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181 pages, Mass Market Paperback
First published January 1, 1988
Travis combed his hair, staring into the mirror with fixed concentration. He was good-looking. Probably one of the best-looking guys in the school. He had dark brown hair, not so long that he looked like one of the dopers, not so short that he looked like one of the straights, the student-council preppies. Five foot eight. Not bad for sixteen, and by the size of his hands and feet he hadn't stopped growing yet. Good eyes. Great eyes, actually. Gray-green and as cold as the Irish sea. He had read a book about F. Scott Fitzgerald once, and it said he had eyes as cold as the Irish sea. Travis liked that. He secretly liked his eyelashes, too, a black fringe, as long as a girl's. He had a good build, long-boned and lean and flat-stomached, and that was the reason he liked tight T-shirts. Kirk was taller, and had broad shoulders, but Travis thought his own build was as good as any in the school. A lot of girls thought so. A lot.I'm pretty sure no man ever wrote a paragraph like that first one. That's the kind of attention to detail that only a woman would give to a male character. And since Travis is our narrator, such observations are a little out of character. Eyelashes? Guys discuss grooming habits with each other throughout life, but I don't ever recall discussing eyelashes with my friends at any age unless one fell out and got stuck in my eye. The girls, however, could talk about such things forever and a day, but we'd just zone out if they did it in front of us. Female grooming habits confuse men. Jeremy from the Zits comic strip explained it best several years ago (and Lord do I wish I could find this one online) when he said "Why is it girls spend so much time on their hair and their shoes when it's everything in between that we care about?" And while I'm on the subject, why is it that women will pluck their eyebrows out one hair at a time with tweezers, then grab a pencil and draw them right back in? What the hell is that all about?
"Maybe I'll get a tan," he said out loud. If he had a fault to find with his face, it was its paleness. But then, from what he read, Fitzgerald had never tanned either.
"Huh?" Joe said. He never spent as much time looking in mirrors as Travis did, being one olive-brown color all over, hair, eyes, and skin, and inclined to pudginess.