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The Narrative Arts department’s annual welcome back Demitasse, because this school is too Ivy and New England to call a party a party.
Jonah’s a recovering addict who is so saturated with meds that he speaks as though his voice is tunneling through sludge. He’s the best poet in the Program by far.
Where would you be if I punched you, Samantha?
Because the violence of this place, existing as it does in the fragile heart of seething poverty, doesn’t exactly feature in the script of the Warren campus tour, which is always led by some undergraduate tool in designer sportswear who is quite expert at shouting cozy factoids about statue erection and chandeliers while walking backward.
“He called me dark, twisted, and mean.” “How sweet. He’s in love.”
“I just have to figure out the right wording. So they don’t think I hate them.” She stares at me. “But Smackie, you do hate them.”
Why do you lie so much? And about the weirdest little things? my mother always asked me. I don’t know, I always said. But I did know. It was very simple. Because it was a better story.
That she has nothing, nothing, and she thinks this makes her deep. It doesn’t make you deep, Samantha Heather Mackey,
What do you want? nothing comes to mind but a pair of fists clutching little broken bits.
“Being with you,” he says to Ava, “is like being in literature. I have no idea where you’ll lead me next. But I’m excited. My life could change. And I’m not alone anymore.”
Something like sex. An insinuation of violence.
