David Sedaris

I felt uneasy implicating our parents, but Gretchen provided a wealth of frightening evidence.

She noted the way our mother applied lipstick at the approach of the potato chip delivery man, whom she addressed by first name and often invited in to use the bathroom.

Our father referred to the bank tellers as doll and sweetheart, and their responses suggested that he had taken advantage of them one time too many.

The Greek Orthodox Church, the gaily dressed couples at the country club, even our elderly Kali Duchess, they were all in on it, according to Gretchen, who took to piling furniture against her bedroom door before going to sleep at night.

The book wound up in the hands of our ten-year-old sister Amy, who used it as a textbook in the make-believe class she held after school each day.

Dressed in a wig and high heels, she passed her late afternoon standing before a blackboard and imitating her teachers.

I'm very sorry, Candace, but I'm going to have to fail you, she'd say, addressing one of the empty folding chairs arranged before her.

The problem is not that you don't try.

The problem is that you're stupid.

Very, very stupid.

Isn't Candace stupid, class?

She's ugly, too.

Am I wrong?

Very well, Candace.

You can sit back down now.

And for God's sakes, please stop crying.

Okay, class, now I'm going to read to you from this week's new book.

It's a story about a California family, and it's called Next of Kin.

If Amy had read the book, then surely it had been seen by eight-year-old Tiffany, who shared her bedroom, and possibly by her brother Paul, who at the age of two might have sucked on the binding, which was even more dangerous than reading it.

Clearly this had to stop before it got out of hand.