When the word “FREAK” appeared scratched in the persimmon colored paint on her locker, she knew that in some fragile young woman’s mind a war had escalated from imaginary to physical. It’s just to feel—one owns one’s self. In her ears there was a medley of sound: wailing music, rumbling tom-toms and sputtering firecrackers. "Here's King James the Third, and confusion to his enemies!" "Very well," said the carpenter, sitting down amid the laughter of the company. Kneebone is coming, my dear," ventured Mr. Nothing seemed to be amiss.
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