Was she really on something all the time as I had overheard people imply or was her sleepy expression a natural aspect of her physiology? She couldn’t have been all that burned out, not if she was managing to get by in advanced placement English.
“Yeah, I’m different all right,” I said. “And you’re not?”
Apparently, she appreciated a flippant attitude. I’d never seen her smile before. It transformed her face from sly and bored to pretty and sexy.
“Did you start studying for the test yet? It’s all essay, you know. Carter is a bitch grader on essays.
“I usually pull in a B on essays,” I said.
“Why don’t we prepare together. Try to figure out every possible thing she could ask.”
Was she asking me out? I was so astonished that I delayed in answering.
“Proverbial cat got your tongue?” She didn’t look too pleased.
“Uh, n-no! I mean yeah, we can study together. When?”
That was how I ended up at Rachel Coleman’s house on a winter’s evening.
With her punk clothes (this was the eighties) and her black hair, she resembled Joan Jett. She appeared jaded and world weary, but I soon found out that she was nothing like that.
The Coleman's lived in what my parents referred to as “the rich section,” where the lawyers, doctors and bank presidents owned large, fancy homes with manicured lawns. Mr. Coleman was a psychiatrist and his wife busy on committees around town involving scholarships or the arts. The Coleman's were Reformed Jewish and while extremely liberal, kept the holiday traditions to which they were quick to invite me. Their house was a large tudor with giant rhododendron bushes in front and stately trees scattered around the lawn. After our first study session there, it would become a familiar place where, for the first time, I felt at home.
“Mom really likes you,” Rachel told me. We were sitting on her bed, our books open and papers strewn about. “She says you remind her of Gregory Peck.”
Flattered, but puzzled, I said, “Huh? I’m not dark like him; I don’t see it.”
“You’re medium colored, true, but your face is kind of like his and you’re lanky.”
I had never thought of myself as good looking, but I suppose by this time I had developed in that direction. My height was almost six feet and my jaw had grown defined.
“Know your own power, boy,” Rachel teased.
If only she knew about the kind I actually did possess. Since the episode with Ricky four years before, I’d honed that talent almost daily. By now I understood how to attain the exact state of mind necessary to make the change and how to do it without fear involved. In the privacy of my room, I turned myself into furniture, animals, plants and creatures of my own
Was she really on something all the time as I had overheard people imply or was her sleepy expression a natural aspect of her physiology? She couldn’t have been all that burned out, not if she was managing to get by in advanced placement English.
“Yeah, I’m different all right,” I said. “And you’re not?”
Apparently, she appreciated a flippant attitude. I’d never seen her smile before. It transformed her face from sly and bored to pretty and sexy.
“Did you start studying for the test yet? It’s all essay, you know. Carter is a bitch grader on essays.
“I usually pull in a B on essays,” I said.
“Why don’t we prepare together. Try to figure out every possible thing she could ask.”
Was she asking me out? I was so astonished that I delayed in answering.
“Proverbial cat got your tongue?” She didn’t look too pleased.
“Uh, n-no! I mean yeah, we can study together. When?”
That was how I ended up at Rachel Coleman’s house on a winter’s evening.
With her punk clothes (this was the eighties) and her black hair, she resembled Joan Jett. She appeared jaded and world weary, but I soon found out that she was nothing like that.
The Coleman's lived in what my parents referred to as “the rich section,” where the lawyers, doctors and bank presidents owned large, fancy homes with manicured lawns. Mr. Coleman was a psychiatrist and his wife busy on committees around town involving scholarships or the arts. The Coleman's were Reformed Jewish and while extremely liberal, kept the holiday traditions to which they were quick to invite me. Their house was a large tudor with giant rhododendron bushes in front and stately trees scattered around the lawn. After our first study session there, it would become a familiar place where, for the first time, I felt at home.
“Mom really likes you,” Rachel told me. We were sitting on her bed, our books open and papers strewn about. “She says you remind her of Gregory Peck.”
Flattered, but puzzled, I said, “Huh? I’m not dark like him; I don’t see it.”
“You’re medium colored, true, but your face is kind of like his and you’re lanky.”
I had never thought of myself as good looking, but I suppose by this time I had developed in that direction. My height was almost six feet and my jaw had grown defined.
“Know your own power, boy,” Rachel teased.
If only she knew about the kind I actually did possess. Since the episode with Ricky four years before, I’d honed that talent almost daily. By now I understood how to attain the exact state of mind necessary to make the change and how to do it without fear involved. In the privacy of my room, I turned myself into furniture, animals, plants and creatures of my own
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