EM 7 Midterm Reviewer PDF

EM 7: Contemporary, Popular, and Emergent Literature Ms. Juneca Junta Hello, 2C! Here's the reviewer for our upcoming midterm examination in EM 7 (Contemporary, Popular, and Emergent Literature). This document covers everything we studied this quarter with Ma'am Juneca, including the Characteristics of Contemporary Literature, “The Lottery”, “Love Poem”, “The House on Mango Street”, “Where Are You Going? Where Have You Been?”, and “Your Mother's First Kiss”. We hope you find this reviewer helpful. Best of luck on the exam! Please note that the information provided by this reviewer is drawn from various sources, including personal blogs, academic websites, artificial intelligence, and class discussions. The latter is the most valuable, so if you recall anything from the discussions with Ma'am Juneca, please share it with us. Contemporary Literature ➔ Contemporary literature refers to works created from 1940 to present that deal with themes from major events like World War II and social issues. It uses a modern style and includes works across genres that portray real-world anxieties and strive for social change. ➔ Contemporary literature is a vast group of written works produced from a specific time in history through the current age. This literary era defines a time period, but it also describes a particular style and quality of writing. Some see this period as an extension of postmodern literature, but most refer to it as a literary era of its own. Most agree that the era of contemporary writing began in the 1940s. A few scholars claim this period started at the end of World War II, and this is where the era’s pairing with postmodern literature comes in. The postmodern era began after WWII, in the 1940s, and lasted through the 1960s. The contemporary period extends to the current day. Characteristics of Contemporary Literature 1. Uses code switching between elevated literary language and "lower" forms, between high art and low art. Contemporary works often blend different types of language, mixing "fancy" or literary language with everyday speech. They also combine elements of "high" culture (like classical music or fine art) with "low" culture (like pop music or TV shows). 2. Deploys metafictional (self-aware fiction) techniques to draw our attention to the work's relationship (or non-relationship) to "reality". Some stories make readers aware that they are reading a constructed story, blurring the lines between fiction and reality. It might make you think about how much of what you read really reflects the world. 3. Emphasizes the performative nature of our identities; they aren't "true" or natural but just seem that way because they are consistent and persistent. This idea suggests that who we are isn't fixed or "real" in a natural way. Instead, we act in ways that fit the roles we’ve grown used to, so our identities seem stable but are not truly fixed. 4. Emphasizes fragmentation in human experience of postmodern culture, and as an artistic strategy. Contemporary literature often reflects how modern life feels fragmented or disconnected. The storytelling itself might be broken into parts or told in a non-linear way, reflecting the complexity and confusion of modern experience. 5. Breaks down our faith in the supremacy of the rational, scientific human being (e.g. comparisons between animals and humans and machines). These works often show that humans aren't all-powerful or entirely rational. They might compare humans to animals or machines, questioning our belief in human dominance, reason, and control. 6. Questions our ability to understand ourselves and our culture. Contemporary literature frequently suggests that it’s hard to truly understand ourselves, our actions, or our society. It raises doubts about whether we can fully grasp who we are or how our culture works. 7. Questions omniscience by questioning our ability to accurately see reality. The idea of an all-knowing, all-seeing narrator or perspective is often challenged. These works suggest that no one has a perfect, unbiased view of the world, and everything we see is filtered through our own perceptions. 8. Questions the link between language and reality (everything is a biased representation). These works question whether language can ever truly reflect reality. Since language is a form of representation, it can be biased or incomplete, so our words may never capture the full truth of the world. 9. Depicts border-crossing and migration as fundamental to human experience. Migration, crossing boundaries (whether geographic or cultural), and the experiences of displaced people are central themes, reflecting how moving across borders has become a core part of human existence. 10. Emphasizes the permeability of old boundaries: between men and women; between the East and the West; between high and low culture. Contemporary literature often challenges the traditional divisions in life, like the separation between men and women, between the Eastern and Western worlds, or between high and low forms of culture. It shows how these distinctions aren’t as clear or rigid as we might have thought. 11. Shows people struggling to find meaning in a world that doesn't offer us the old assurances (of either faith or science). In a world where old certainties (like religion or scientific reasoning) no longer offer comfort, people in contemporary literature often struggle to find meaning in their lives. There’s no easy answer, so characters often search for new ways to understand the world. The Lottery Short Story (Fiction) By Shirley Jackson June 18, 1948 The morning of June 27th was clear and sunny, with the fresh warmth of a full-summer day; the flowers were blossoming profusely and the grass was richly green. The people of the village began to gather in the square, between the post office and the bank, around ten o’clock; in some towns there were so many people that the lottery took two days and had to be started on June 26th, but in this village, where there were only about three hundred people, the whole lottery took only about two hours, so it could begin at ten o’clock in the morning and still be through in time to allow the villagers to get home for noon dinner. The children assembled first, of course. School was recently over for the summer, and the feeling of liberty sat uneasily on most of them; they tended to gather together quietly for a while before they broke into boisterous play, and their talk was still of the classroom and the teacher, of books and reprimands. Bobby Martin had already stuffed his pockets full of stones, and the other boys soon followed his example, selecting the smoothest and roundest stones; Bobby and Harry Jones and Dickie Delacroix—the villagers pronounced this name “Dellacroy”—eventually made a great pile of stones in one corner of the square and guarded it against the raids of the other boys. The girls stood aside, talking among themselves, looking over their shoulders at the boys, and the very small children rolled in the dust or clung to the hands of their older brothers or sisters. Soon the men began to gather, surveying their own children, speaking of planting and rain, tractors and taxes. They stood together, away from the pile of stones in the corner, and their jokes were quiet and they smiled rather than laughed. The women, wearing faded house dresses and sweaters, came shortly after their menfolk. They greeted one another and exchanged bits of gossip as they went to join their husbands. Soon the women, standing by their husbands, began to call to their children, and the children came reluctantly, having to be called four or five times. Bobby Martin ducked under his mother’s grasping hand and ran, laughing, back to the pile of stones. His father spoke up sharply, and Bobby came quickly and took his place between his father and his oldest brother. The lottery was conducted—as were the square dances, the teen-age club, the Halloween program—by Mr. Summers, who had time and energy to devote to civic activities. He was a round-faced, jovial man and he ran the coal business, and people were sorry for him, because he had no children and his wife was a scold. When he arrived in the square, carrying the black wooden box, there was a murmur of conversation among the villagers, and he waved and called, “Little late today, folks.” The postmaster, Mr. Graves, followed him, carrying a three-legged stool, and the stool was put in the center of the square and Mr. Summers set the black box down on it. The villagers kept their distance, leaving a space between themselves and the stool, and when Mr. Summers said, “Some of you fellows want to give me a hand?,” there was a hesitation before two men, Mr. Martin and his oldest son, Baxter, came forward to hold the box steady on the stool while Mr. Summers stirred up the papers inside it. The original paraphernalia for the lottery had been lost long ago, and the black box now resting on the stool had been put into use even before Old Man Warner, the oldest man in town, was born. Mr. Summers spoke frequently to the villagers about making a new box, but no one liked to upset even as much tradition as was represented by the black box. There was a story that the present box had been made with some pieces of the box that had preceded it, the one that had been constructed when the first people settled down to make a village here. Every year, after the lottery, Mr. Summers began talking again about a new box, but every year the subject was allowed to fade off without anything’s being done. The black box grew shabbier each year; by now it was no longer completely black but splintered badly along one side to show the original wood color, and in some places faded or stained. Mr. Martin and his oldest son, Baxter, held the black box securely on the stool until Mr. Summers had stirred the papers thoroughly with his hand. Because so much of the ritual had been forgotten or discarded, Mr. Summers had been successful in having slips of paper substituted for the chips of wood that had been used for generations. Chips of wood, Mr. Summers had argued, had been all very well when the village was tiny, but now that the population was more than three hundred and likely to keep on growing, it was necessary to use something that would fit more easily into the black box. The night before the lottery, Mr. Summers and Mr. Graves made up the slips of paper and put them into the box, and it was then taken to the safe of Mr. Summers’ coal company and locked up until Mr. Summers was ready to take it to the square next morning. The rest of the year, the box was put away, sometimes one place, sometimes another; it had spent one year in Mr. Graves’ barn and another year underfoot in the post office, and sometimes it was set on a shelf in the Martin grocery and left there. There was a great deal of fussing to be done before Mr. Summers declared the lottery open. There were the lists to make up—of heads of families, heads of households in each family, members of each household in each family. There was the proper swearing-in of Mr. Summers by the postmaster, as the official of the lottery; at one time, some people remembered, there had been a recital of some sort, performed by the official of the lottery, a perfunctory, tuneless chant that had been rattled off duly each year; some people believed that the official of the lottery used to stand just so when he said or sang it, others believed that he was supposed to walk among the people, but years and years ago this part of the ritual had been allowed to lapse. There had been, also, a ritual salute, which the official of the lottery had had to use in addressing each person who came up to draw from the box, but this also had changed with time, until now it was felt necessary only for the official to speak to each person approaching. Mr. Summers was very good at all this; in his clean white shirt and blue jeans, with one hand resting carelessly on the black box, he seemed very proper and important as he talked interminably to Mr. Graves and the Martins. Just as Mr. Summers finally left off talking and turned to the assembled villagers, Mrs. Hutchinson came hurriedly along the path to the square, her sweater thrown over her shoulders, and slid into place in the back of the crowd. “Clean forgot what day it was,” she said to Mrs. Delacroix, who stood next to her, and they both laughed softly. “Thought my old man was out back stacking wood,” Mrs. Hutchinson went on, “and then I looked out the window and the kids was gone, and then I remembered it was the twenty-seventh and came a-running.” She dried her hands on her apron, and Mrs. Delacroix said, “You’re in time, though. They’re still talking away up there.” Mrs. Hutchinson craned her neck to see through the crowd and found her husband and children standing near the front. She tapped Mrs. Delacroix on the arm as a farewell and began to make her way through the crowd. The people separated good-humoredly to let her through; two or three people said, in voices just loud enough to be heard across the crowd, “Here comes your Mrs., Hutchinson,” and “Bill, she made it after all.” Mrs. Hutchinson reached her husband, and Mr. Summers, who had been waiting, said cheerfully, “Thought we were going to have to get on without you, Tessie.” Mrs. Hutchinson said, grinning, “Wouldn’t have me leave m’dishes in the sink, now, would you, Joe?,” and soft laughter ran through the crowd as the people stirred back into position after Mrs. Hutchinson’s arrival. “Well, now,” Mr. Summers said soberly, “guess we better get started, get this over with, so’s we can go back to work. Anybody ain’t here?” “Dunbar,” several people said. “Dunbar, Dunbar.” Mr. Summers consulted his list. “Clyde Dunbar,” he said. “That’s right. He’s broke his leg, hasn’t he? Who’s drawing for him?” “Me, I guess,” a woman said, and Mr. Summers turned to look at her. “Wife draws for her husband,” Mr. Summers said. “Don’t you have a grown boy to do it for you, Janey?” Although Mr. Summers and everyone else in the village knew the answer perfectly well, it was the business of the official of the lottery to ask such questions formally. Mr. Summers waited with an expression of polite interest while Mrs. Dunbar answered. “Horace’s not but sixteen yet,” Mrs. Dunbar said regretfully. “Guess I gotta fill in for the old man this year.” “Right,” Mr. Summers said. He made a note on the list he was holding. Then he asked, “Watson boy drawing this year?” A tall boy in the crowd raised his hand. “Here,” he said. “I’m drawing for m’mother and me.” He blinked his eyes nervously and ducked his head as several voices in the crowd said things like “Good fellow, Jack,” and “Glad to see your mother’s got a man to do it.” “Well,” Mr. Summers said, “guess that’s everyone. Old Man Warner make it?” “Here,” a voice said, and Mr. Summers nodded. Asudden hush fell on the crowd as Mr. Summers cleared his throat and looked at the list. “All ready?” he called. “Now, I’ll read the names—heads of families first—and the men come up and take a paper out of the box. Keep the paper folded in your hand without looking at it until everyone has had a turn. Everything clear?” The people had done it so many times that they only half listened to the directions; most of them were quiet, wetting their lips, not looking around. Then Mr. Summers raised one hand high and said, “Adams.” A man disengaged himself from the crowd and came forward. “Hi, Steve,” Mr. Summers said, and Mr. Adams said, “Hi, Joe.” They grinned at one another humorlessly and nervously. Then Mr. Adams reached into the black box and took out a folded paper. He held it firmly by one corner as he turned and went hastily back to his place in the crowd, where he stood a little apart from his family, not looking down at his hand. “Allen,” Mr. Summers said. “Anderson.... Bentham.” “Seems like there’s no time at all between lotteries any more,” Mrs. Delacroix said to Mrs. Graves in the back row. “Seems like we got through with the last one only last week.” “Time sure goes fast,” Mrs. Graves said. “Clark.... Delacroix.” “There goes my old man,” Mrs. Delacroix said. She held her breath while her husband went forward. “Dunbar,” Mr. Summers said, and Mrs. Dunbar went steadily to the box while one of the women said, “Go on, Janey,” and another said, “There she goes.” “We’re next,” Mrs. Graves said. She watched while Mr. Graves came around from the side of the box, greeted Mr. Summers gravely, and selected a slip of paper from the box. By now, all through the crowd there were men holding the small folded papers in their large hands, turning them over and over nervously. Mrs. Dunbar and her two sons stood together, Mrs. Dunbar holding the slip of paper. “Harburt.... Hutchinson.” “Get up there, Bill,” Mrs. Hutchinson said, and the people near her laughed. “Jones.” “They do say,” Mr. Adams said to Old Man Warner, who stood next to him, “that over in the north village they’re talking of giving up the lottery.” Old Man Warner snorted. “Pack of crazy fools,” he said. “Listening to the young folks, nothing’s good enough for them. Next thing you know, they’ll be wanting to go back to living in caves, nobody work any more, live that way for a while. Used to be a saying about ‘Lottery in June, corn be heavy soon.’ First thing you know, we’d all be eating stewed chickweed and acorns. There’s always been a lottery,” he added petulantly. “Bad enough to see young Joe Summers up there joking with everybody.” “Some places have already quit lotteries,” Mrs. Adams said. “Nothing but trouble in that,” Old Man Warner said stoutly. “Pack of young fools.” “Martin.” And Bobby Martin watched his father go forward. “Overdyke.... Percy.” “I wish they’d hurry,” Mrs. Dunbar said to her older son. “I wish they’d hurry.” “They’re almost through,” her son said. “You get ready to run tell Dad,” Mrs. Dunbar said. Mr. Summers called his own name and then stepped forward precisely and selected a slip from the box. Then he called, “Warner.” “Seventy-seventh year I been in the lottery,” Old Man Warner said as he went through the crowd. “Seventy-seventh time.” “Watson.” The tall boy came awkwardly through the crowd. Someone said, “Don’t be nervous, Jack,” and Mr. Summers said, “Take your time, son.” “Zanini.” After that, there was a long pause, a breathless pause, until Mr. Summers, holding his slip of paper in the air, said, “All right, fellows.” For a minute, no one moved, and then all the slips of paper were opened. Suddenly, all the women began to speak at once, saying, “Who is it?,” “Who’s got it?,” “Is it the Dunbars?,” “Is it the Watsons?” Then the voices began to say, “It’s Hutchinson. It’s Bill,” “Bill Hutchinson’s got it.” “Go tell your father,” Mrs. Dunbar said to her older son. People began to look around to see the Hutchinsons. Bill Hutchinson was standing quiet, staring down at the paper in his hand. Suddenly, Tessie Hutchinson shouted to Mr. Summers, “You didn’t give him time enough to take any paper he wanted. I saw you. It wasn’t fair!” “Be a good sport, Tessie,” Mrs. Delacroix called, and Mrs. Graves said, “All of us took the same chance.” “Shut up, Tessie,” Bill Hutchinson said. “Well, everyone,” Mr. Summers said, “that was done pretty fast, and now we’ve got to be hurrying a little more to get done in time.” He consulted his next list. “Bill,” he said, “you draw for the Hutchinson family. You got any other households in the Hutchinsons?” “There’s Don and Eva,” Mrs. Hutchinson yelled. “Make them take their chance!” “Daughters draw with their husbands’ families, Tessie,” Mr. Summers said gently. “You know that as well as anyone else.” “It wasn’t fair,” Tessie said. “I guess not, Joe,” Bill Hutchinson said regretfully. “My daughter draws with her husband’s family, that’s only fair. And I’ve got no other family except the kids.” “Then, as far as drawing for families is concerned, it’s you,” Mr. Summers said in explanation, “and as far as drawing for households is concerned, that’s you, too. Right?” “Right,” Bill Hutchinson said. “How many kids, Bill?” Mr. Summers asked formally. “Three,” Bill Hutchinson said. “There’s Bill, Jr., and Nancy, and little Dave. And Tessie and me.” “All right, then,” Mr. Summers said. “Harry, you got their tickets back?” Mr. Graves nodded and held up the slips of paper. “Put them in the box, then,” Mr. Summers directed. “Take Bill’s and put it in.” “I think we ought to start over,” Mrs. Hutchinson said, as quietly as she could. “I tell you it wasn’t fair. You didn’t give him time enough to choose. Everybody saw that.” Mr. Graves had selected the five slips and put them in the box, and he dropped all the papers but those onto the ground, where the breeze caught them and lifted them off. “Listen, everybody,” Mrs. Hutchinson was saying to the people around her. “Ready, Bill?” Mr. Summers asked, and Bill Hutchinson, with one quick glance around at his wife and children, nodded. “Remember,” Mr. Summers said, “take the slips and keep them folded until each person has taken one. Harry, you help little Dave.” Mr. Graves took the hand of the little boy, who came willingly with him up to the box. “Take a paper out of the box, Davy,” Mr. Summers said. Davy put his hand into the box and laughed. “Take just one paper,” Mr. Summers said. “Harry, you hold it for him.” Mr. Graves took the child’s hand and removed the folded paper from the tight fist and held it while little Dave stood next to him and looked up at him wonderingly. “Nancy next,” Mr. Summers said. Nancy was twelve, and her school friends breathed heavily as she went forward, switching her skirt, and took a slip daintily from the box. “Bill, Jr.,” Mr. Summers said, and Billy, his face red and his feet overlarge, nearly knocked the box over as he got a paper out. “Tessie,” Mr. Summers said. She hesitated for a minute, looking around defiantly, and then set her lips and went up to the box. She snatched a paper out and held it behind her. “Bill,” Mr. Summers said, and Bill Hutchinson reached into the box and felt around, bringing his hand out at last with the slip of paper in it. The crowd was quiet. A girl whispered, “I hope it’s not Nancy,” and the sound of the whisper reached the edges of the crowd. “It’s not the way it used to be,” Old Man Warner said clearly. “People ain’t the way they used to be.” “All right,” Mr. Summers said. “Open the papers. Harry, you open little Dave’s.” Mr. Graves opened the slip of paper and there was a general sigh through the crowd as he held it up and everyone could see that it was blank. Nancy and Bill, Jr., opened theirs at the same time, and both beamed and laughed, turning around to the crowd and holding their slips of paper above their heads. “Tessie,” Mr. Summers said. There was a pause, and then Mr. Summers looked at Bill Hutchinson, and Bill unfolded his paper and showed it. It was blank. “It’s Tessie,” Mr. Summers said, and his voice was hushed. “Show us her paper, Bill.” Bill Hutchinson went over to his wife and forced the slip of paper out of her hand. It had a black spot on it, the black spot Mr. Summers had made the night before with the heavy pencil in the coal-company office. Bill Hutchinson held it up, and there was a stir in the crowd. “All right, folks,” Mr. Summers said. “Let’s finish quickly.” Although the villagers had forgotten the ritual and lost the original black box, they still remembered to use stones. The pile of stones the boys had made earlier was ready; there were stones on the ground with the blowing scraps of paper that had come out of the box. Mrs. Delacroix selected a stone so large she had to pick it up with both hands and turned to Mrs. Dunbar. “Come on,” she said. “Hurry up.” Mrs. Dunbar had small stones in both hands, and she said, gasping for breath. “I can’t run at all. You’ll have to go ahead and I’ll catch up with you.” The children had stones already, and someone gave little Davy Hutchinson a few pebbles. Tessie Hutchinson was in the center of a cleared space by now, and she held her hands out desperately as the villagers moved in on her. “It isn’t fair,” she said. A stone hit her on the side of the head. Old Man Warner was saying, “Come on, come on, everyone.” Steve Adams was in the front of the crowd of villagers, with Mrs. Graves beside him. “It isn’t fair, it isn’t right,” Mrs. Hutchinson screamed, and then they were upon her. Background of the Story/Author "The Lottery" was written by Shirley Jackson and first published in The New Yorker on June 26, 1948. Jackson was a prominent American writer known for her works in horror and mystery, as well as her exploration of the psychological and societal dimensions of human behavior. Jackson’s own experiences living in small towns informed much of her work, providing insights into the sometimes dark side of human nature masked by normalcy. “The Lottery” reflects societal traditions and collective violence that Jackson witnessed in different forms, resonating with post-WWII anxieties and the potential for human cruelty. The story's publication caused a significant controversy, with readers reacting strongly to its depiction of ritualized violence in an otherwise ordinary, small-town setting. Writing Style Jackson’s writing style in "The Lottery" is deceptively simple, direct, and matter-of-fact. The story begins with serene descriptions of a beautiful summer day, gradually transitioning into dark, unsettling territory as the narrative reveals the purpose of the lottery. Jackson uses foreshadowing, irony, and symbolism to build tension and contrast the mundanity of life with the horror of the lottery ritual. Her style is characterized by a detached tone, allowing the horror to unfold subtly and naturally, thereby intensifying its impact. She employs a third-person objective point of view, which distances readers from the inner thoughts of the characters, making the violence seem more shocking and normalized within the context of the town. Explanation of the Title The title “The Lottery” is ironic because lotteries are typically associated with good fortune and winning. In Jackson's story, however, the "winner" is marked for death, a shocking reversal of expectations. The title underscores the randomness of fate and the danger of blindly following traditions. It also invites the reader to consider the nature of lotteries, both in the story and in life, where chance can lead to dire consequences, and rituals of selection often come with a dark side. Main Characters Tessie Hutchinson ○ The protagonist of the story, Tessie is a housewife who initially appears casual and indifferent about the lottery. She even jokes with the villagers upon her arrival. However, when her family is selected, she quickly turns panicked, claiming the process was unfair. Tessie’s shift in behavior highlights the story’s central irony: she is only concerned with the lottery’s cruelty when it personally affects her. Mr. Summers ○ The conductor of the lottery, Mr. Summers is described as a jovial man who runs the local coal business. His role in civic duties, including the lottery, contrasts with the gruesome nature of the event. His calm demeanor and efficiency in overseeing the lottery heighten the story’s sense of horror. Old Man Warner ○ The oldest man in the village, Old Man Warner has participated in 77 lotteries. He fiercely defends the tradition, labeling those who question it as foolish. His character represents the resistance to change and the dangers of blindly adhering to outdated customs. Themes and Central Message Tradition and Conformity ○ The story critiques the blind adherence to tradition. The villagers follow the lottery ritual without questioning its morality or necessity, simply because “it’s always been done.” This highlights how harmful customs can persist in societies when people fail to question them. The Banality of Evil ○ Jackson demonstrates how ordinary people can commit atrocities under the guise of tradition and societal pressure. The casual manner in which the townspeople carry out the stoning shows how violence can become normalized in a community. Mob Mentality ○ The story illustrates how individuals can lose their sense of personal responsibility when they are part of a group. The townspeople, including Tessie's friends and family, quickly turn on her when she becomes the chosen victim. Randomness of Persecution ○ The arbitrary nature of the lottery symbolizes the randomness with which societies often choose scapegoats. Tessie's fate is decided by chance, underscoring the irrationality of targeting individuals for collective suffering. Symbolisms The Lottery ○ The lottery itself is a symbol of societal traditions that people follow without understanding their origins or questioning their morality. It represents the random cruelty that can be inflicted by systems upheld by the community. The Black Box ○ The black box symbolizes tradition and the unquestioning loyalty to it. Although it is old and falling apart, the villagers refuse to replace it, signifying their unwillingness to abandon harmful customs despite the evidence of their deterioration. The Slips of Paper ○ The slips of paper are symbolic of fate. They determine life or death, emphasizing the randomness and senselessness of the lottery’s outcome. The Stones ○ The stones symbolize the human capacity for violence. The fact that even children participate in the stoning demonstrates how cruelty is ingrained into the fabric of the society. Relevance to Contemporary Literature "The Lottery" remains relevant in contemporary literature due to its exploration of conformity, violence, and tradition—issues that persist in modern societies. The story prompts readers to examine the rituals and traditions in their own cultures that go unquestioned, even when they are harmful. The narrative’s portrayal of how quickly individuals can turn on one another under societal pressure resonates with contemporary discussions about groupthink, scapegoating, and the ethics of tradition. Additionally, Jackson’s examination of how ordinary people can commit extraordinary acts of violence remains pertinent in today’s world, especially in contexts where violence and injustice are normalized by societal structures. In summary, Shirley Jackson’s “The Lottery” uses its simple, direct narrative style to deliver a powerful critique of societal violence, unquestioned tradition, and mob mentality. The story continues to resonate with readers because it confronts universal issues regarding human behavior and community complicity in cruelty. Love Poem Poem By Charles Simic October 28, 2010 Feather duster. Birdcage made of whispers. Tail of a black cat. I’m a child running With open scissors. My eyes are bandaged. You are a heart pounding In a dark forest. The shriek from the Ferris wheel. That’s it, bruja With arms akimbo Stamping your foot. Night at the fair. Woodwind band. Two blind pickpockets in the crowd. Background of the Poem/Author Charles Simic (1938-2023) was a Serbian-American poet known for his surreal, imagistic, and often cryptic poetry. Simic's work often bridges the personal and the absurd, blending dark humor with philosophical depth. Having immigrated to the U.S. after the turmoil of World War II, much of his writing reflects dislocation and ambiguity, both culturally and emotionally. "Love Poem" represents his ability to transform mundane or everyday images into something profound and dreamlike. Writing Style Simic's writing is surreal and imagistic, often using minimalistic language to evoke complex emotions and ideas. He employs vivid, unusual metaphors that challenge conventional interpretations of reality. This particular poem is an excellent example of Simic's use of juxtaposition, symbolism, and fragmented imagery to build an emotionally charged, dreamlike narrative. The poem can be seen as a free-verse form with concise, unpredictable stanzas that create tension and movement. Explanation of the Title The title, "Love Poem," seems simple and straightforward, but the content of the poem is anything but typical of conventional love poetry. It sets the reader up for expectations of romance, yet the poem quickly subverts those expectations with disorienting and surreal imagery. Simic uses this contrast to explore the unpredictable, chaotic, and sometimes dangerous nature of love, casting it in a light that is far from idealized. Line-by-Line Analysis "Feather duster." ○ The feather duster symbolizes something light and mundane, but its gentleness may imply fragility. This could represent the delicate and sometimes trivial gestures involved in love. "Birdcage made of whispers." ○ This metaphor evokes a sense of entrapment yet fragility. The whispers could symbolize secretive communication or unspoken emotions within a relationship, creating an intimate but confined space, just like love can sometimes feel both freeing and limiting. "Tail of a black cat." ○ A black cat is often associated with mystery, superstition, and bad luck. The tail’s motion, unpredictable and sleek, could symbolize the elusive and uncertain nature of love. It suggests both intrigue and potential danger. "I’m a child running / With open scissors." ○ This powerful image conveys recklessness and vulnerability. The speaker admits to a dangerous naivety in love, suggesting that they may hurt themselves or others through their actions. "My eyes are bandaged." ○ This adds another layer of blindness and vulnerability, further emphasizing the speaker’s inability to see the risks involved in love. Love here is not only reckless but also blinding. "You are a heart pounding / In a dark forest." ○ The subject (possibly a lover) is compared to a heart in a dark forest, suggesting fear, intensity, and isolation. The heart beating in darkness conveys the emotional turmoil and uncertainty that often accompanies love. "The shriek from the Ferris wheel." ○ Ferris wheels, often associated with amusement and fun, take on a sinister tone with the word "shriek." This image blends joy and fear, much like how love can be both exhilarating and terrifying. "That’s it, bruja / With arms akimbo / Stamping your foot." ○ "Bruja" means "witch" in Spanish, and the image here is of someone powerful, defiant, and perhaps dangerous. The stance ("arms akimbo") and the act of "stamping your foot" suggest frustration, impatience, or authority within the relationship. "Night at the fair." ○ The setting of a fair evokes an atmosphere of excitement, chaos, and unpredictability. Fairs are often places of temporary escape but can also represent the surreal nature of experiences in love. "Woodwind band." ○ A woodwind band could symbolize harmony and celebration, but within the context of the poem, it may contrast with the darker images. It serves as background noise to the surreal and chaotic emotional landscape of love. "Two blind pickpockets in the crowd." ○ This closing image is particularly striking. The blind pickpockets may symbolize lovers who, in their blindness, steal from one another without realizing it. The "crowd" suggests anonymity, implying that these actions occur within a larger, indifferent world. Themes and Central Message The primary theme of the poem revolves around love as an unpredictable, surreal, and sometimes dangerous experience. Simic portrays love not as an idealized romantic connection, but as something fraught with mystery, risk, and confusion. There is also a sense of vulnerability, as both the speaker and the subject seem to be moving through love blindly and recklessly. Chaos, danger, and enchantment are central to how love is portrayed in this work. Relevance to Contemporary Literature This poem reflects contemporary literature’s interest in subverting traditional themes like love by exploring its complexities, darker sides, and contradictions. It’s relevant because it refuses to romanticize relationships, instead acknowledging the emotional chaos, blindness, and confusion that often accompany human connection. Contemporary readers and poets often appreciate such fresh, unvarnished takes on love, breaking away from earlier idealized depictions to reflect the uncertainties and challenges of modern relationships. Simic’s surreal and fragmented style is also characteristic of modern poetry, where clear narratives and logical progressions give way to disorienting yet deeply resonant imagery. His work encourages readers to find meaning in the disjointed, reflecting the fragmented nature of contemporary life and emotions. This aligns with postmodern literary movements that embrace ambiguity, non-linearity, and the multiplicity of interpretation. The House on Mango Street Novel By Sandra Cisneros 1984 1. The House on Mango Street Esperanza introduces her family’s new house on Mango Street. It is small, cramped, and in poor condition, far from the dream house she envisioned. She feels embarrassed by it. Characters: Esperanza, her family 2. Hairs Esperanza describes the different types of hair each family member has, focusing on her mother’s hair, which she finds comforting and safe. Characters: Esperanza, her mother, her family 3. Boys & Girls Esperanza talks about the division between boys and girls. She notes that her brothers live in their own world, while she longs for a best friend to connect with. Characters: Esperanza, her brothers (Carlos, Kiki) 4. My Name Esperanza reflects on her name, which means "hope" in Spanish. She dislikes it because it reminds her of her great-grandmother's sadness. Esperanza wants a new name that represents her true self. Characters: Esperanza, her great-grandmother 5. Cathy Queen of Cats Cathy, a girl who owns many cats, befriends Esperanza but tells her they’re moving away because the neighborhood is getting worse. Cathy represents the upper-class prejudice against the predominantly Latino community. Characters: Esperanza, Cathy 6. Our Good Day Esperanza makes friends with two neighborhood girls, Lucy and Rachel, after they pool their money to buy a bicycle. Characters: Esperanza, Lucy, Rachel 7. Laughter Esperanza and her sister, Nenny, share a moment when they both laugh the same way, showing their familial bond despite their differences. Characters: Esperanza, Nenny (Magdalena) 8. Gil’s Furniture Bought & Sold Esperanza and Nenny visit an old junk store run by Gil. Nenny is fascinated by a music box, but they don’t buy it. Characters: Esperanza, Nenny, Gil 9. Meme Ortiz Meme Ortiz moves into Cathy's old house. He breaks both arms while jumping from a tree, and Esperanza comments on the strangeness of the houses and people in her neighborhood. Characters: Meme Ortiz, Esperanza 10. Louie, His Cousin & His Other Cousin Louie lives in Meme’s basement with his family. One day, Louie’s cousin arrives in a stolen car and takes the neighborhood kids for a ride, only to be arrested by the police. Characters: Esperanza, Louie, Louie’s cousin 11. Marin Marin is Louie’s older cousin who dreams of escaping Mango Street by marrying a wealthy man. She represents the hope many young women have for love as a way out of their circumstances. Characters: Marin, Louie 12. Those Who Don’t Esperanza reflects on how outsiders perceive her neighborhood as dangerous and foreign, while she and others from Mango Street see it as home. Characters: Esperanza, unnamed outsiders 13. There Was an Old Woman She Had So Many Children She Didn’t Know What to Do Esperanza describes Rosa Vargas, a single mother with too many children to control. The neighborhood watches the children behave wildly, but no one helps. Characters: Rosa Vargas, her children 14. Alicia Who Sees Mice Alicia, a young woman attending university, is trying to escape her life of poverty through education. However, she is still tied down by her household responsibilities. Characters: Alicia, her father 15. Darius & the Clouds Darius, a boy from the neighborhood, surprises everyone by making a profound statement about the clouds and God, revealing that wisdom can come from unlikely places. Characters: Darius 16. And Some More Esperanza, Lucy, Rachel, and Nenny argue about the names of clouds, leading to playful bickering that showcases their friendship and innocence. Characters: Esperanza, Lucy, Rachel, Nenny 17. The Family of Little Feet Esperanza, Lucy, and Rachel are given high-heeled shoes, which make them feel grown-up and attract attention from men. They quickly realize the dangers of premature sexuality. Characters: Esperanza, Lucy, Rachel, men in the neighborhood 18. A Rice Sandwich Esperanza desperately wants to eat in the canteen at school like the "special" kids. When she convinces the nuns to let her, she’s disappointed by the experience. Characters: Esperanza, the nun 19. Chanclas At a family baptism party, Esperanza is embarrassed by her old shoes, but when her uncle pulls her onto the dance floor, she feels beautiful and noticed despite her insecurities. Characters: Esperanza, her uncle 20. Hips Esperanza, Nenny, Lucy, and Rachel discuss the arrival of hips, a sign of growing up, while they jump rope. Esperanza reflects on the physical changes that signal womanhood. Characters: Esperanza, Lucy, Rachel, Nenny 21. The First Job Esperanza gets her first job at a photo developing store. She’s harassed by an older man who kisses her without consent, a moment that reveals the vulnerability of young girls. Characters: Esperanza, an older man 22. Papa Who Wakes Up Tired in the Dark Esperanza’s father informs her that her grandfather has died. She reflects on how she has to be the one to console her father, revealing her growing sense of responsibility. Characters: Esperanza, her father 23. Born Bad Esperanza reflects on the guilt she feels after making fun of her Aunt Lupe, who was sick and bedridden. Aunt Lupe encourages Esperanza to keep writing. Characters: Esperanza, Aunt Lupe 24. Elenita, Cards, Palm, Water Esperanza visits Elenita, a fortune teller, who tells her that she will find a “home in the heart,” though Esperanza is disappointed, having hoped for a physical home. Characters: Esperanza, Elenita 25. Geraldo No Last Name Esperanza meets a man named Geraldo at a dance, who dies in a hit-and-run accident. No one knows much about him, and his death highlights the anonymity of immigrant lives. Characters: Geraldo, Marin 26. Edna’s Ruthie Ruthie, the daughter of a local landlord, is a mentally unstable but kind woman who enjoys spending time with the neighborhood children. She represents an adult who never truly grew up. Characters: Ruthie, Edna 27. The Earl of Tennessee Earl is a jukebox repairman who brings women to his apartment. The neighborhood children speculate about these women, thinking they are his wife, though they are actually prostitutes. Characters: Earl, neighborhood children 28. Sire Esperanza develops a crush on Sire, a local boy, but her parents warn her that he’s bad news. This vignette marks Esperanza’s first stirrings of sexual attraction. Characters: Esperanza, Sire, Sire’s girlfriend Lois 29. Four Skinny Trees Esperanza compares herself to four skinny trees outside her house. Like her, they are out of place but grow strong despite their circumstances. Characters: Esperanza, the trees 30. No Speak English Mamacita, an immigrant woman, refuses to learn English and isolates herself in her apartment. She represents the struggles of immigrants clinging to their cultural identity. Characters: Mamacita, her husband, her son 31. Rafaela Who Drinks Coconut & Papaya Juice on Tuesdays Rafaela is a woman whose husband locks her inside because he’s afraid she’ll run away. She dreams of a freer life while sending the neighborhood kids for juice. Characters: Rafaela, her husband 32. Sally Sally is a beautiful girl who is physically abused by her father. She wears makeup and clothes that attract male attention, but her life is fraught with turmoil and danger. Characters: Sally, her father 33. Minerva Writes Poems Minerva, a young woman with children, writes poems as an outlet for her feelings. She suffers from an abusive husband, and her situation mirrors Esperanza’s fears for her own future. Characters: Minerva, her husband 34. Bums in the Attic Esperanza dreams of having a beautiful house where she will invite homeless people in. She vows never to forget where she came from, even if she leaves Mango Street. Characters: Esperanza 35. Beautiful & Cruel Esperanza reflects on how society expects women to be submissive and passive. She decides she will be like the "beautiful and cruel" women who don’t rely on men to shape their lives. She starts planning her future with independence in mind, rejecting traditional gender roles. Characters: Esperanza 36. A Smart Cookie Esperanza's mother laments about how she could have been more successful in life if she had stayed in school. She encourages Esperanza not to let opportunities slip away, revealing her regrets and warning her daughter about the limitations of a lack of education. Characters: Esperanza, her mother 37. What Sally Said Sally confides in Esperanza about her abusive father. Despite the violence, Sally continues to lie and return home. Eventually, her father beats her so badly that she has to stay with Esperanza’s family for a while. The vignette highlights the cycle of abuse Sally endures. Characters: Sally, Sally’s father, Esperanza 38. The Monkey Garden The neighborhood kids play in the Monkey Garden, a place filled with overgrown plants and discarded items. However, when Sally engages in flirtatious behavior with boys there, Esperanza feels betrayed and out of place. She tries to protect Sally but is ignored. The Monkey Garden becomes a symbol of lost innocence for Esperanza. Characters: Esperanza, Sally, neighborhood boys 39. Red Clowns Esperanza recalls being sexually assaulted by a group of boys at a carnival while waiting for Sally. The experience leaves her traumatized, confused, and angry at Sally for abandoning her. This vignette is a pivotal moment in Esperanza’s understanding of the dangers of womanhood. Characters: Esperanza, Sally, boys at the carnival 40. Linoleum Roses Sally marries a man who promises her a better life, but her new husband is controlling, forbidding her to leave the house or have visitors. Sally thought marriage would bring her freedom, but instead, she finds herself trapped. This reinforces the theme of how marriage can be another form of confinement for women. Characters: Sally, Sally’s husband 41. The Three Sisters After the death of Rachel and Lucy’s baby sister, three old women (the Three Sisters) attend the funeral. They tell Esperanza that she will go far in life but must never forget where she came from. They emphasize that she will always have a responsibility to those she leaves behind on Mango Street. Characters: Esperanza, the Three Sisters, Rachel, Lucy 42. Alicia & I Talking on Edna’s Steps Alicia, who has escaped Mango Street through education, returns and talks to Esperanza about their home. Alicia encourages Esperanza to acknowledge Mango Street as part of her identity, even if she wants to leave it. Alicia represents an alternative path for Esperanza, one that involves self-improvement through education rather than relying on men. Characters: Esperanza, Alicia 43. A House of My Own Esperanza dreams of having a house that is truly her own, a place of solitude and independence where she can write. She imagines this house as the ultimate expression of freedom, away from the constraints and limitations she associates with Mango Street. Characters: Esperanza 44. Mango Says Goodbye Sometimes In this final vignette, Esperanza reflects on her journey and the stories she has told. She acknowledges that while she wants to leave Mango Street, it will always be a part of her. She vows to come back for the people who cannot leave, showing her understanding that her roots are inextricable from her identity. Characters: Esperanza Background of the Story/Author Sandra Cisneros is a prominent Mexican-American author, born in 1954 in Chicago. As the daughter of a Mexican father and a Chicana mother, her cultural identity and experiences of growing up in a Latino community in the U.S. profoundly influence her work. “The House on Mango Street”, published in 1984, is her most famous book, a coming-of-age novel that revolves around the protagonist, Esperanza Cordero, a young Latina girl. Cisneros wrote the book based on her own experiences living in poor, immigrant neighborhoods and exploring issues like identity, gender, and race. The novel consists of a series of short, poetic vignettes or snapshots that reflect Esperanza’s evolving perceptions of herself and her environment. It's often categorized as Chicano literature, a movement of the 1960s and ’70s that focused on the Mexican-American experience, but it speaks to broader issues of belonging, self-definition, and coming-of-age, making it relevant to diverse audiences. Writing Style Cisneros employs a lyrical, minimalist writing style that blends prose and poetry, making the book accessible but emotionally rich. Each vignette is brief yet vivid, focusing on details that evoke deep emotional responses. The narrative voice is that of a young girl, and Cisneros manages to infuse her language with a sense of naivety, wonder, and growth. Her sentences are often short, fragmented, and rhythmic, reflecting the way a child might perceive the world. Additionally, Cisneros uses a lot of figurative language like metaphors and similes to enhance the imagery and emotional depth of each vignette. Explanation of the Title “The House on Mango Street” refers to the physical home where Esperanza’s family lives during her formative years. However, the house symbolizes much more than just a physical structure. For Esperanza, it represents the limitations of her socio-economic background, her desire to escape, and her conflicted feelings about belonging. The house on Mango Street is both a source of shame and a place that shapes her sense of identity. As much as Esperanza dreams of leaving it behind, it remains a fundamental part of her story and her self-discovery. The title encapsulates her struggle with wanting more, while simultaneously feeling tied to her roots and her family’s heritage. Main Characters (Appearance/Mannerisms) Esperanza Cordero ○ Esperanza is a young Latina girl, around 12 years old at the start of the story. Her name means "hope" in Spanish, though she is ambivalent about it. ○ She is introspective, observant, and often daydreams about a better life. Esperanza is empathetic but also determined to leave Mango Street and create a life of independence. Throughout the book, she matures, confronting issues of poverty, identity, and womanhood. Sally ○ Sally is described as being incredibly beautiful, with dark eyes and hair. She wears bold makeup and provocative clothing that attracts the attention of boys and men. ○ Sally is flirtatious and craves male attention, but her outward confidence hides a deep vulnerability. She endures abuse from her father and later marries a controlling man. Sally represents both the allure and the dangers of traditional femininity. Nenny (Magdalena) ○ Nenny is Esperanza's younger sister. She is still childlike and has similar physical features to Esperanza. ○ Nenny is innocent and imaginative, often lost in her own world. Esperanza sees her as a responsibility but also as a reminder of her own youth. Nenny is more naïve than Esperanza, and this leads to moments where Esperanza feels disconnected from her. Mama (Esperanza’s Mother) ○ Esperanza’s mother is often portrayed as warm and nurturing. She has distinctive, comforting hair that Esperanza associates with safety. ○ Mama is wise and regrets not pursuing more education. She encourages Esperanza to seize opportunities and not be held back by her circumstances, serving as a voice of guidance and a cautionary tale of missed chances. Alicia ○ Alicia is a young woman who is often tired from her long commute to the university. Her physical appearance is less described, but her determination and drive stand out. ○ Alicia is responsible and diligent, balancing her education with the chores her father forces her to do at home. She represents the possibility of escaping the cycle of poverty through education, and she encourages Esperanza to hold onto her dreams. Lucy & Rachel ○ Lucy and Rachel are two sisters from Texas who become Esperanza’s close friends. Rachel, the younger one, is described as sassy and playful, while Lucy is older and more mature. ○ They are fun-loving, adventurous, and embody the innocent joys of childhood. However, they are also marked by the same hardships that define life on Mango Street, losing a baby sister and dealing with the realities of poverty. Marin ○ Marin is an older girl who wears makeup and is often seen as beautiful by the boys in the neighborhood. She has long hair and dresses attractively. ○ Marin dreams of being rescued by a rich man, thinking that marriage is her way out of Mango Street. She represents the older girls who are trapped by their beauty and societal expectations, waiting for a man to give them a better life. Rafaela ○ Rafaela is a beautiful woman who is locked inside her home by her husband. ○ Rafaela sends neighborhood children to buy her coconut and papaya juice because her husband keeps her confined due to his jealousy. She represents the women who are imprisoned in their homes by possessive men. Meme Ortiz ○ Meme is a neighborhood boy who moves into Cathy’s old house. ○ He is playful, adventurous, and ends up breaking both of his arms during a game. Meme represents the transient nature of the neighborhood’s inhabitants and the adventurous spirit of youth. Themes and Central Messages Identity and Self-Discovery ○ The central theme revolves around Esperanza's journey of self-discovery. She struggles with her identity as a young Latina girl growing up in a poor neighborhood. Throughout the vignettes, she wrestles with what it means to be a woman, an individual, and a member of her community. Her desire to have a house of her own reflects her need for independence and self-definition. The Power of Home and Community ○ Mango Street, both as a place and a community, is integral to shaping Esperanza’s identity. While she longs to escape it, she also learns that it is an inescapable part of who she is. The vignettes show how individuals are shaped by their environments and the connections they have with those around them. Esperanza ultimately understands that while she may physically leave Mango Street, she carries it with her. The Role of Women and Gender Expectations ○ The novel deeply explores the roles and limitations placed on women in Esperanza’s community. Through characters like Marin, Rafaela, and Sally, Cisneros highlights the oppressive conditions women face—whether it’s abusive relationships, the expectation to marry, or societal restrictions. Esperanza rebels against these norms, aspiring to a life of independence and freedom. The Struggle for Freedom and Autonomy ○ Many characters dream of escaping their confined lives, whether through marriage, beauty, or education. However, most are trapped by circumstances beyond their control. Esperanza’s desire to leave Mango Street and have her own house is symbolic of her yearning for autonomy, and it contrasts with those around her who seem resigned to their fates. Poverty and Economic Struggles ○ The realities of poverty are ever-present in the book. Esperanza and her neighbors live in cramped, dilapidated houses, struggle to afford necessities, and are often stuck in cycles of hardship. The desire for a better home symbolizes a yearning for a better life, one free of financial constraints. Symbolisms The House on Mango Street ○ The house itself is the most significant symbol in the novel. It represents both the limitations of Esperanza’s circumstances and her aspirations for the future. Esperanza is ashamed of her current house but dreams of a home that she can be proud of—symbolizing independence, freedom, and self-fulfillment. Shoes ○ Shoes are a recurring symbol throughout the novel, representing femininity, sexuality, and the coming of age. In the vignette "The Family of Little Feet," the girls' high-heeled shoes make them feel grown-up but also attract unwanted male attention, showing the dangers of early sexualization. Shoes represent both empowerment and vulnerability. Trees ○ In the vignette "Four Skinny Trees," Esperanza identifies with the trees outside her house, seeing them as symbols of resilience and survival. They are out of place, much like she feels, but they grow despite their surroundings. Trees symbolize Esperanza’s strength and her determination to thrive, even in a harsh environment. Windows ○ Windows are symbolic of confinement and entrapment for many female characters. Rafaela, Sally, and other women look out of windows longingly, representing their inability to participate in the world outside. For Esperanza, windows represent the way women are often trapped within their domestic lives, yearning for freedom. Names ○ Names are a central symbol in the novel, representing identity. In the vignette "My Name," Esperanza explores the significance of her name and its connection to her cultural heritage and family history. She feels burdened by her name but also understands that changing it would mean losing part of her identity. Relevance to Contemporary Literature “The House on Mango Street” remains relevant in contemporary literature because it deals with universal themes such as identity, home, and the immigrant experience. Cisneros’s exploration of the intersection of race, class, and gender continues to resonate with readers, especially in the context of ongoing discussions about inequality, cultural identity, and the American Dream. Additionally, the novel’s fragmented structure and use of vignettes align with modern forms of storytelling, including the rise of short fiction and lyrical memoirs. The novel's intersectionality, blending feminist themes with cultural identity, is a precursor to contemporary discussions on how race, class, and gender shape personal experiences. It’s a timeless reflection on belonging and the complexity of self-discovery within the constraints of societal expectations, making it a cornerstone in not only Latino literature but American literature as a whole. Where Are You Going? Where Have You Been? Short Story By Joyce Carol Oates (for Bob Dylan) 1966 Her name was Connie. She was fifteen and she had a quick, nervous giggling habit of craning her neck to glance into mirrors or checking other people's faces to make sure her own was all right. Her mother, who noticed everything and knew everything and who hadn't much reason any longer to look at her own face, always scolded Connie about it. "Stop gawking at yourself. Who are you? You think you're so pretty?" she would say. Connie would raise her eyebrows at these familiar old complaints and look right through her mother, into a shadowy vision of herself as she was right at that moment: she knew she was pretty and that was everything. Her mother had been pretty once too, if you could believe those old snapshots in the album, but now her looks were gone and that was why she was always after Connie. "Why don't you keep your room clean like your sister? How've you got your hair fixed—what the hell stinks? Hair spray? You don't see your sister using that junk." Her sister June was twenty-four and still lived at home. She was a secretary in the high school Connie attended, and if that wasn't bad enough—with her in the same building—she was so plain and chunky and steady that Connie had to hear her praised all the time by her mother and her mother's sisters. June did this, June did that, she saved money and helped clean the house and cooked and Connie couldn't do a thing, her mind was all filled with trashy daydreams. Their father was away at work most of the time and when he came home he wanted supper and he read the newspaper at supper and after supper he went to bed. He didn't bother talking much to them, but around his bent head Connie's mother kept picking at her until Connie wished her mother was dead and she herself was dead and it was all over. "She makes me want to throw up sometimes," she complained to her friends. She had a high, breathless, amused voice that made everything she said sound a little forced, whether it was sincere or not. There was one good thing: June went places with girl friends of hers, girls who were just as plain and steady as she, and so when Connie wanted to do that her mother had no objections. The father of Connie's best girl friend drove the girls the three miles to town and left them at a shopping plaza so they could walk through the stores or go to a movie, and when he came to pick them up again at eleven he never bothered to ask what they had done. They must have been familiar sights, walking around the shopping plaza in their shorts and flat ballerina slippers that always scuffed the sidewalk, with charm bracelets jingling on their thin wrists; they would lean together to whisper and laugh secretly if someone passed who amused or interested them. Connie had long dark blond hair that drew anyone's eye to it, and she wore part of it pulled up on her head and puffed out and the rest of it she let fall down her back. She wore a pull-over jersey blouse that looked one way when she was at home and another way when she was away from home. Everything about her had two sides to it, one for home and one for anywhere that was not home: her walk, which could be childlike and bobbing, or languid enough to make anyone think she was hearing music in her head; her mouth, which was pale and smirking most of the time, but bright and pink on these evenings out; her laugh, which was cynical and drawling at home—"Ha, ha, very funny,"—but highpitched and nervous anywhere else, like the jingling of the charms on her bracelet. Sometimes they did go shopping or to a movie, but sometimes they went across the highway, ducking fast across the busy road, to a drive-in restaurant where older kids hung out. The restaurant was shaped like a big bottle, though squatter than a real bottle, and on its cap was a revolving figure of a grinning boy holding a hamburger aloft. One night in midsummer they ran across, breathless with daring, and right away someone leaned out a car window and invited them over, but it was just a boy from high school they didn't like. It made them feel good to be able to ignore him. They went up through the maze of parked and cruising cars to the bright-lit, fly-infested restaurant, their faces pleased and expectant as if they were entering a sacred building that loomed up out of the night to give them what haven and blessing they yearned for. They sat at the counter and crossed their legs at the ankles, their thin shoulders rigid with excitement, and listened to the music that made everything so good: the music was always in the background, like music at a church service; it was something to depend upon. A boy named Eddie came in to talk with them. He sat backwards on his stool, turning himself jerkily around in semicircles and then stopping and turning back again, and after a while he asked Connie if she would like something to eat. She said she would and so she tapped her friend's arm on her way out—her friend pulled her face up into a brave, droll look—and Connie said she would meet her at eleven, across the way. "I just hate to leave her like that," Connie said earnestly, but the boy said that she wouldn't be alone for long. So they went out to his car, and on the way Connie couldn't help but let her eyes wander over the windshields and faces all around her, her face gleaming with a joy that had nothing to do with Eddie or even this place; it might have been the music. She drew her shoulders up and sucked in her breath with the pure pleasure of being alive, and just at that moment she happened to glance at a face just a few feet from hers. It was a boy with shaggy black hair, in a convertible jalopy painted gold. He stared at her and then his lips widened into a grin. Connie slit her eyes at him and turned away, but she couldn't help glancing back and there he was, still watching her. He wagged a finger and laughed and said, "Gonna get you, baby," and Connie turned away again without Eddie noticing anything. She spent three hours with him, at the restaurant where they ate hamburgers and drank Cokes in wax cups that were always sweating, and then down an alley a mile or so away, and when he left her off at five to eleven only the movie house was still open at the plaza. Her girl friend was there, talking with a boy. When Connie came up, the two girls smiled at each other and Connie said, "How was the movie?" and the girl said, 'You should know." They rode off with the girl's father, sleepy and pleased, and Connie couldn't help but look back at the darkened shopping plaza with its big empty parking lot and its signs that were faded and ghostly now, and over at the drive-in restaurant where cars were still circling tirelessly. She couldn't hear the music at this distance. Next morning June asked her how the movie was and Connie said, "So-so." She and that girl and occasionally another girl went out several times a week, and the rest of the time Connie spent around the house—it was summer vacation—getting in her mother s way and thinking, dreaming about the boys she met. But all the boys fell back and dissolved into a single face that was not even a face but an idea, a feeling, mixed up with the urgent insistent pounding of the music and the humid night air of July. Connie's mother kept dragging her back to the daylight by finding things for her to do or saying suddenly, 'What's this about the Pettinger girl?" And Connie would say nervously, "Oh, her. That dope." She always drew thick clear lines between herself and such girls, and her mother was simple and kind enough to believe it. Her mother was so simple, Connie thought, that it was maybe cruel to fool her so much. Her mother went scuffling around the house in old bedroom slippers and complained over the telephone to one sister about the other, then the other called up and the two of them complained about the third one. If June's name was mentioned her mother's tone was approving, and if Connie's name was mentioned it was disapproving. This did not really mean she disliked Connie, and actually Connie thought that her mother preferred her to June just because she was prettier, but the two of them kept up a pretense of exasperation, a sense that they were tugging and struggling over something of little value to either of them. Sometimes, over coffee, they were almost friends, but something would come up—some vexation that was like a fly buzzing suddenly around their heads—and their faces went hard with contempt. One Sunday Connie got up at eleven—none of them bothered with church—and washed her hair so that it could dry all day long in the sun. Her parents and sister were going to a barbecue at an aunt's house and Connie said no, she wasn't interested, rolling her eyes to let her mother know just what she thought of it. "Stay home alone then," her mother said sharply. Connie sat out back in a lawn chair and watched them drive away, her father quiet and bald, hunched around so that he could back the car out, her mother with a look that was still angry and not at all softened through the windshield, and in the back seat poor old June, all dressed up as if she didn't know what a barbecue was, with all the running yelling kids and the flies. Connie sat with her eyes closed in the sun, dreaming and dazed with the warmth about her as if this were a kind of love, the caresses of love, and her mind slipped over onto thoughts of the boy she had been with the night before and how nice he had been, how sweet it always was, not the way someone like June would suppose but sweet, gentle, the way it was in movies and promised in songs; and when she opened her eyes she hardly knew where she was, the back yard ran off into weeds and a fence-like line of trees and behind it the sky was perfectly blue and still. The asbestos ranch house that was now three years old startled her—it looked small. She shook her head as if to get awake. It was too hot. She went inside the house and turned on the radio to drown out the quiet. She sat on the edge of her bed, barefoot, and listened for an hour and a half to a program called XYZ Sunday Jamboree, record after record of hard, fast, shrieking songs she sang along with, interspersed by exclamations from "Bobby King": "An' look here, you girls at Napoleon's—Son and Charley want you to pay real close attention to this song coming up!" And Connie paid close attention herself, bathed in a glow of slow-pulsed joy that seemed to rise mysteriously out of the music itself and lay languidly about the airless little room, breathed in and breathed out with each gentle rise and fall of her chest. After a while she heard a car coming up the drive. She sat up at once, startled, because it couldn't be her father so soon. The gravel kept crunching all the way in from the road—the driveway was long—and Connie ran to the window. It was a car she didn't know. It was an open jalopy, painted a bright gold that caught the sunlight opaquely. Her heart began to pound and her fingers snatched at her hair, checking it, and she whispered, "Christ. Christ," wondering how bad she looked. The car came to a stop at the side door and the horn sounded four short taps, as if this were a signal Connie knew. She went into the kitchen and approached the door slowly, then hung out the screen door, her bare toes curling down off the step. There were two boys in the car and now she recognized the driver: he had shaggy, shabby black hair that looked crazy as a wig and he was grinning at her. "I ain't late, am I?" he said. "Who the hell do you think you are?" Connie said. "Toldja I'd be out, didn't I?" "I don't even know who you are." She spoke sullenly, careful to show no interest or pleasure, and he spoke in a fast, bright monotone. Connie looked past him to the other boy, taking her time. He had fair brown hair, with a lock that fell onto his forehead. His sideburns gave him a fierce, embarrassed look, but so far he hadn't even bothered to glance at her. Both boys wore sunglasses. The driver's glasses were metallic and mirrored everything in miniature. "You wanta come for a ride?" he said. Connie smirked and let her hair fall loose over one shoulder. "Don'tcha like my car? New paint job," he said. "Hey." "What?" "You're cute." She pretended to fidget, chasing flies away from the door. "Don'tcha believe me, or what?" he said. "Look, I don't even know who you are," Connie said in disgust. "Hey, Ellie's got a radio, see. Mine broke down." He lifted his friend's arm and showed her the little transistor radio the boy was holding, and now Connie began to hear the music. It was the same program that was playing inside the house. "Bobby King?" she said. "I listen to him all the time. I think he's great." "He's kind of great," Connie said reluctantly. "Listen, that guy's great. He knows where the action is." Connie blushed a little, because the glasses made it impossible for her to see just what this boy was looking at. She couldn't decide if she liked him or if he was just a jerk, and so she dawdled in the doorway and wouldn't come down or go back inside. She said, "What's all that stuff painted on your car?" "Can'tcha read it?" He opened the door very carefully, as if he were afraid it might fall off. He slid out just as carefully, planting his feet firmly on the ground, the tiny metallic world in his glasses slowing down like gelatine hardening, and in the midst of it Connie's bright green blouse. "This here is my name, to begin with, he said. ARNOLD FRIEND was written in tarlike black letters on the side, with a drawing of a round, grinning face that reminded Connie of a pumpkin, except it wore sunglasses. "I wanta introduce myself, I'm Arnold Friend and that's my real name and I'm gonna be your friend, honey, and inside the car's Ellie Oscar, he's kinda shy." Ellie brought his transistor radio up to his shoulder and balanced it there. "Now, these numbers are a secret code, honey," Arnold Friend explained. He read off the numbers 33, 19, 17 and raised his eyebrows at her to see what she thought of that, but she didn't think much of it. The left rear fender had been smashed and around it was written, on the gleaming gold background: DONE BY CRAZY WOMAN DRIVER. Connie had to laugh at that. Arnold Friend was pleased at her laughter and looked up at her. "Around the other side's a lot more —you wanta come and see them?" "No." "Why not?" "Why should I?" "Don'tcha wanta see what's on the car? Don'tcha wanta go for a ride?" "I don't know." "Why not?" "I got things to do." "Like what?" "Things." He laughed as if she had said something funny. He slapped his thighs. He was standing in a strange way, leaning back against the car as if he were balancing himself. He wasn't tall, only an inch or so taller than she would be if she came down to him. Connie liked the way he was dressed, which was the way all of them dressed: tight faded jeans stuffed into black, scuffed boots, a belt that pulled his waist in and showed how lean he was, and a white pull-over shirt that was a little soiled and showed the hard small muscles of his arms and shoulders. He looked as if he probably did hard work, lifting and carrying things. Even his neck looked muscular. And his face was a familiar face, somehow: the jaw and chin and cheeks slightly darkened because he hadn't shaved for a day or two, and the nose long and hawklike, sniffing as if she were a treat he was going to gobble up and it was all a joke. "Connie, you ain't telling the truth. This is your day set aside for a ride with me and you know it," he said, still laughing. The way he straightened and recovered from his fit of laughing showed that it had been all fake. "How do you know what my name is?" she said suspiciously. "It's Connie." "Maybe and maybe not." "I know my Connie," he said, wagging his finger. Now she remembered him even better, back at the restaurant, and her cheeks warmed at the thought of how she had sucked in her breath just at the moment she passed him—how she must have looked to him. And he had remembered her. "Ellie and I come out here especially for you," he said. "Ellie can sit in back. How about it?" "Where?" "Where what?" "Where're we going?" He looked at her. He took off the sunglasses and she saw how pale the skin around his eyes was, like holes that were not in shadow but instead in light. His eyes were like chips of broken glass that catch the light in an amiable way. He smiled. It was as if the idea of going for a ride somewhere, to someplace, was a new idea to him. "Just for a ride, Connie sweetheart." "I never said my name was Connie," she said. "But I know what it is. I know your name and all about you, lots of things," Arnold Friend said. He had not moved yet but stood still leaning back against the side of his jalopy. "I took a special interest in you, such a pretty girl, and found out all about you—like I know your parents and sister are gone somewheres and I know where and how long they're going to be gone, and I know who you were with last night, and your best girl friend's name is Betty. Right?" He spoke in a simple lilting voice, exactly as if he were reciting the words to a song. His smile assured her that everything was fine. In the car Ellie turned up the volume on his radio and did not bother to look around at them. "Ellie can sit in the back seat," Arnold Friend said. He indicated his friend with a casual jerk of his chin, as if Ellie did not count and she should not bother with him. "How'd you find out all that stuff?" Connie said. "Listen: Betty Schultz and Tony Fitch and Jimmy Pettinger and Nancy Pettinger," he said in a chant. "Raymond Stanley and Bob Hutter—" "Do you know all those kids?" "I know everybody." "Look, you're kidding. You're not from around here." "Sure." "But—how come we never saw you before?" "Sure you saw me before," he said. He looked down at his boots, as if he were a little offended. "You just don't remember." "I guess I'd remember you," Connie said. "Yeah?" He looked up at this, beaming. He was pleased. He began to mark time with the music from Ellie's radio, tapping his fists lightly together. Connie looked away from his smile to the car, which was painted so bright it almost hurt her eyes to look at it. She looked at that name, ARNOLD FRIEND. And up at the front fender was an expression that was familiar—MAN THE FLYING SAUCERS. It was an expression kids had used the year before but didn't use this year. She looked at it for a while as if the words meant something to her that she did not yet know. "What're you thinking about? Huh?" Arnold Friend demanded. "Not worried about your hair blowing around in the car, are you?" "No." "Think I maybe can't drive good?" "How do I know?" "You're a hard girl to handle. How come?" he said. "Don't you know I'm your friend? Didn't you see me put my sign in the air when you walked by?" "What sign?" "My sign." And he drew an X in the air, leaning out toward her. They were maybe ten feet apart. After his hand fell back to his side the X was still in the air, almost visible. Connie let the screen door close and stood perfectly still inside it, listening to the music from her radio and the boy's blend together. She stared at Arnold Friend. He stood there so stiffly relaxed, pretending to be relaxed, with one hand idly on the door handle as if he were keeping himself up that way and had no intention of ever moving again. She recognized most things about him, the tight jeans that showed his thighs and buttocks and the greasy leather boots and the tight shirt, and even that slippery friendly smile of his, that sleepy dreamy smile that all the boys used to get across ideas they didn't want to put into words. She recognized all this and also the singsong way he talked, slightly mocking, kidding, but serious and a little melancholy, and she recognized the way he tapped one fist against the other in homage to the perpetual music behind him. But all these things did not come together. She said suddenly, "Hey, how old are you?" His smiled faded. She could see then that he wasn't a kid, he was much older—thirty, maybe more. At this knowledge her heart began to pound faster. "That's a crazy thing to ask. Can'tcha see I'm your own age?" "Like hell you are." "Or maybe a couple years older. I'm eighteen." "Eighteen?" she said doubtfully. He grinned to reassure her and lines appeared at the corners of his mouth. His teeth were big and white. He grinned so broadly his eyes became slits and she saw how thick the lashes were, thick and black as if painted with a black tarlike material. Then, abruptly, he seemed to become embarrassed and looked over his shoulder at Ellie. "Him, he's crazy," he said. "Ain't he a riot? He's a nut, a real character." Ellie was still listening to the music. His sunglasses told nothing about what he was thinking. He wore a bright orange shirt unbuttoned halfway to show his chest, which was a pale, bluish chest and not muscular like Arnold Friend's. His shirt collar was turned up all around and the very tips of the collar pointed out past his chin as if they were protecting him. He was pressing the transistor radio up against his ear and sat there in a kind of daze, right in the sun. "He's kinda strange," Connie said. "Hey, she says you're kinda strange! Kinda strange!" Arnold Friend cried. He pounded on the car to get Ellie's attention. Ellie turned for the first time and Connie saw with shock that he wasn't a kid either—he had a fair, hairless face, cheeks reddened slightly as if the veins grew too close to the surface of his skin, the face of a forty-year-old baby. Connie felt a wave of dizziness rise in her at this sight and she stared at him as if waiting for something to change the shock of the moment, make it all right again. Ellie's lips kept shaping words, mumbling along with the words blasting in his ear. "Maybe you two better go away," Connie said faintly. "What? How come?" Arnold Friend cried. "We come out here to take you for a ride. It's Sunday." He had the voice of the man on the radio now. It was the same voice, Connie thought. "Don'tcha know it's Sunday all day? And honey, no matter who you were with last night, today you're with Arnold Friend and don't you forget it! Maybe you better step out here," he said, and this last was in a different voice. It was a little flatter, as if the heat was finally getting to him. "No. I got things to do." "Hey." "You two better leave." "We ain't leaving until you come with us." "Like hell I am—" "Connie, don't fool around with me. I mean—I mean, don't fool around," he said, shaking his head. He laughed incredulously. He placed his sunglasses on top of his head, carefully, as if he were indeed wearing a wig, and brought the stems down behind his ears. Connie stared at him, another wave of dizziness and fear rising in her so that for a moment he wasn't even in focus but was just a blur standing there against his gold car, and she had the idea that he had driven up the driveway all right but had come from nowhere before that and belonged nowhere and that everything about him and even about the music that was so familiar to her was only half real. "If my father comes and sees you—" "He ain't coming. He's at a barbecue." "How do you know that?" "Aunt Tillie's. Right now they're uh—they're drinking. Sitting around," he said vaguely, squinting as if he were staring all the way to town and over to Aunt Tillie's back yard. Then the vision seemed to get clear and he nodded energetically. "Yeah. Sitting around. There's your sister in a blue dress, huh? And high heels, the poor sad bitch—nothing like you, sweetheart! And your mother's helping some fat woman with the corn, they're cleaning the corn—husking the corn—" "What fat woman?" Connie cried. "How do I know what fat woman, I don't know every goddamn fat woman in the world!" Arnold Friend laughed. "Oh, that's Mrs. Hornsby.... Who invited her?" Connie said. She felt a little lightheaded. Her breath was coming quickly. "She's too fat. I don't like them fat. I like them the way you are, honey," he said, smiling sleepily at her. They stared at each other for a while through the screen door. He said softly, "Now, what you're going to do is this: you're going to come out that door. You re going to sit up front with me and Ellie's going to sit in the back, the hell with Ellie, right? This isn't Ellie's date. You're my date. I'm your lover, honey." "What? You're crazy—" "Yes, I'm your lover. You don't know what that is but you will," he said. "I know that too. I know all about you. But look: it's real nice and you couldn't ask for nobody better than me, or more polite. I always keep my word. I'll tell you how it is, I'm always nice at first, the first time. I'll hold you so tight you won't think you have to try to get away or pretend anything because you'll know you can't. And I'll come inside you where it's all secret and you'll give in to me and you'll love me " "Shut up! You're crazy!" Connie said. She backed away from the door. She put her hands up against her ears as if she'd heard something terrible, something not meant for her. "People don't talk like that, you're crazy," she muttered. Her heart was almost too big now for her chest and its pumping made sweat break out all over her. She looked out to see Arnold Friend pause and then take a step toward the porch, lurching. He almost fell. But, like a clever drunken man, he managed to catch his balance. He wobbled in his high boots and grabbed hold of one of the porch posts. "Honey?" he said. "You still listening?" "Get the hell out of here!" "Be nice, honey. Listen." "I'm going to call the police—" He wobbled again and out of the side of his mouth came a fast spat curse, an aside not meant for her to hear. But even this "Christ!" sounded forced. Then he began to smile again. She watched this smile come, awkward as if he were smiling from inside a mask. His whole face was a mask, she thought wildly, tanned down to his throat but then running out as if he had plastered make-up on his face but had forgotten about his throat. "Honey—? Listen, here's how it is. I always tell the truth and I promise you this: I ain't coming in that house after you." "You better not! I'm going to call the police if you—if you don't—" "Honey," he said, talking right through her voice, "honey, I m not coming in there but you are coming out here. You know why?" She was panting. The kitchen looked like a place she had never seen before, some room she had run inside but that wasn't good enough, wasn't going to help her. The kitchen window had never had a curtain, after three years, and there were dishes in the sink for her to do—probably—and if you ran your hand across the table you'd probably feel something sticky there. "You listening, honey? Hey?" "—going to call the police—" "Soon as you touch the phone I don't need to keep my promise and can come inside. You won't want that." She rushed forward and tried to lock the door. Her fingers were shaking. "But why lock it," Arnold Friend said gently, talking right into her face. "It's just a screen door. It's just nothing." One of his boots was at a strange angle, as if his foot wasn't in it. It pointed out to the left, bent at the ankle. "I mean, anybody can break through a screen door and glass and wood and iron or anything else if he needs to, anybody at all, and specially Arnold Friend. If the place got lit up with a fire, honey, you'd come runnin' out into my arms, right into my arms an' safe at home—like you knew I was your lover and'd stopped fooling around. I don't mind a nice shy girl but I don't like no fooling around." Part of those words were spoken with a slight rhythmic lilt, and Connie somehow recognized them—the echo of a song from last year, about a girl rushing into her boy friend's arms and coming home again— Connie stood barefoot on the linoleum floor, staring at him. "What do you want?" she whispered. "I want you," he said. "What?" "Seen you that night and thought, that's the one, yes sir. I never needed to look anymore." "But my father's coming back. He's coming to get me. I had to wash my hair first—'' She spoke in a dry, rapid voice, hardly raising it for him to hear. "No, your daddy is not coming and yes, you had to wash your hair and you washed it for me. It's nice and shining and all for me. I thank you sweetheart," he said with a mock bow, but again he almost lost his balance. He had to bend and adjust his boots. Evidently his feet did not go all the way down; the boots must have been stuffed with something so that he would seem taller. Connie stared out at him and behind him at Ellie in the car, who seemed to be looking off toward Connie's right, into nothing. This Ellie said, pulling the words out of the air one after another as if he were just discovering them, "You want me to pull out the phone?" "Shut your mouth and keep it shut," Arnold Friend said, his face red from bending over or maybe from embarrassment because Connie had seen his boots. "This ain't none of your business." "What—what are you doing? What do you want?" Connie said. "If I call the police they'll get you, they'll arrest you—" "Promise was not to come in unless you touch that phone, and I'll keep that promise," he said. He resumed his erect position and tried to force his shoulders back. He sounded like a hero in a movie, declaring something important. But he spoke too loudly and it was as if he were speaking to someone behind Connie. "I ain't made plans for coming in that house where I don't belong but just for you to come out to me, the way you should. Don't you know who I am?" "You're crazy," she whispered. She backed away from the door but did not want to go into another part of the house, as if this would give him permission to come through the door. "What do you... you're crazy, you...." "Huh? What're you saying, honey?" Her eyes darted everywhere in the kitchen. She could not remember what it was, this room. "This is how it is, honey: you come out and we'll drive away, have a nice ride. But if you don't come out we're gonna wait till your people come home and then they're all going to get it." "You want that telephone pulled out?" Ellie said. He held the radio away from his ear and grimaced, as if without the radio the air was too much for him. "I toldja shut up, Ellie," Arnold Friend said, "you're deaf, get a hearing aid, right? Fix yourself up. This little girl's no trouble and's gonna be nice to me, so Ellie keep to yourself, this ain't your date right? Don't hem in on me, don't hog, don't crush, don't bird dog, don't trail me," he said in a rapid, meaningless voice, as if he were running through all the expressions he'd learned but was no longer sure which of them was in style, then rushing on to new ones, making them up with his eyes closed. "Don't crawl under my fence, don't squeeze in my chipmonk hole, don't sniff my glue, suck my popsicle, keep your own greasy fingers on yourself!" He shaded his eyes and peered in at Connie, who was backed against the kitchen table. "Don't mind him, honey, he's just a creep. He's a dope. Right? I'm the boy for you, and like I said, you come out here nice like a lady and give me your hand, and nobody else gets hurt, I mean, your nice old bald-headed daddy and your mummy and your sister in her high heels. Because listen: why bring them in this?" "Leave me alone," Connie whispered. "Hey, you know that old woman down the road, the one with the chickens and stuff—you know her?" "She's dead!" "Dead? What? You know her?" Arnold Friend said. "She's dead—" "Don't you like her?" "She's dead—she's—she isn't here any more—" But don't you like her, I mean, you got something against her? Some grudge or something?" Then his voice dipped as if he were conscious of a rudeness. He touched the sunglasses perched up on top of his head as if to make sure they were still there. "Now, you be a good girl." 'What are you going to do?" "Just two things, or maybe three," Arnold Friend said. "But I promise it won't last long and you'll like me the way you get to like people you're close to. You will. It's all over for you here, so come on out. You don't want your people in any trouble, do you?" She turned and bumped against a chair or something, hurting her leg, but she ran into the back room and picked up the telephone. Something roared in her ear, a tiny roaring, and she was so sick with fear that she could do nothing but listen to it—the telephone was clammy and very heavy and her fingers groped down to the dial but were too weak to touch it. She began to scream into the phone, into the roaring. She cried out, she cried for her mother, she felt her breath start jerking back and forth in her lungs as if it were something Arnold Friend was stabbing her with again and again with no tenderness. A noisy sorrowful wailing rose all about her and she was locked inside it the way she was locked inside this house. After a while she could hear again. She was sitting on the floor with her wet back against the wall. Arnold Friend was saying from the door, "That's a good girl. Put the phone back." She kicked the phone away from her. "No, honey. Pick it up. Put it back right." She picked it up and put it back. The dial tone stopped. "That's a good girl. Now, you come outside." She was hollow with what had been fear but what was now just an emptiness. All that screaming had blasted it out of her. She sat, one leg cramped under her, and deep inside her brain was something like a pinpoint of light that kept going and would not let her relax. She thought, I'm not going to see my mother again. She thought, I'm not going to sleep in my bed again. Her bright green blouse was all wet. Arnold Friend said, in a gentle-loud voice that was like a stage voice, "The place where you came from ain't there any more, and where you had in mind to go is cancelled out. This place you are now—inside your daddy's house—is nothing but a cardboard box I can knock down any time. You know that and always did know it. You hear me?" She thought, I have got to think. I have got to know what to do. "We'll go out to a nice field, out in the country here where it smells so nice and it's sunny," Arnold Friend said. "I'll have my arms tight around you so you won't need to try to get away and I'll show you what love is like, what it does. The hell with this house! It looks solid all right," he said. He ran a fingernail down the screen and the noise did not make Connie shiver, as it would have the day before. "Now, put your hand on your heart, honey. Feel that? That feels solid too but we know better. Be nice to me, be sweet like you can because what else is there for a girl like you but to be sweet and pretty and give in?—and get away before her people come back?" She felt her pounding heart. Her hand seemed to enclose it. She thought for the first time in her life that it was nothing that was hers, that belonged to her, but just a pounding, living thing inside this body that wasn't really hers either. "You don't want them to get hurt," Arnold Friend went on. "Now, get up, honey. Get up all by yourself." She stood. "Now, turn this way. That's right. Come over here to me.— Ellie, put that away, didn't I tell you? You dope. You miserable creepy dope," Arnold Friend said. His words were not angry but only part of an incantation. The incantation was kindly. "Now come out through the kitchen to me, honey, and let's see a smile, try it, you re a brave, sweet little girl and now they're eating corn and hot dogs cooked to bursting over an outdoor fire, and they don't know one thing about you and never did and honey, you're better than them because not a one of them would have done this for you." Connie felt the linoleum under her feet; it was cool. She brushed her hair back out of her eyes. Arnold Friend let go of the post tentatively and opened his arms for her, his elbows pointing in toward each other and his wrists limp, to show that this was an embarrassed embrace and a little mocking, he didn't want to make her self-conscious. She put out her hand against the screen. She watched herself push the door slowly open as if she were back safe somewhere in the other doorway, watching this body and this head of long hair moving out into the sunlight where Arnold Friend waited. "My sweet little blue-eyed girl," he said in a half-sung sigh that had nothing to do with her brown eyes but was taken up just the same by the vast sunlit reaches of the land behind him and on all sides of him—so much land that Connie had never seen before and did not recognize except to know that she was going to it. Background of the Story/Author Joyce Carol Oates is a prolific American author known for her explorations of violence, identity, and psychological tension. “Where Are You Going, Where Have You Been?” was first published in 1966 and is one of her most famous short stories. Inspired in part by real-life events (the crimes of Charles Schmid, a serial killer

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