My last name is Sexton. I started Kindergarten a year early, so I was always younger than my classmates. With an extra year on their side, most of my classmates towered over me. In fourth grade, we played kickball in gym class, and whenever I would sock the ball real well and it would soar far, my stubby nine-year old legs worked their way around the diamond fast, while a group of my classmates would begin to chant, tons-of-sex, tons-of-sex.
My father’s father flew free from the depths of the Russian Empire as an infant, for sticks and stones and angry Christians drove his family out. It was in 1916 or maybe 1917.
Breaking your face is not like breaking your arm or your leg. Granted, I have never broken my arm or my leg so maybe I am just falsely assuming things here, but I can only imagine that when you break those parts of your body, it’s more of a functional issue than anything else.
When I called Rachel, she answered the phone cheerfully. I should have listened more carefully to that tone, should have let it linger longer before I brought the sky crashing down over her. Last year, around this time, just as the weather was starting to turn and leaves began popping up on all the trees, our uncle died in his sleep; our grandparents were visiting for the week and found him the next morning.
It’s far more common and less noteworthy for the young to obsess. We see it often, a girlish (or boyish) obsession with pink, followed by a girlish (or boyish) obsession with Edward Cullen. So I admit myself guilty of a … Read More
