Jennings picked up the magazines off my bed. “I am leaving. I can’t do this anymore. I won’t be like the girls you apparently like. I won’... be a whore like they are.”She stood in front of my bed for a moment and I knew she wanted me to apologize and try and talk her into staying, but I didn’t. I was no longer amused and now was angry with her.I chuckled at her hypocrisy, “Fine, leave. I don’t care.”Mrs. Jennings, carrying my magazines, walked out of my room and I followed her. “You are. So many images: Sylvia as a teen; Sylvia as a wife; Sylvia as a poet; Sylvia as a blonde bombshell; Sylvia as a divorcee. Sylvia as a mother. Natalie stares at one picture in particular. The poet probably in her late teens, her hair neatly bobbed and parted at the right while looking blonder than ever. There is a coy wariness in her eyes.They're right, Natalie thinks. That could be me. *****Doctor Manning's lectures.. More

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