There was something about me specifically that made my father angry. It had to do with my head, and what was in it. It had to do with what I’m doing right now: sitting outside the circle in silence and sifting the scene through my right eye. He used to say, “I’ve forgotten more than you’ll ever know,” which puzzled me. Didn’t that still mean that neither of us knew it? “Don’t look at me like that,” even my mother would cry sometimes. “Don’t you dare look at me like that.” “I’m not looking like anything,” I would protest, and I didn’t think I was. “I’m not doing anything,” and I was certain I
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