I’m supposed to be cool, she told herself as she went to the refrigerator and opened three cans of beer. She opened Brian’s last. It was his because it was on the left and she would carry it in her left hand and she remembered his hands. I am not for this world, she thought. Or it isn’t for me. It’s not because I’m eighteen either. Michaelis is twenty-two; he will get brown in the sun talking to Chicanos, he will smell of beer and onions, but his spirit won’t rise; Michaelis is of the world, he will be a lawyer.
Andre Dubus, Miranda Over the Valley
