“ . . . I paid attention to men. To Sonny Kelly. And to my crazy drunk father, Franklin Gentry. For example. I watched the way Franklin Gentry threw down his bourbon, then I poured an inch of Coca-Cola in my own glass and threw it down, first cutting my eyes slyly right and left, as if I expected to get caught. I tossed it off behind Joan’s back in the kitchen, then exhaled a loud satisfied ‘Ah.’

I paid attention also to a third man, entirely unknown to the others. Sebastian McSherry. Off in the paratrooper corps. I’d learn from him as I’d learned from them. I planned cozy little entertainments for Sebastian McSherry when he got back home, battle-scarred and thirsty for tenderness and sex. I looked at the glossy pictures of women kissing soldiers and sailors in Life magazine. The way the men bent the women over at their waists, the women yielding at the knees, graceful as dancers, skaters. The smudgy lipstick. The closed eyes. Those dark seams down the back of each smooth leg. Titania Anne Gentry would know how to do that. How to bend and yield, close my eyes, taste the smudgy lipstick from my mouth.

So I practiced twirling the baton, practiced how to win, making all the fancy moves, and how to do this without getting sick or falling down to hurt myself in front of people. When I got it right, I knew I’d twirl fire. . . . “ —Titania Gentry