Riding in Cars with Boys: Confessions of a Bad Girl Who Makes Good
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Denied college, Beverly Donofrio lost interest in everything but riding around town in cars, drinking and smoking, and rebelling against authority. She got married and divorced and finally ended up in an elite New England university, books in one arm, child in the other. A book about the compromise between being your own person and fitting into society.
this.” He turned around and left. Why did he always get the car? Wasn’t it both of ours? I kicked myself for not taking off first. I could’ve gotten a Dairy Queen, then gone to visit Beatrice. From the moment Ray left until the moment he walked through the door at midnight, hunger, boredom, and frustration worked together to clear my head. I knew like a clairvoyant that Ray hadn’t been looking for work the past weeks and had probably been getting screwed up every day. I decided when Raymond
Jason’s anchoring me down. I watched him and Amelia run across the lawn to Fay. They bumped shoulders and ran at exactly the same speed. Jason was six months older, but they were constantly mistaken for twins. Jason was the type who liked to go first and win, and Amelia let him. They got along as well as their mothers did. They slept in Jason’s room and got up together every morning before me and Fay, poured each other cereal, and ate it in front of the TV while watching cartoons. Fay and I slept
mother, Trudy, to get her attention, but luckily they didn’t seem to be rubbing off. His favorite thing in the world was to go to the brook, catch a couple of frogs, then keep them in a coffee can in his room. When he’d do this, I’d hear the thump thump thump of frogs hitting their heads against the plastic lid. This went on all night, until I woke up in the morning screaming, “Let the goddamn frogs out!” He begged me to take him fishing, because he dreamed of catching a good one-footer and
and a grill made of rocks out back, bushes, flowers, and trees with squirrels jetting around the branches. It was on a pitted dead-end street at the edge of campus, called Knowles Avenue, and as we pulled up, I noticed a couple of kids riding their bikes down the hill next to the hockey rink across the street and wondered if they’d be friends of Jason’s and who my friends would be. It was still morning when we started unloading. My mother took command. “Your brother will help your father with
empty two-hundred-year-old building that was no more than an abandoned construction site. We were planning on renovating it, but in the meantime we slept next to cement bags and walked up stairs made of cinderblocks and washed dishes with a hose poised over a floor drain. Jason met two boys in our new neighborhood, Juno and Amos, kids of sculptor parents who’d lived in a camper on the streets for a couple of months, and for a year in a ditch in New Mexico, so Jase had something in common with his