Anthropology of an American Girl: A Novel (Random House Reader's Circle)
Hilary Thayer Hamann
Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub
This is what it’s like to be a high-school-age girl.
To forsake the boyfriend you once adored.
To meet the love of your life, who just happens to be your teacher.
To discover for the first time the power of your body and mind.
This is what it’s like to be a college-age woman.
To live through heartbreak.
To suffer the consequences of your choices.
To depend on others for survival but to have no one to trust but yourself.
This is Anthropology of an American Girl.
A literary sensation, this extraordinarily candid novel about the experience of growing up female in America will strike a nerve in readers of all ages.
said in his weedy voice, “looks like you got the hot seat.” “Guess so,” Stephen replied. Nico sat sideways in the chair in front of mine with his knees poking into the aisle. He put his elbow on my desk and leaned close, his breath coming in humid strokes. “Hey, baby.” I said hi and returned to my sketch. My pen moved boldly. It swirled to wobbly heights, making me think of “Irises” or “Starry Night.” Billy settled his lanky frame into the seat in front of Stephen, the four of us carving out a
was a plastered archway leading to the packed central dining area, and on the far side of that, another archway going to the kitchen. Red-vested waiters passed from the back arch into the main dining room, one on top of the other like out of a musical, each carrying sweltering aluminum platters, and one time through the steam came Rourke. I remember thinking, How did he get into the back? Did he get there before us, or did he come in through the kitchen? The seven months had left him altered,
mother’s friend, calls herself a psychic, though she earns her living teaching accounting to college students. Is she an accountant because that’s how she spends her days, or a mystic because that’s what she feels inside? “You have tremendous earning potential,” Nargis once told me, her eyes fluttering in a type of trance. Perhaps it’s too easy and unofficial to go around stating what you are and expecting people to embrace strictly personal claims. However, it seems equally unfair to be
radiators and desktops and ignore the announcements, halfway thinking about the night before, halfway thinking about the day ahead. Karen Baker usually slept through the Pledge. Karen was a cashier at Brooks Discount on Main Street. Every afternoon she wore a name tag pinned droopily onto a strawberry-red overshirt, the kind with snaps that ladies in Little Italy call a housecoat. Sometimes Jack and I would see Karen behind Brooks by the dumpster, on cigarette break. She smoked Parliament
at my feet, Jack still at the dresser. Packages were coming apart, their innards passing off to the right and the left before I could even see. Don’t worry, Kate said. I’m making a list. Open the heavy one, Denny said. It’s from me. It was a Janson’s History of Art. Between the beige twill covers, the sheets were cool and superior, unlike newspapers which are cheap with leaking ink because their origins are local and insurgent, as if they have been made in basements by the thinking people you