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Show Acting Alone Page 132 whether she should return Spikey's hostage pin that he gave her because he wanted to be boyfriends and girlfriends, or whether she should hang on to it because she'd never been pinned by a fella before in her whole life, not even at college, and Sammy wasn't at all romantical like that, or what. She needed a few days out from under her English teacher's thumb. A few days to think. And she'd been missing her Polly, too, lately. And, secretly, even secretly from her own self almost, Shannon was hoping Sammy would happen to come up here to be moony-oogly over the old poetry books so she could watch him and Polly in the same room together and see if what she, Shanny, suspected about Polly was true (Polly shouldn't of become, a nun, if so), and Shannon wanted to know if she should be jealous of Polly, or what, too. Much as she hated to, Shannon now ate a little nun food so Polly wouldn't worry. She felt like the whole world was gross and sickening and disgusting now. Shannon always rediscovered the meaning of the word ick when she came to Saint Paphnutius. Soft boiled eggs. Plain white china bowl half full of cold Cream-of-Wheat from a big industrial pot sunk in the chrome steam table. And this icky homemade orange wine made from navel oranges that somebody sort of rescued from a burning derailed train and donated to the sisters. And who knows which of the other dishes came straight from the dirt in the yard outside: the chickens, hogs, rabbits, cows that creepy-crawled around and made noise and stink. The nuns sold their drinking milk to somebody and got it donated right back after it had been homogenized and pasteurized and stuff (or so everybody hoped); but they brought raw milk |