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magazines on the shiny glass nightstand. Fabrique—the
fashion magazine that weighs a ton and smells like a department
store. The models on the cover wear skirts up to here
and necklines down to there. Their hair is always full and
puffy and blown by a fan.
Of course, I had to pick it up. Mom never let me read
this kind of commercial “trash.” Inside, sprinkled among
ads for sunglasses and wrinkle cream and purses that cost a
thousand bucks, were articles about getting yours and
giving hell and burning calories through Tantric sex.
Whatever that was. Mom would freak out if she knew I was
reading it! Of course, I studied every page.
Suddenly, my eyes bugged out of my head.
I blinked. I stared. It couldn’t be.
There, in Fabrique, lying on a white couch, in a white
suit, with a red feathery thing around her neck, was my aunt
Marty.
I blinked again. Yes, it was her.
The photograph was small. It wasn’t a fashion shot. Aunt
Marty, with a sly look in her eye, was staring at me from the
top of an article called, “Martine on Men.”
“A group of guys is like a pack of male dogs in the park,”
I read. “They sniff each other out, snarl at the weakest pup,
hang with dogs about their size and age. If left to their own
devices, they’ll find some silly reason to work themselves
into a frenzy and rumble. It’s all about strutting their stuff
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