invitada en su casa y tal vez le gustaría conocer a las personas que viven bajo su techo, ¿verdad? Es solo razonable. Y tal vez estoy cansada de estar sola mucho, también, y tal vez todavía tengo hambre y la pizza suena bastante bien, en realidad. Suelto un suspiro y aparto la libreta de mi regazo antes de ponerme de pie. Corriendo hacia la puerta del dormitorio, la abro y miro afuera. —¿Pizza de Joe’s? —pregunto, viéndolo justo antes que bajara las escaleras.

• From Summer Sisters (1998)

  “She’s serious,” Vix told them. Paisley said, “I think I’ll send out for Thai.” She searched for the phone, finding it in the basket where they ripened their bananas. When the food arrived they sat around the coffee table, all three of them stripped down to their underwear with their hair pinned up. “Can I speak frankly?” Maia asked, munching on a spring roll. “Please …” Paisley said. But Maia was waiting to hear from Vix. “Go ahead,” Vix told her, knowing what was coming. “It’s time for you to get over him, Victoria. Once and for all.” “I thought I was supposed to get over her.” “Him, her … get over the whole mess.” Vix dug her chopsticks into the pad Thai. Maia took this as permission to continue. “And for God’s sake, call her up and tell her you’re not coming to the wedding. You have other plans. You’re … I don’t know … going to Hawaii with some gorgeous guy. And the next time she decides to get married and wants you for her Maid of Honor she should give you more notice.” Vix kept on eating, sampling the curried vegetables, then the pineapple shrimp. “You’re not thirteen anymore,” Maia said, growing frustrated. “She has no power over you. And I just don’t see the point in all … this.” She pointed to the albums, the loose photos. “In surrounding yourself with these … memories.” Paisley touched Maia’s arm. “Look …” she said, “being a member of the wedding party could be therapeutic for Victoria. It could offer closure … you know?” “What closure?” Maia asked. “It’ll just mean more photo ops, more heartache.” She shook her head at Vix. MaiaSHE’S ALWAYS KNOWN Victoria’s fascination with the NBO girl would come to no good. From the day Victoria moved into their room at Weld South and set out those photos she knew. Go ahead and laugh , she tells Paisley when they discuss it. I knew! She disagrees with Paisley completely. Victoria should not go to this wedding. And really, what kind of guy marries his longtime girlfriend’s best friend? She’ll do everything in her power to keep Victoria from going to the Vineyard, short of tying her up and sitting on her, which, come to think of it, might not be a bad idea. PaisleySHE ADMITS , it’s a shocker. But it’s not the first time in the history of the world something like this has happened. It probably happens more often than they know. Only not to their friends. She disagrees with Maia one hundred percent. Victoria needs to be at this wedding. Needs to experience it. That’s the only way she’ll ever be free of them. Not that Victoria is listening to a word either she or Maia have to say on the subject. Her mind is already made up, was probably made up at the moment Caitlin asked her to come.

• From Birthday Girl (2018)

  todo. ¿Superaré la escuela? ¿Seré quien quiero ser? ¿Tendré amigos y contribuiré con el mundo o simplemente terminaré haciendo un trabajo que odio como mi hermana, mi padre y todos los demás que conozco? —Lo miro de nuevo—. Todos menos tú, claro. Da la impresión que estás justo donde quieres estar contigo mismo, y no te arrepientes de nada. Me arrepiento de todo. Suelto una pequeña risa. —Bueno, no todo —me corrijo—. Sin embargo, me siento un poco estúpida. Acerca de las palabras que digo en cuanto salen de mi boca, cosas que hago, decisiones que tomo, siempre estoy dudando de mí. Como si tal vez fuera más feliz si me quedara en silencio y mantuviera mi maldita boca cerrada y mi cabeza baja. Su brazo se aprieta a mí alrededor. —¿Más feliz o más segura? ¿No son lo mismo? Pero no, sé lo que está diciendo. Un barco en el puerto es seguro, pero eso no es para lo que son los barcos. —Creo que tienes miedo, porque la gente ha trabajado duro para hacerte pensar que no mereces su atención, Jordan —dice—. Tus padres, ese ex tuyo de la escuela secundaria... incluso Cole. Les diste a las personas una oportunidad, y abusaron de ella. Esa es su culpa, no la tuya. —Inclina mi barbilla hacia arriba para que mis ojos se encuentren con los suyos—. No pienses que tiene algo que ver con quién eres. Y no dejes que nadie te haga temerte. Eres increíble. Mi sonrisa se asoma, y aunque pasan por mi cabeza mil dudas sobre a dónde nos dirigimos él y yo, estoy tomando una noche a la vez. Necesitaba escuchar eso. La única persona que me habla así es mi hermana. Pero Pike es mejor, porque también puedo besarlo. —Y me convertí en lo que soy, porque no tenía otra opción —señala—. Si las cosas hubieran sido diferentes, me hubiera gustado ir a la universidad. Viajar. Tal vez usar un traje para trabajar. —Su cuerpo se pone rígido—. Te envidio. Sigues creciendo, y aún puedes ser quién quieras. Tienes todas las opciones en el mundo delante de ti. No había pensado en eso. Qué diferente sería su vida si Cole nunca hubiera venido. Me encojo de hombros. —Simplemente tienes todo resuelto y yo no —le digo—. Me preocupo por —Te recuerdo en ese traje —reflexiono—. Deberías llevarme a una cita. Nunca me has visto con un vestido. Se queda en silencio, su pulgar frota arriba y abajo de mi brazo, y sé lo que no está diciendo. No puede llevarme a menos que vayamos a algún lugar fuera de la ciudad. Respiro hondo, empujando la preocupación hacia el fondo de mi mente. —Cuando te vi por primera vez, sentí que me habían golpeado —susurra—. Tienes un cuerpo que me hace sentir como si estuviera en una montaña rusa cuando

• From Birthday Girl (2018)

  Pero ganas cuando nunca los dejas hacerlo otra vez. —Se acerca a mí y agrega—: Puedes besarme el culo. Y luego me rodea y sale de la habitación. Me desanimo. Quiero seguirla. Quiero dejar las cosas claras y hacerle saber que estaba equivocado. Quiero decirlo y hacerlo bien, pero... No lo sé. Esta es la segunda vez que discutimos, y las dos veces fue por mi culpa. No deberíamos pelear. Es lo que hace una mujer con su novio, no con su padre. Y eso es lo que soy. El padre de su novio. Nada más. Pero en el fondo de mi corazón, el pequeño calor creciendo cada día más y más grande sabe que es una mentira. Esto es más. No perdí los estribos por el bien de Cole. Fue por el mío. Ella se volvió importante, y por primera vez en mucho tiempo, me encontré realmente disfrutando de hablar con alguien. Empecé a bajar la guardia. Se siente bien tenerla cerca. Y acabo de enviarla a empacar. Shel trata de mandarme temprano a casa en mi turno doble, pero después del episodio con Pike, el último lugar en el que puedo estar ahora mismo es en su casa. No tengo ningún otro sitio a donde ir, por no mencionar que necesito el dinero. ¿Cómo pudo hacer eso esta mañana? ¿Interrumpir en mi trabajo como si supiera algo? No le pertenezco. Y si está preocupado, ¿por qué no puede decirlo amablemente? No todas las mentiras son para hacer daño a alguien. Estaba cubriendo el trasero de Cole. Sí, entiendo las sospechas. Lo entiendo. Él no me conoce lo suficiente, y está preocupado por su hijo, ¿pero cómo pueden ambos hombres Lawson apestar tanto en una conversación adulta y madura? Me froto los ojos, mi mente volviendo al momento en que dijo que no apoyaría a alguien así y que me fuera de su maldita casa. En ese momento me sentí indeseada. De nuevo. Indeseada en otro sitio. Por otra persona. Me sentí como una carga. Como en casa de mis padres, e incluso a veces con Cole y Cam. ¿Por qué siempre me permito sentir como si no mereciera algo mejor? Pensé que él era agradable. Pensé que éramos amigos y comencé a relajarme. Gimo, intentando mantener las lágrimas bajo control. Odio haber llorado frente a él. Trabajo hasta que el turno de la noche llega a las seis y me quedo lo suficiente como para comerme la otra mitad de mi sándwich como cena, guardo mis propinas y cierro la caja antes de ponerme la sudadera y tomar mi bolso. No me he duchado en veinticuatro horas y un dolor de cabeza pulsa entre mis ojos por la falta de sueño. Solo quiero sentarme bajo una ducha caliente y ahogar todo lo demás.

• From Birthday Girl (2018)

  Pone su cabello castaño detrás de su hombro, y veo los largos pendientes de plata que usa y que combinan con su maquillaje brillante, sus ojos ahumados y sus labios brillantes. —¿Cómo está Killian? —pregunto, recordando a mi sobrino. —Un mocoso, como de costumbre —responde. Pero luego se detiene como si recordara algo—. No, espera. Hoy me dijo que les dice a sus amigos que soy su hermana mayor cuando voy a buscarlo a la guardería —se burla—. La pequeña mierda está avergonzada de mí. Pero, aun así, estaba como “Vaya, ¿la gente realmente cree eso?”. —Y luego sacude su cabello otra vez, montando un espectáculo—. Quiero decir, todavía me veo bien, ¿no? —Solo tienes veintitrés años. —Termino la hamburguesa con mozzarella rallada, agrego otra hamburguesa, y también le pongo queso—. Por supuesto que sí. —Ajá. —Chasquea los dedos—. Tengo que ganar dinero mientras pueda. La miro a los ojos, y es solo por un momento, pero es suficiente para ver la vacilación en su humor. La forma en que su sonrisa desconcertada parece una disculpa y la forma en que parpadea, llenando el silencio mientras sus torpes palabras cuelgan en el aire. Y cómo tira del dobladillo de su blusa hacia abajo para cubrir la mayor parte de su estómago en presencia de su hermana menor. Mi hermana odia lo que hace para ganarse la vida, pero le gusta más el dinero. Finalmente vuelve su atención a mí, su tono suena casi acusador. —Entonces, ¿qué estás haciendo, por cierto? —Haciendo la cena. Sacude la cabeza, poniendo los ojos en blanco. —Entonces, ¿no solo no dejas al hombre con el que estás, sino que ahora estás sirviéndole a otro? Coloco un par de aros de cebolla en la primera hamburguesa doble con queso y la cubro con un panecillo. —No lo hago. —Sí, lo haces. La miro con furia.

• From Summer Sisters (1998)

  “Maybe you don’t have to stick it down so far,” Vix suggested. “You do.” “How do you know?” Caitlin shrugged. “You’ve seen pictures?” Vix asked. “I’ve seen Phoebe.” Vix opened her mouth but no words came out. Caitlin grabbed her by the shoulders. “Swear you’ll never tell a soul!” “I swear.” “Have you ever ... you know ... seen your parents?” Vix shook her head. “I didn’t think so.” “But one time,” she began, partly to make Caitlin feel better, “I saw my father flirting. It was a real shock.” “How old were you?” “It was ... recent. They were sitting in the window of the sandwich shop at La Fonda. I was outside, walking by.” Caitlin was quiet for a minute. “That’s not exactly like having sex.” “I know.” Vix couldn’t find the words to explain how she’d felt that day, like an intruder in her father’s life. Until tonight she’d put it out of her mind. “She had big hair ...” Vix said. “Frosted. They were laughing. I saw her reach across the table to pat his arm.” Caitlin patted her arm. “It’s probably nothing. Don’t worry. Flirting doesn’t count.” Caitlin was straightforward in her flirting. If she found someone attractive she’d let him know. She didn’t waste time playing games. On Vix’s thirteenth birthday Lamb dropped them at mini golf. When she and Caitlin stepped into the clubhouse and found Bru behind the register they were beside themselves. Bru, all business, asking them, How many games? She and Caitlin elbowed each other and tried not to laugh. Who said thirteen isn’t a lucky number? Even though he wasn’t totally gorgeous like Von, and his lips weren’t the kind you’d suck on all night if you were inclined to suck on lips at all, there was something about Bru that appealed to Vix even more. His eyes were a warm golden brown and his hair, the same color, fell below his ears. She wished she could touch it. He didn’t smile all the time like

• From Birthday Girl (2018)

  Shel trata de mandarme temprano a casa en mi turno doble, pero después del episodio con Pike, el último lugar en el que puedo estar ahora mismo es en su casa. No tengo ningún otro sitio a donde ir, por no mencionar que necesito el dinero. ¿Cómo pudo hacer eso esta mañana? ¿Interrumpir en mi trabajo como si supiera algo? No le pertenezco. Y si está preocupado, ¿por qué no puede decirlo amablemente? No todas las mentiras son para hacer daño a alguien. Estaba cubriendo el trasero de Cole. Sí, entiendo las sospechas. Lo entiendo. Él no me conoce lo suficiente, y está preocupado por su hijo, ¿pero cómo pueden ambos hombres Lawson apestar tanto en una conversación adulta y madura? Me froto los ojos, mi mente volviendo al momento en que dijo que no apoyaría a alguien así y que me fuera de su maldita casa. En ese momento me sentí indeseada. De nuevo. Indeseada en otro sitio. Por otra persona. Me sentí como una carga. Como en casa de mis padres, e incluso a veces con Cole y Cam. ¿Por qué siempre me permito sentir como si no mereciera algo mejor? Pensé que él era agradable. Pensé que éramos amigos y comencé a relajarme. Gimo, intentando mantener las lágrimas bajo control. Odio haber llorado frente a él. Trabajo hasta que el turno de la noche llega a las seis y me quedo lo suficiente como para comerme la otra mitad de mi sándwich como cena, guardo mis propinas y cierro la caja antes de ponerme la sudadera y tomar mi bolso. No me he duchado en veinticuatro horas y un dolor de cabeza pulsa entre mis ojos por la falta de sueño. Solo quiero sentarme bajo una ducha caliente y ahogar todo lo demás. Me da un vuelco el estómago, recordando que no tengo ningún sitio al que ir para tomar esa ducha. No voy a volver a aceptar una maldita cosa de Pike Lawson nunca más. Por no mencionar que todavía estoy molesta con Cole. Me envió un mensaje para asegurarse que estuviera bien y para disculparse de nuevo, pero no le respondí.

• From Bird by Bird: Some Instructions on Writing and Life (1994)

  She told me her supervisor was at lunch and that I needed to buy some gum , of all things, and to chew it vigorously—the thought of which made me clutch at my throat. She explained that when we have a wound in our body, the nearby muscles cramp around it to protect it from any more violation and from infection, and that I would need to use these muscles if I wanted them to relax again. So finally my best friend Pammy went out and bought me some gum, and I began to chew it, with great hostility and skepticism. The first bites caused a ripping sensation in the back of my throat, but within minutes all the pain was gone, permanently. I think that something similar happens with our psychic muscles. They cramp around our wounds—the pain from our childhood, the losses and disappointments of adulthood, the humiliations suffered in both—to keep us from getting hurt in the same place again, to keep foreign substances out. So those wounds never have a chance to heal. Perfectionism is one way our muscles cramp. In some cases we don’t even know that the wounds and the cramping are there, but both limit us. They keep us moving and writing in tight, worried ways. They keep us standing back or backing away from life, keep us from experiencing life in a naked and immediate way. So how do we break through them and get on? It’s easier if you believe in God, but not impossible if you don’t. If you believe, then this God of yours might be capable of relieving you of some of this perfectionism. Still, one of the most annoying things about God is that he never just touches you with his magic wand, like Glinda the Good, and gives you what you want. Like it would be so much skin off his nose. But he might give you the courage or the stamina to write lots and lots of terrible first drafts, and then you’d learn that good second drafts can spring from these, and you’d see that big sloppy imperfect messes have value. Now, it might be that your God is an uptight, judgmental perfectionist, sort of like Bob Dole or, for that matter, me. But a priest friend of mine has cautioned me away from the standard God of our childhoods, who loves and guides you and then, if you are bad, roasts you: God as high school principal in a gray suit who never remembered your name but is always leafing unhappily through your files. If this is your God, maybe you need to blend in the influence of someone who is ever so slightly more amused by you, someone less anal. David Byrne is good, for instance. Gracie Allen is good. Mr. Rogers will work.

• From St. Augustine's Confessions (2004)

  III. Augustine asks why there was so much apparent pleasure in doing what was forbidden. Paralleling Paul’s thoughts about the way humans respond to law in Romans and Eve’s desire to be like a god in Genesis 3, Augustine realizes that his rebellion against the law is still another manifestation of his selfishness. IV. Augustine tells us that his friends convinced him late one evening to carry out this prank. A. He says that he would not have done this alone. B. This leads to a reflection on friendship. 1. He called these fellow thieves his friends, but in his telling of the story, he makes clear that he had no idea of true friendship when he was a boy. 2. This is the first of several considerations of friendship, which the adult Augustine took very seriously. 3. He knows that true friendship is a great good and that it is based on goodness and a movement toward unity—the opposites of the kind of friendship he experienced with his fellow thieves. This reflects his reading of still another classical writer, Cicero. V. The young Augustine was also seeking a kind of autonomy. A. He believed that no one, not even God, could control him. B. When he broke the law and stole the pears, he would truly be free. C. Reflecting on this attitude he had as a youth, Augustine likens himself to a prisoner who acts up, believing that he is, at least for a moment, free. D. Like that prisoner, however, Augustine was deceiving himself in defining this sort of hooliganism as true freedom. VI. Augustine enjoyed “getting away” with his theft, unaware that he cannot escape God. A. When Augustine heard adults talking about the theft, he felt a thrill. B. He never considered whether the person from whom he stole would suffer from the theft. C. The theft was not about the one stolen from or about the pears; like everything else, Augustine’s act was all about himself. ©2004 The Teaching Company. 25 VII. Having presented his readers with a story that demonstrates what he was like as a teenager, Augustine is ready to turn to events of his late teen years that, indeed, began his real education. Suggested Readings: See readings for Lecture Seven. Brown, pp. 28–34. Margaret Miles, Desire and Delight: A New Reading of Augustine’s Confessions, pp. 17–38. Questions to Consider: 1. If we had only the pear tree story to tell us about the youthful Augustine, what would we be able to know by reading that story carefully? 2. When Augustine breaks the law and steals pears, how can we see that the freedom he feels is only an illusion? 3. Is the writer Augustine being too harsh in the way he looks back on his relationships with his friends with whom he stole the pears? 26 ©2004 The Teaching Company.

• From The Glass Castle: A Memoir (2005)

  The tall girl, whose name was Dinitia Hewitt, watched me with her smile while we all waited on the asphalt playground for classes to start. At lunch, I ate my lard sandwiches with paralytic slowness, but sooner or later, the janitor started putting the chairs up on the tables. I walked outside trying to hold my head high, and Dinitia and her gang surrounded me and it began. As we fought, they called me poor and ugly and dirty, and it was hard to argue the point. I had three dresses to my name, all hand-me-downs or from a thrift store, which meant each week I had to wear two of them twice. They were so worn from countless washings that the threads were beginning to separate. We were also always dirty. Not dry-dirty like we’d been in the desert, but grimy-dirty and smudged with oily dust from the coal-burning stove. Erma allowed us only one bath a week in four inches of water that had been heated on the kitchen stove and that all of us kids had to share. I thought of discussing the fighting with Dad, but I didn’t want to sound like a whiner. Also, he’d rarely been sober since we had arrived in Welch, and I was afraid that if I told him, he’d show up at school snockered and make things even worse. I did try to talk to Mom. I couldn’t bring myself to tell her about the beatings, fearing that if I did, she’d try to butt in and she’d also only make things worse. I did say that these three black girls were giving me a hard time because we were so poor. Mom told me I should tell them there was nothing wrong with being poor, that Abraham Lincoln, the greatest president this country had ever seen, came from a dirt-poor family. She also said I should tell them Martin Luther King, Jr., would be ashamed of their behavior. Even though I knew these high-minded arguments would get me nowhere, I tried them anyway—Martin Luther King would be ashamed! —and they made the three girls shriek with laughter as they pushed me to the ground. Lying in Stanley’s bed at night with Lori, Brian, and Maureen, I concocted revenge scenarios. I imagined myself like Dad in his air force days, whupping the entire lot of them. After school, I’d go out to the woodpile next to the basement and practice karate chops and dropkicks on the kindling while laying down some pretty wicked curse words. But I also kept thinking about Dinitia, trying to make sense of her. I hoped for a while to befriend her. I’d seen Dinitia smile a few times with genuine warmth, and it transformed her face. With a smile like that, she had to have some good in her, but I couldn’t figure out how to get her to shine it my way.

• From The Glass Castle: A Memoir (2005)

  It had been months since I laid eyes on Mom, and when she looked up, I was overcome with panic that she’d see me and call out my name, and that someone on the way to the same party would spot us together and Mom would introduce herself and my secret would be out. I slid down in the seat and asked the driver to turn around and take me home to Park Avenue. The taxi pulled up in front of my building, the doorman held the door for me, and the elevator man took me up to my floor. My husband was working late, as he did most nights, and the apartment was silent except for the click of my heels on the polished wood floor. I was still rattled from seeing Mom, the unexpectedness of coming across her, the sight of her rooting happily through the Dumpster. I put some Vivaldi on, hoping the music would settle me down. I looked around the room. There were the turn-of-the-century bronze-and-silver vases and the old books with worn leather spines that I’d collected at flea markets. There were the Georgian maps I’d had framed, the Persian rugs, and the overstuffed leather armchair I liked to sink into at the end of the day. I’d tried to make a home for myself here, tried to turn the apartment into the sort of place where the person I wanted to be would live. But I could never enjoy the room without worrying about Mom and Dad huddled on a sidewalk grate somewhere. I fretted about them, but I was embarrassed by them, too, and ashamed of myself for wearing pearls and living on Park Avenue while my parents were busy keeping warm and finding something to eat. What could I do? I’d tried to help them countless times, but Dad would insist they didn’t need anything, and Mom would ask for something silly, like a perfume atomizer or a membership in a health club. They said that they were living the way they wanted to. After ducking down in the taxi so Mom wouldn’t see me, I hated myself—hated my antiques, my clothes, and my apartment. I had to do something, so I called a friend of Mom’s and left a message. It was our system of staying in touch. It always took Mom a few days to get back to me, but when I heard from her, she sounded, as always, cheerful and casual, as though we’d had lunch the day before. I told her I wanted to see her and suggested she drop by the apartment, but she wanted to go to a restaurant. She loved eating out, so we agreed to meet for lunch at her favorite Chinese restaurant. Mom was sitting at a booth, studying the menu, when I arrived. She’d made an effort to fix herself up. She wore a bulky gray sweater with only a few light stains, and black leather men’s shoes.