She felt terrible lying to him. He fended these things off from him with the rump of his fourth piece of cake. His tone was kind and sympathetic. And son of a pig,’ she grunted, baring her teeth. When the word “FREAK” appeared scratched in the persimmon colored paint on her locker, she knew that in some fragile young woman’s mind a war had escalated from imaginary to physical. This was no night for the indulgence of dreamy musing. About many of these houses hung a mysterious taint as of something weakly and commonly and dustily evil; the women who negotiated the rooms looked out through a friendly manner as though it was a mask, with hard, defiant eyes. “You were never born,” he declared, “to follow the well worn roads. I’ve never seen her quite so sure of herself.
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