David Sedaris

Would you ask one of us to tuck in your shirt, she asked.

She had a point.

A careful study suggested that the Shermans were not the people they pretended to be.

The father was often seen tugging at his crotch, and the wife had a disturbing habit of looking you straight in the eye while sniffing her fingers.

A veil had been lifted, especially for Gretchen, who now saw the world as a steaming pit of unbridled sexuality.

Seated on a lounge chair at the country club, she would narrow her eyes, speculating on the children crowding the shallow end of the pool.

I have a sneaking suspicion Christina Youngblood might be our half-sister, she said.

She's got her father's chin, but the eyes and mouth are pure mom.

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.