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Show Acting Alone Page 73 their models. Still, Shanny had never touched a razor in her life. Maybe she didn't know she was supposed to - ? That would have been a wonderful expression of her femininity: that her natural hairedness was so flawlessly balanced that she might've passed through life so far not even thinking about it, nor having her girlfriends at the dorm mention it. She had mentioned to Sam that, besides nun Polly, she had only brothers, and that her family hailed from some microscopic southern Nebraskan farming community in the same neighborhood as Kiev. Was it possible that nobody had ever told her that she was supposed to scratch and scrape this fuzz off and make her skin hard and glazed and dry with isopropyl alcohol and Nair and stuff? It seemed like an epochally important question to Sam at the moment. But he was too smoothed out right now to talk about it. For once in his life he was not feeling verbal at all. She was not even looking at the short-legged surf gods from California and Australia. The few small vestiges of Northern sourness and paranoia and self-hatred that had not yet been sunbaked out of Sam made him wonder, vaguely, What was going on here? Something fishy? How'd he rate such treatment? Did violence turn American girls on that much, to make them get a crush on even the victim, the face-bashed vanquished? But he could make himself forget that sourness just by watching Shanny learn to body surf. Sometimes when she got dumped on the beach by a wave the water would suck her panties down partway, and liquid sand would fill up her bottom for a second, and she'd yell at the ocean in happy outrage. Shanny came up behind Sam sometimes, with no provocation at all, and |
