What kind of person doesn't let you have gummi bears?
Libba BrayShe bestowed the blessing of a wild girl's lips.
Libba BrayI think that the lady dies not because she leaves the tower for the outside world but because she lets herself float through the world pulled by the current after a dream.
Do you mean she should of paddled Cecily asks.
Miss Moore laughs. In a manner of speaking yes.
Ann stops drumming. But it wouldn't matter whether she paddled or not. She's cursed. No matter what she does she'll die.
And she'll die if she stays in the tower too. Perhaps not for a long time but she will die. We all will. Miss Moore says softly.
Mary Lou wore the ring faithfully. She studied the coy girls the ones who pretended not to get the dirty joke that made Mary Lou stifle a laugh. The ones who practiced the shy downward glance who pretended giggly outrage when a boy made a suggestive remark who waited to be seen and never made the first move. The ones who called other girls sluts and judged with ease. The good girls.
Occasionally from the school bus windows she would see other wild girls on the edges of cornfields running without shoes hair unkempt. Their short skirts rode up flashing warning lights of flesh: backs of knees the curve of a calf a smooth plain of thigh. Sometimes it was just a girl waiting for a bus but in her eyes Mary Lou recognized the feral quality. That was a girl who wanted to race trains under a full moon a girl who liked the feel of silk stockings against her skin the whisper promise of a boy's neck under her lips who did not wait for life to choose her but wished to do the choosing herself. It made Mary Lou ache with everything she held back.
Oh, I've a love, a true, true love, who waits upon yon shore... and if my love won't be my love, then I will live no more...
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This is how the fire starts. This is how we burn.
Libba BrayI am staring into the hissing face of a cobra. A surprisingly pink tongue slithers in and out of a cruel mouth while an Indian man whose eyes are the blue of blindless inclines his head towards my mother and explains in Hindi that cobras make very good eating.
Libba BrayI’m not that kind of Indian,” Shanti said, her practiced smile never leaving her face, though it faltered just a bit, and in that slight wobble was something hard and angry, something that looked like centuries of colonial oppression boiling up into an I’m-going-to-kick-your-ass-in-this-pageant-and-then-take-over-all-your-beauty-out-sourcing-needs hatred.
Libba BrayStichwörter: race
We have work to do if you are not to be a total failure like high-waisted, acid-wash jeans.
Libba BraySometimes I just want to go in a room and break things and scream. Like, it’s so much pressure all the time and if you get upset or angry, people say, ‘Are you on the rag of something?’ And it’s like I want to say, ‘No. I’m just pissed off right now. Can’t I just be pissed off? How come that’s not okay for me?’ Like my dad will say, ‘I can’t talk to you when you’re hysterical.’ And I’m totally not being hysterical! I’m just mad. And he’s the one losing it. But then I feel embarrassed anyway. So I slap on that smile and pretend everything’s okay even though it’s not.
Libba BrayStichwörter: girls anger teens
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