Maybe Ivy League. I couldn’t count how many nights I spotted him in the lamplight, scribbling out his endless dissertation on Marcel Proust.Yes, I w...s infatuated. But silently so, and until very recently, for all my heartsick, puppy-dog pining, Eliot was untouchable. My bête noire’s name was Anna, and I hated her with every ounce of blood in my body. It was a vague and vacuous hatred, though—one aimed at the sheer inconvenience of her being, more so than whoever she might’ve been as a person.. My father died when I was ten. He was a Marine sniper. I don’t remember much about him because he was gone all the time, but my mom still keeps his uniform and the folded flag they gave us at the funeral. My mom and I live in a small house in an older neighborhood in a little town just outside of Boston. I researched the house and it was built in the early nineteen hundreds, so it is pretty old, but well built. I don’t have many friends and I go to a local public high school with only about. More

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