When they gave us lumps of clay in art class, I made a pencil holder in the shape of a giraffe, and Louise made an ashtray. She molded and baked it, lopsided and heavy as a brick, as a birthday present for her mom, who smoked Kents vigorously and ground them flat with a callused thumb. So Louise had made this poop-brown ashtray, but she’d left it in the art room cooling outside the kiln and didn’t remember it until after school, halfway through softball. When practice ended I yelled to my mom to wait on us and we ran back into the building—the side door was always open until five, so kids with softball and soccer could pee—and thundered down the stairs to the basement where the art room was. We didn’t know if it would be unlocked or not, but we thought we’d give it a shot.
Louise reached the door first—it was one of those doors with nine little windows, to give kids nine separate chances at breaking something. No sooner had she put her hand on the knob and her face to the middle pane when she reeled back from the door like someone had grabbed a fistful of her long red hair and yanked her back.
“Bullshit,” she said, for this was our favorite swear word, and we used it indiscriminately.
“What?” I, too, stepped to the window and was repelled back a step by what I saw inside: our principal, Dr. Dunn, was standing in the archway of the supply closet with his pants crumpled at his ankles and his hands clawing through the short black hair of Ms. McDaniel, our art teacher, who knelt in front of him with her mouth—well, I’d seen enough. I turned to Louise and we both stared at each other in horror and mute shock for what must have been ten full seconds. Then, at once, we both exploded into riotous laughter and burst into motion away from the scene of the crime, ran full blast down the hall and up the stairs, laughing and gasping for air. By the time we slid into the backseat of my mother’s paneled station wagon we had our poker faces set, but the image of what we’d witnessed was so vivid in my mind I couldn’t believe my mother couldn’t see it herself, reflected with perfect detail in the pools of my eyes.
I had two little brothers, Nick and Sam. Their lives revolved around farting, Indian burns, and the timeworn torture of repeating everything you said, repeating everything you said. Someday I would enjoy the company of them both, my mother assured me, but until then I would need to exercise tolerance.
“Time for Grade Your Day,” my father said from behind the curtain of steam that rose from his baked potato. “Anne?”
Though research had not yet proven it, my parents were certain that a well-balanced dinner together and a thorough discussion of the day’s events would make us confident and bright children. They didn’t know it would actually raise our SAT scores, but they were on the right track.
“B,” I said, forking a stalk of asparagus.
“D-minus-plus-minus-and-a-half,” said Sam. He was six.
“A-triple plus!” exclaimed Nick.
My father raised his eyebrows. “Win the lottery?”
“Nuh-uh.” Nick grinned. “Two fifth graders got in a fight. They were both named Ben, and one of ’ems tooth got knocked out and flew about fifty feet down the hall.”
“How awful,” my mother said.
“Did Ben start it?” my father asked, winking at me. Though I was only three years older than Nick, I got to be in on all my father’s jokes. “How ’bout you, kiddo?” he asked me. “News of the day?”
“Mrs. Payne subbed in math.”
“Oh no,” my mother said. “I thought they’d finally gotten rid of her.”
I shrugged. “She was there.”
“Mrs. Payne is a pain in the butt,” Nick said, and Sam snorted.
“That’s original,” I said. “Only every single person ever to go to our school for the last hundred years has said that.”
“Learn anything?” my father asked, undeterred.
I had learned what a blowjob (or BJ, as Louise told me on the phone before dinner) looked like. I had learned that men didn’t actually need to remove their underpants to have sex.
“I learned how to bunt,” I said. “At practice.”
“Just hold the bat out there,” my father said, pretending his steak knife was a Louisville Slugger and wiggling it over his slab of meat. “Just let the ball hit the bat, right?”
“And keep your fingers out of the way,” I added.
“That’s the most important part,” my mother agreed, for my mother was a dodger from way back. In supermarket aisles, she was always the one scooting her cart around to make room for everybody else.
I was regarded with bemused suspicion in the Hanley home, because when Louise and I were in first grade my parents had voted for Richard Nixon. They’d staked a big red sign in our front yard—
—which is how the Hanleys even knew about it in the first place. Now, even with a Democrat in the White House (a peanut farmer, my father was forever pointing out, with a brother on Hee Haw) Mrs. Hanley still couldn’t let it drop.
“There she is again,” she would say wryly, smoke puffing from her nostrils. “President of the Young Republicans.”
“Mom . . .” Louise would sigh. “Anne is not—”
“—anything,” I would finish. “I’m not anything. I swear.”
On the mantel, in the place where most people had photos of grinning offspring, Mr. and Mrs. Hanley had framed pictures of John and Bobby Kennedy, looking contemplative and doomed. There was a Spiro Agnew Velcro dartboard on the refrigerator and a faded bumper sticker slapped crookedly across the oven window that said “50 Americans Died Today In Vietnam.” The Hanleys got at least four different newspapers and apparently felt the need to keep them handy for quick reference; there were waist-high stacks of them in every room of the house except for Louise’s bedroom. Mrs. Hanley always sat at the dining room table scouring the articles and smoking her Kents, and when Mr. Hanley came home from work he sat on a tattered lawn chair in the middle of the backyard with his feet soaking in a little yellow tub and read until dark.
My mother called them eccentric; she didn’t like all the time I spent there, and she often pumped me to find out if Mrs. Hanley had said anything unusual or confusing, anything that had left me feeling uneasy. I never gave a thing away; I’d learned earlier than most that the less your parents knew about the concrete details of your day, the better off you were. My father thought the Hanleys were lunatics, but unlike my mother, he believed it was important for me to be exposed to lunatics—provided they were harmless—in order to be a well-rounded adult.
The day after we saw what we saw in the art room, Louise and I holed up after school in the Hanleys’ basement. Ever since Louise’s sister had left for college, we had the basement to ourselves: the paneled walls, the matted shag carpet, the stale air of twenty-thousand cigarettes smoked by unhappy members of the generation that directly preceded ours.
“Ms. McDaniel should watch out,” Louise said. She was sucking on a Charms Blow Pop, twirling it back and forth over her tongue. “She could get a disease doing that.”
Louise knew things. Her sister, Donna, was seven years older, a freshman in college, and willing to talk. Plus, the Hanleys let Louise see R-rated movies and read whatever books she wanted. I’d looked at Playboy at her house one time, right at the dining room table. My mother wouldn’t even let me read Seventeen in checkout lines.
“What kind of disease?” I asked.
“You don’t even want to know,” Louise said, which was her answer when she herself didn’t know. “I wonder if they do that every day.”
“I bet they do other things, too,” I said, and with no warning whatsoever a vivid picture flashed into my mind of Ms. McDaniel carefully painting Dr. Dunn’s penis with the very same blue watercolors we’d used last week on our skyscapes. I blushed at my own fantasy: I hadn’t even known I had the capacity to create such an image.
“Dr. Dunn,” Louise said thoughtfully, tapping her Blow Pop on her top teeth. “Dr. Dickdunn. Dr. Dunn Dick Dunderhead.”
“Remember last year,” I said, “when he yelled at Melanie Moon when she dropped her Rube Goldberg project in the hallway and spilled all that corn oil?”
She scoffed. “He’s such an asshole. We could get him in big trouble, you know. We could turn him in to the school board.”
“Would he get fired?”
“Sure he would. Plus his wife would divorce him and his kids would hate him and he’d lose all his friends. And everywhere he went people would make sucking sounds.”
She slurped obscenely on her Blow Pop and I laughed. On the wall behind her was a torn poster that said “What if they had a war and nobody came?” which I had never understood because if “they” had a war then at the very least “they” would be there, so it wasn’t really accurate to say that nobody came.
“Hey,” Louise said. “What about blackmail?”
I frowned. “What about it?”
“We could do blackmail on him. Say we’ll turn him in unless he pays up.”
“No, Anne—gum. Of course money. Jeez.” She tossed her Blow Pop stick in a nearby ashtray.
“How much you think we could ask for?” I said.
“We should start small,” she said, her eyes narrowing. “That’s how you do it. You get ’em on the hook. You make ’em think it’s just one time. Then you start to squeeze a little more, and a little more, and—”
I shook my head. “You’re making this up. You don’t know bullshit.”
“What’s to know?” she asked. “It’s easy money.”
It was hard to look at Ms. McDaniel on Monday. Sitting at our art table—once a victim of the school cafeteria, now dying a slow death of scissor scars and clotted paste—Louise and I smirked at each other and in the general direction of the supply closet, but neither of us managed to look up to the front of the room for several minutes. We entirely missed the instructions for the day’s project, so when everyone started climbing out of the table and filing out the door, we had no idea why and had to ask around. Turned out we were supposed to go outside and search for nature; this week’s project was a spring collage.
Ms. McDaniel oversaw our progress from the front steps of the school, and I found my eyes passing over her again and again. I wondered exactly what it was that Dr. Dunn saw in her that led him down the sinful path to the art room. She was new this year and it showed; she always seemed apprehensive when she talked to us as a group, as if at any moment we might all stand up and start squirting glue at her. She loosened up once we started working, when she could meander around the room murmuring words of encouragement and gentle direction. She wore short skirts and had bobbed hair just under her ears, like she was a tomboy before she became a teacher. She didn’t have much in the way of boobs, hardly more than Louise and me, and we weren’t even wearing bras yet.
Louise nudged me. “Check that out,” she said. I followed her gaze to the window of the principal’s office, which faced the front lawn. Dr. Dunn was standing at the window with his arms crossed over his chest, looking out at us. We could only see him from the waist up, and for a moment I imagined he didn’t have any pants on, that his penis was dangling just out of view. I shook the thought from my head.
“He’s gross,” Louise said. “He’s practically licking his lips.”
“Why do you think he likes her?”
“They always like young ones,” Louise said. “Donna said she could pick any man out of a crowd and he’d have sex with her, whether he was married or a hundred years old.”
“Not any man,” I said, thinking of my father standing among the men in Donna’s crowd, my father with his shaggy hair and laugh lines around his mouth. Then I imagined my brothers grown up, tall and bearded but making armpit farts in a frantic attempt to draw Donna’s attention.
Louise shrugged. “Check this out,” she said, handing me a piece of notebook paper. In wavy, capital letters was written:
Dear Dr. Dunn,
It has come to our attention that you are having sexual relations with the art teacher Laurie McDaniel. Do not ask how we have the information, we just do. Unless you want everyone to find out your secret, put twenty dollars in an envelope and leave it behind the toilet in the middle stall in the second floor girls bathroom. Do this tomorrow (Tuesday) or face the consequences.
—x and y
“Am I X or Y?” I asked, handing the letter back.
“You’re Y,” Louise said.
“Because I’m X.”
“Y is stupid,” I said. “Nobody ever heard of Y. How come we can’t both be X?”
“Two X’s,” she said, rolling her eyes. “Uh-huh. That would look really cool, Anne, really professional.”
“No, just one X,” I said. “For both of us. Just because we’re two people we don’t have to be two letters.”
“Girls!” Ms. McDaniel shouted. She was standing at the front door waving us in. Her hair was fluttering in the breeze and I recalled how it had moved in waves under Dr. Dunn’s thick fingers.
On our way to math after lunch, two more floppy salmon swept along in the river of students, I shrewdly allowed Louise’s letter to fall from my fingers and onto the floor outside the main office. The letter was folded and taped closed and said “DR DUNN” in big block letters we tore from the library copy of Ranger Rick, so we assumed the secretary would discover it and simply pass it along to him. I sat in math class imagining him at his giant desk, unfolding the letter, staring at it for a moment, then slowly folding it again. Perhaps after school he’d go down to the art room, wave it in Ms. McDaniel’s face.
“They’ve got us right where they want us,”
he’d say, or:
“The jig’s up.”
Maybe she would kiss him, poke her tongue between his lips.
“Darling,” she would whisper against his teeth. “What will we do?”
“We’ll think of something . . .”
He’d fit his hands over her small breasts, rub them with his thumbs.
I looked up at Mrs. Payne. She was standing at the blackboard in her hideous orange and white flowered dress, her stomach and breasts an indistinguishable flowery lump. Her grotesque bottom lip trembled slightly, and her words came layered in saliva: “Problem four?”
I didn’t know anything about problem four. That was problem one. Problem two was that thinking about Dr. Dunn and Ms. McDaniel together had made me feel like I had a bubble expanding in my stomach, emptying me of everything but its own strained vulnerability, filling me up with the most palpable absence I’d ever known. My face was numb below my cheekbones and I felt sad and happy at the same time.
“Problem four,” Mrs. Payne croaked.
A word about Mrs. Payne. My mother (and countless others) had complained to Dr. Dunn about her on several occasions, for Mrs. Payne was prone to catastrophic mood swings of blinding speed. One minute she’d be the sweetest old lady you’d ever known, a cuddle and a peppermint at the ready, and the next she’d turn on you like a viper, call you lazy, stupid, hopeless, slobber insults on you until you cried or (in the now famous case of Chris Brewster) wet your pants. Other times she’d seem positively adrift; at least once in a day she began a sentence with “When Mr. Payne was alive . . .” and then would launch into a story that might or might not have anything to do with the subject at hand or even with Mr. Payne himself. For instance, we’d be talking about fractions and suddenly Mrs. Payne would say, “When Mr. Payne was alive, you could buy a sporty car for five-hundred dollars. I had such a car myself that I drove all the way from Moline, Illinois, to Boise, Idaho, to visit my dear cousin Edith who was so distraught over a man that the only word she’d spoken for a year was ‘pecan.’ ”
She’d pause. To remember? To consider? Why “pecan”? And then she’d move on as if no interruption had occurred.
“Fourteen,” Louise whispered from behind me. In addition to her numerous other afflictions, Mrs. Payne was also half-deaf, so it was pretty easy to cheat on her.
“Fourteen,” I said. My lips were dry and I licked them.
“Fourteen,” Mrs. Payne said, as if mulling over the existence of the number itself. “Fourteen. Four-tee-een. Fourteen is correct.”
“Space case,” Louise said as we gathered our books at the end of class. “Thinking about how to spend the money?”
“Yeah,” I said.
The payoff came as two ten-dollar bills, as perfectly crisp as the ones my grandmother always sent for my birthday. Louise and I hit the bathroom between second and third periods the next morning, when it was packed with primping sixth graders, so that if Dr. Dunn was casing the joint he wouldn’t be able to tell who’d actually made the pickup. It was me who went into the middle stall, me who with trembling fingers opened the envelope, certain it would contain a note that said “Anne Foster you are expelled from school for the rest of your life.” But no—there were the two stiff tens, Alexander Hamilton with his sly grin—and I slid the envelope into my backpack and remembered to flush the toilet for cover, even though I hadn’t used it, and when I emerged from the stall I gave Louise the sign, which was to brush the side of my nose with my index finger. We had seen this in The Sting.
“What’re you gonna get?” Louise asked. “Think your mom’ll take us to the mall this weekend?”
We were in the Hanleys’ basement again and I felt like I’d swallowed the twenty dollars—in pennies. My stomach seemed to be sagging to my thighs.
“What’s wrong?” Louise asked.
“We’re gonna get caught,” I said. “We’re gonna get caught and my parents are going to kill me.”
She rolled her eyes. “They’re not going to kill you. What’s the worst thing they could do to you, legally?”
“They could be very disappointed,” I said. In my mind I could clearly see my parents’ Very Disappointed faces, the unique mixture of grief and ire and guilt and pity I was fairly sure the two of them had begun assembling the moment they’d met, so profound and effective it was.
“Tough life,” Louise said. “World’s smallest violin, Anne.”
I had known for years that Louise envied what she perceived as my perfect life and family. What she didn’t know was that sometimes—like today—I envied hers. Whenever I did something I knew was wrong I wished my parents would die in a tragic car accident ASAP, before the truth of my flawed character could be revealed. It was an extreme solution, but the only one I could conceive of. Lucky Louise . . . the news of her own flawed character would cause little disruption in the Hanley house. Her mother probably wouldn’t even look up from the paper.
“We could get two records each,” Louise said. “Or we could save it to spend at Six Flags this summer.”
“What if we bought something for Ms. McDaniel?”
She stared at me. “What?”
“I don’t know.” I dug my hands into the shag carpet. “Just, you know. We could buy her something. You know, with part of it.”
She shook her head slowly. “You’re a freak, Anne. Do you know that?”
“So?” I said. “You’re a freak too.”
“But you’re a different kind of freak than me,” she said thoughtfully. She twisted some hair around her finger. “I come from freaks. But you, like, sprouted up all on your own.”
“So fine,” she said. “I’m just making an observation. What d’ya want to buy her, ya freak? Frilly underwear?”
“No,” I said, my cheeks warming. “Something cool. Like, drawing pencils or something.”
“Drawing pencils,” she said flatly. “You’ve thought about this.”
She gazed at me impatiently, with the look of someone who in two or three years would no longer want to be my friend. We were two weird kids who had leapt from the ship of fools and splashed blindly toward each other, scrambled aboard the same life raft. Perhaps it was only a matter of time before we leapt again and made for separate shores.
She threw me one of the tens. “It’s your money,” she said.
The next day I ditched recess after lunch and ran with a full heart to the art room. Ms. McDaniel was sitting at her desk nibbling on celery sticks and reading a thick book that bore no title on its cover. I shifted from one foot to the other in the doorway until she noticed me.
“Hello, Anne,” she said, sliding the book into a desk drawer. She cocked her head cheerfully in the way of young teachers and enthusiastic babysitters. “What can I do for you?”
“I found these,” I said. I approached her desk with the pencils held at arm’s length in front of me. “Yesterday my mom needed to go to Art Mart and she gave me five dollars to spend and the thing that I wanted cost three-fifty so I picked these up off the sale table that was right next to the cash register and I thought you might want them.”
Exhausted from the lie—I’d practiced it a dozen times that morning in the shower—I dropped the pencils on the desk beside her lunch bag. She looked at them curiously, then at me.
“Well, thank you,” she said. “That’s quite a story.”
“It’s what happened,” I said emphatically, thinking she was on to my lie, but shortly thereafter realizing she was merely making conversation.
“You’re very thoughtful,” she said. She brushed a wayward hair from her forehead. “I love working with pencils.”
“I know,” I said. “One time you said that. In class, I mean. You mentioned that.”
“I don’t think I realized you had such an interest in art,” she said.
“Sure,” I said. I looked at her as she smiled expectantly, and I wanted to tell her that she didn’t have to do all those things to Dr. Dunn, even if he was the principal. “Art’s good,” I said. “It’s, you know, it’s really . . . it’s amazing.”
“What did you get at Art Mart?” she asked.
“Paper,” I said.
“Yes,” I said. “White.”
“Well, it’s very thoughtful of you to think of me,” she said again. She wadded up her brown paper bag and turned to throw it in the trash can, and when she did, the collar of her shirt shifted so that I could see her bra strap. In a burst of vivid color I imagined Dr. Dunn sinking his teeth into that shoulder, tugging on that bra strap like a dog with a rope, and I felt so dizzy I had to hold on to the desk to keep from falling over.
“Anne?” Ms. McDaniel said, turning back to me. “Honey, are you okay?”
Dear Dr. Dunn,
If you want to keep your affair quiet, place forty dollars in the envelope and put it in the appointed place.
ps Don’t you think you’re a little old for Ms. McDaniel?
Louise frowned. “What the hell is this?”
We were sitting on the school bus in our usual seat, fourth from the back on the right. This particular bus, for reasons none of us understood, always smelled like tuna salad in the morning and Bit-O-Honey in the afternoon.
“What’s wrong with it?” I asked.
She ripped the paper in two and dropped it in my lap. “This is about blackmail,” she said. “This is not about you being the pope or something.”
“She’s nice,” I said. The bus went in and out of a pothole and the boys in the back seats whooped. “He’s just using her for sex.”
“Anne,” she said. “You don’t know anything about this. You don’t have any idea what it’s like to be an adult.”
“Neither do you,” I said, though I was realizing more and more this wasn’t really true.
“I’m the letter writer from now on,” she said. “We’re just gonna stick to blackmail. We’re not going to get into stuff we don’t know anything about.”
We dropped off the note the next morning, with directions that forty dollars be left in the usual spot by sixth period. Right after lunch, Louise went to the nurse’s office and—according to another kid who was there with a splinter in his palm—barfed the Thursday Special (Sloppy Joe, Tater Tots) in a steaming pile at Nurse Carol’s feet. So Louise got sent home to the loving arms of her mother, and I was left alone to secure the afternoon’s payoff.
We had planned poorly; my sixth period class was in the west wing of the building, three halls and a flight of stairs away from the bathroom in question. By the time I reached it the warning bell for seventh period had already rung. A couple girls were drying their hands and rushing out when I bolted myself into the middle stall and reached behind the toilet. Despite my tardiness (the final bell was sounding as I grasped my prize), I remained in the stall and tore open the envelope. Inside was a 3 x 5 notecard on which was printed, in tidy black letters:
Anne, Louise: There is nothing to tell. This foolishness ends right now.
Something that felt like cold water rushed from behind my ears all the way down to my heels. My brain flailed about senselessly for at least ten seconds before lighting upon the first thing it could recognize—I have to get to social studies. Hands trembling, I started at the latch, then froze when I heard the door to the hallway whoosh open. Six footsteps on soft-soled shoes, then silence.
“Louise?” I whispered hopefully, though I knew full well that Louise was at home safe in bed, which is exactly where I wished I were.
“It’s not Louise.”
It was Ms. McDaniel. I stood in the stall, my knees quaking, wondering: If I didn’t open the door, didn’t come out willingly, how long would she stand there? An hour? Overnight? Until school let out for the summer? I imagined my family sitting around the dinner table waiting for me, years passing, my mother’s patience waning, my father’s smile turning melancholy, my brothers stealing away with their own Ms. McDaniels.
I slid the latch to the side, let the door swing open of its own accord. She was leaning against the wall next to the paper-towel dispenser. Her face was all blotchy and her lips were somehow crooked, but she wasn’t crying. She looked like she should be in the emergency room.
“Well?” she said.
“Hi,” I said.
I was standing there holding the index card; I could have run but it seemed pointless. Suddenly she sprang from the wall and grabbed my wrist, twisted it until the note dropped to the floor. Still gripping my wrist, she leaned over and picked it up, read it once, then read it again. Then she straightened up, loosened her grasp, and regarded me coolly.
“Are you satisfied?” she asked.
I had no idea what she meant. More important, I didn’t know which answer would get me out the door faster. “Yes,” I said, then changed my mind. “I mean no. Yes and no. Not really. Sort of.” I bit my lip.
“Someday you’ll know what it’s like to really love someone,” she said. She said it kind of gently, like she was talking to a little kid. “Some day you’ll know what it’s like to look at a man, his neck and his knees and his warm hands, and know that everything that was missing in your life has come knocking.”
“Ms. McDaniel—” I said. I’m not sure what I had it in my mind to say, but it didn’t really matter, because she wasn’t listening.
“And someday, Anne Foster,” she said. “Someday some awful little girl you don’t even know will ruin your life for no reason. And when that day comes I want you to think of me.”
Louise called that night and my father came to get me. I buried my head in my math book and told him I had to study for a test tomorrow. When she called again I told him the same thing. He returned to my room a few minutes later.
“Louise says you don’t have a test in math tomorrow.”
“She wouldn’t know,” I said. “She had to go home early today.”
He leaned in the doorway. “Everything okay?”
I wanted to tell him what had happened in the bathroom. I wanted him to sit on the edge of my bed and explain point for point what had transpired, help me understand what Ms. McDaniel had said to me. But I knew, somehow more than I’d ever known anything, that even had I the courage to ask the questions (which I did not) that he would be unable to answer a single one of them. It was a realization that left me cold: the machinations of the human heart were inexplicable, not only to me, but to my parents as well, and thus, apparently, to anyone. Was this what Louise had known all along? I wondered. Was there truly no one in her life from whom she had ever, ever, expected a satisfying explanation?
“Everything’s fine,” I said.
“You’re gonna have to tell me sometime,” Louise said from her seat at the desk behind me. We were in math class.
I turned to her, deliberately put my finger to my lips.
“What the hell?” she said. “What happened to you?”
“When Mr. Payne was alive . . .” Mrs. Payne began.
Mrs. Payne, a pain in the butt, a punch line to the joke of every fifth grader. Yesterday she’d been as flat and clear as a pane of glass. Today I gazed through her sagging breasts and jowls and saw her as a young woman, as young as Ms. McDaniel, a mystery slipping out of her nightgown and into the arms of her beloved.
Why They Run the Way They Do
“Reminiscent of George Saunders…These ingenious and lovable stories crack open the world.” —Kirkus Reviews (starred review)
From the celebrated author of Who I Was Supposed to Be comes twelve beautiful short stories celebrating the everyday truths of people facing unusual or challenging situations…often of their own making.
In Why They Run the Way They Do, critically acclaimed author Susan Perabo illustrates the triumphs and tragedies of daily life. Perfectly distilled into moments of sharp humor and poignancy, her latest collection features ordinary people in sometimes extraordinary circumstances. Two young students try their hand at blackmail upon learning an illicit secret; a woman grapples with feelings of betrayal after discovering her spinster sister’s pregnancy test; the ghost of a couple’s past comes back to haunt them in the form of their toddler’s stuffed toy.
Weaving the banal and bizarre together, “Perabo’s clear, wry sentences meld a prose style that's reminiscent of Raymond Carver’s with a sensibility that's informed by People” (The New York Times). Here, this “literary talent” (The Boston Globe) captures the human condition through struggles that are quiet and grand; dark and provocative. Brilliantly crafted, Why They Run the Way They Do is ultimately an homage to the philosophy that life without humor is no life at all.
- Simon & Schuster |
- 208 pages |
- ISBN 9781476761435 |
- February 2016