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Thank you for subscribing! The television programs end at what is considered to be a reasonable hour. I assume most reasonable children are asleep in their reasonable beds by the time the last show of the evening draws to a conclusion. These other children probably never get the chance to experience an unreasonable household with unreasonable hours, so I think when I creep out of my bedroom and peek at my father. Like my mother, my father harbors a secret face. I stare at his face, unlined and slack against the black leather of the recliner chair and think that he looks like someone else entirely.

The shifting lights of the television set are free to create craters and hollows on his pasty skin. I turn off the television and run back down the long hall toward my bedroom, again escaping the monsters dwelling in the shadows at the end of the hallway.

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In my room I leap from the floor to my bed to escape the grasp of the other monsters who live under the bed. I lay in bed and wait for sleep to come. If I look long enough I will see the monsters who hide there take shape, growing larger and more menacing. I know I am alone and there is no one to protect me. I look anyway. I look fixedly at those monsters, silently daring them to step out of the safety of their darkened corners. We are at a standoff, those monsters and I.

They remain looming and massive in the four corners of my room.

I remain resolutely in my bed. My mother likes to shop at the Second-Hand Shop and bring home Unloved and Unwanted things and fix them up like new.

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Overlay: One Girl's Life in 1970s Las Vegas: Marlayna Glynn Memoirs, #1

My bookshelf is one such thing. We found it collapsed on its side, and my mother lifted it and set it right and brushed the dust from her hands and proclaimed, This will be perfect for your books.

I will paint it Yellow. She made it happen that night, and I fell asleep with the smells of varnish and paint in my nose, gazing at the proof that my mom could Make Things Happen. My mother taught me to read shortly after I turned four, and filled my yellow bookshelf with stories and poems. I run my finger under the words as I read, trying not to pay attention to the illustration on the facing page.

Parlours join the list of things in life I do not yet understand. Take cousins, for example. When pedaling my Big Wheel up and down the sidewalks of Flamingo Road I always stop to watch when cousins arrive to visit my neighbors. Reversing the pedals, I slam to a sliding sideways halt to watch as they tumble out of wood-paneled station wagons like Weebles after a long and unsteady drive. As I might have imagined, one day I see that the cousins of the Red Headed Hamburger all share the same bright red hair color.

I envy every last red-hued one of them, watching as they exit the car, yawning and stretching. I sit alone on my Big Wheel for a moment after they close the door, feeling curiously bereft. We are so very different from other families in this way. They never invite me to visit their farms in the summertime. Sounds like a dangerous business to me.

While I reflected upon this, I took private comfort in the circles and creases that predicted my future womanhood. When the men in my family died, as they often seemed to do, the women carried on and replaced the men without a whole lot of fanfare. Apparently this is our way. Cousins once removed.

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Second cousins. Third cousins. Half cousins. The list of relations a person could have is long. Since the three of us are rarely all together at the same time and in the same place, our sense of family dwindles from there. I consider this elusive sense of family quite frequently, a legato backbeat of longing that punctuates my view of the world.

I imagine a towheaded boy around my age who plays with Barbies and dollhouses and watches Underdog and Godzilla. Maybe he will bring along a Lite Brite by Hasbro since only about half of the bulbs light up now.

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It will be even better if he brings the cool monster maker toy where you pour in the green goop and the machine cooks it into a little gelatinous monster. I think he has brown hair, she calls down to me from where she stands on a ladder dusting cobwebs from the lamp that hangs in the entryway. When I exhaust my supply of cousin questions, I go outside. Squatting in the dirt on the side of our house, I concentrate on the business of catching red ants for my ant farm.

Regan, my best friend from down the street, is with me. It should be hung in your own living room.