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Marianne Hirsch & Dr. Jabbar Smith - Ryker’s parents who were both college professors. He drove home to the sprawling one-story house with post-and-beam construction, an open-air courtyard entrance and floor-to-ceiling windows. He parked beside his mom’s late model Toyota Prius and went inside.“Hey, sweetie,” the bohemian mother said.“Hi, mom.”“How was school?”“Good.”She was used to one word answers and even grunts. “What do you want for dinner?”“Pizza.”“Just order what you want.”“Oh here,” he gave her the envelope. “Can I have some of the team over after the banquet?”“Dad and I won’t be here. How many people?”“Just Foster, Diaz, and Rosser. Three.”“No parties.”“Mom, I won’t.”Ryker walked away texting his friends that they were invited Saturday night. He was looking forward to hanging with his boys. He stood out in contrast to his non-conformist parents and older sister. They were hippies and liberal; he was more conservative and mainstream. He enjoyed participating in the. I still love your dad, and he loves me, but we’renot in love anymore. Do you understand?”“I guess.”“Even if we don’t live together anymore your dad and Iwill always be there for you and your sisters, no matterwhat,” She smiled.I smiled back. I knew mom was right. And I knew I was soin love with mom, but I could never tell her. Ever.“Did I ever tell you why I fell in love with your dad?”Mom asked, smiling with a faraway look on her face.I thought about it a few moments. Then I said “I don’tthink so, mom.”“The first time I saw him I felt I knew him. I felt socomfortable with him, and I trusted him. I never trust aman until I got to know him.Well, I did once before. When I was fourteen. I met aboy whom I felt I knew somehow, and right away I wascomfortable with him and trusted him completely. I onlysaw him once, and I never saw him again, but I neverforgot him.Your father looked so much like that boy, what was.
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Besides, there was something about her belly roll, especially when she reversed it, that really got the boys going. Her first dance ended with her in the lap of a freshman, with her huge, perfect breasts rubbing his face, and her hands gently caressing his crotch. The song ended to raucous applause, and she bounced back to the bathroom to change for her number. Somewhere around Monica’s third song, a Pontiac Grand Prix nosed its way carefully down Tim Goldworthy’s short street. A man, about 25, carefully studied the cars and stopped when he saw a late-model blue Mustang. He hopped out and noted the license plate. It was a vanity number, which read “George.” He counted the other cars parked on the street. Eighteen. Obviously a party. The man took a picture of the “George” plate with his cell phone, then pulled into the driveway of the house across the street, backed down, and drove off. About twenty minutes later, Monica was done. Talking with Blake, she emphasized that the party be.

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