THAT FALL, WHEN I was going into the tenth grade, Miss Bivens made me news editor of The Maroon1 Wave. After working as a proofreader in the seventh grade, I'd started laying out pages in the eighth grade, and in the ninth grade I began reporting and writing articles and taking photographs. Mom had bought a Minolta camera to take pictures of her pictures, so she could send them to Lori, who could show them around art galleries in New York. When Mom wasn't using it, I wore the Minolta everywhere, because you never knew when you'd see something newsworthy. What I loved most about calling myself a reporter was that it gave me an excuse to show up anyplace. Since I'd never made a lot of friends in Welch, I hardly ever went to the school's football games or dances or rallies. I felt awkward sitting by myself when everyone else was with friends. But when I was working for the Wave, I had a reason to be there. I was on assignment, a member of the working press, with my notepad in hand and the Minolta around my neck.
I began going to just about every extracurricular event at the school, and the kids who shunned2 me before now accepted me and even sought me out, posing and clowning in hopes of getting their picture in the paper. As someone who could make them famous among their peers, I was no longer a person to be trifled with.
Even though the Wave came out only once a month, I worked on it every day. Instead of hiding in the bathroom during lunch hour, I spent it in Miss Bivens's classroom, where I wrote my articles, edited the stories written by other students, and counted the letters in headlines to make sure they fit the columns. I finally had a good excuse for why I never ate lunch. "I'm on deadline," I'd say. I also stayed after school to develop my photographs in the darkroom, and that had a hidden benefit. I could sneak3 into the cafeteria once everyone had left and dig through the garbage pails. I'd find industrial-sized cans of corn that were nearly full and huge containers of cole slaw and tapioca pudding. I no longer had to root through the bathroom wastebaskets for food, and I hardly ever went hungry again.
* * *When I was a junior, Miss Bivens made me the editor in chief, though the job was supposed to go to a senior. Only a handful of students wanted to work for the Wave, and I ended up writing so many of the articles that I abolished bylines4; it looked a little ridiculous having my name appear four times on the front page.
The paper cost fifteen cents, and I sold it myself, going from class to class and standing5 in the hallways, hawking6 it like a newsboy. Welch High had about twelve hundred students, but we sold only a couple hundred copies of the paper. I tried various schemes to boost the circulation: I held poetry competitions, added a fashion column, and wrote controversial editorials, including one questioning the validity of standardized7 tests, which provoked an irate8 letter from the head of the state Department of Education. Nothing worked.
One day a student I was trying to get to buy the Wave told me he had no use for it because the same names appeared in the paper again and again: the school's athletes and cheerleaders and the handful of kids known as slide rules who always won the academic prizes. So I started a column called. "Birthday Corner," listing the names of the eighty or so people who had their birthday in the coming month. Most of these people had never appeared in the paper, and they were so excited to see their names in print, they bought several copies. Circulation doubled. Miss Bivens wondered aloud if. "Birthday Corner" represented serious journalism9. I told her I didn't care梚t sold papers.
* * *Chuck Yeager visited Welch High that year. I'd been hearing about Chuck Yeager all my life from Dad, about how he'd been born in West Virginia, in the town of Myra on the Mud River over in Lincoln County, about how he joined the air force during World War II and had shot down eleven German planes by the time he was twenty-two, about how he became a test pilot at Edwards Air Force Base high up on the Mojave Desert in California, and about how one day in 1947 he became the first man to break the sound barrier in his X-1, even though the night before, he'd been up drinking and had been thrown from a horse and cracked some ribs10.
Dad would never admit to having heroes, but the brass-balled, liquor-loving, coolly calculating Chuck Yeager was the one man in the world he admired above all others. When he heard that Chuck Yeager was giving a speech at Welch High and that he'd agreed to let me interview him afterward11, Dad could hardly contain his excitement. He was waiting on the porch for me with a pen and paper when I got home from school the day before the big interview. He sat down to help me draw up a list of intelligent questions so I wouldn't embarrass myself in front of this greatest of West Virginia's native sons.
What was going through your head when you first broke Mach I?
What was going through your head when A. Scott Crossfield broke Mach II?
What is your favorite aircraft?
What are your thoughts on the feasibility of flying at the speed of light?
Dad wrote up about twenty-five or thirty questions like that and then insisted we rehearse the interview. He pretended to be Chuck Yeager and gave me detailed12 answers to the questions he'd written out. His eyes got misty13 as he described what it was like to break the sound barrier. Then he decided14 I needed some solid grounding in aviation history, and he stayed up half the night briefing me, by the light of a kerosene15 lamp, on the test-flight program, basic aerodynamics, and the Austrian physicist16 Ernst Mach.
The next day Mr. Jack17, the principal, introduced Chuck Yeager during assembly in the auditorium18. He looked more like a cowboy than a West Virginian, with his horseman's gait and his lean leathery face, but as soon as he started speaking, his voice was pure up-hollow. As he talked, the fidgety students settled into their folding chairs and became enraptured19 by the legendary20, world-traveled man who told us how proud he was of his West Virginia roots, and how we, too, should be proud of those roots, roots we all shared; and how, regardless of where we came from, each and every one of us could and should follow our dreams, just as he had followed his. When he finished talking, the applause about shattered the glass in the windows.
I climbed up on the stage before the students filed out. "Mr. Yeager," I said, holding out my hand. "I'm Jeannette Walls with The Maroon Wave."Chuck Yeager took my hand and grinned. "Jes' spell my name right, ma'am," he said. "so's my kin'll know who you're writin' about."We sat down on some folding chairs and talked for nearly an hour. Mr. Yeager took every question seriously and acted like he had all the time in the world for me. When I mentioned various aircraft he'd flown, the aircraft Dad had briefed me about, he grinned again and said. "Heck, I do believe we got an aviation expert on our hands."In the hallways afterward, the other kids kept coming up to tell me how lucky I was. "What was he really like?" they asked. "What did he say?" Everyone treated me with the deference21 accorded only to the school's top athletes. Even the varsity quarterback caught my eye and nodded. I was the girl who had actually talked to Chuck Yeager.
Dad was so eager to hear how the interview went that he was not only home when I got back from school, he was even sober. He insisted on helping22 me with the article to ensure its technical accuracy.
I already had a lead figured out in my head. I sat down in front of Mom's Remington and typed it out:
The pages of the history books came alive this month when Chuck Yeager, the man who first broke the sound barrier, visited Welch High.
Dad looked over my shoulder. "Great," he said. "But let's juice it up a little."LORI HAD BEEN WRITING to us regularly from New York. She loved it there. She was living in a hotel for women in Greenwich Village, working as a waitress in a German restaurant, and taking art classes and even fencing lessons. She'd met the most fascinating group of people, every one of them a weird23 genius. People in New York loved art and music so much, she said, that artists sold paintings right on the sidewalk next to string quartets playing Mozart. Even Central Park wasn't as dangerous as people in West Virginia thought. On the weekends, it was filled with roller skaters and Frisbee24 players and jugglers and mimes25 with their faces painted white. She knew I'd love it once I got there. I knew it, too.
Ever since I'd started eleventh grade, I'd been counting off the months梩wenty-two of them梪ntil I would join Lori. I had my plan worked out. Once I had graduated from high school, I'd move to New York, enroll26 at a city college, and then get a job with AP or UPI, the wire services whose stories unspooled from the Welch Daily News Teletype machines, or with one of the famous New York papers. I'd overhear the reporters at The Welch Daily News make jokes to one another about the highfalutin writers who worked at those papers. I was determined27 to become one.
* * *In the middle of my junior year, I went to Miss Katona, the high school guidance counselor28, to ask for the names of colleges in New York. Miss Katona lifted the glasses that dangled29 from a cord around her neck and peered at me through them. Bluefield State was only thirty-six miles away, she said, and with my grades, I could probably get a full scholarship.
"I want to go to college in New York," I said.
Miss Katona gave me a puzzled frown. "Whatever for?""That's where I want to live."Miss Katona said that in her view, this was a bad idea. It was easier to go to college in the state where you had attended high school. You were considered in-state, which meant acceptance was more likely and tuition was cheaper.
I thought about this for a minute. "Maybe I should move to New York City right now and graduate from high school there. Then I'd be considered in-state."Miss Katona squinted30 at me. "But you live here," she said. "This is your home."Miss Katona was a fine-boned woman who always wore button-up sweaters and stout31 shoes. She had gone to Welch High School, and it seemed not to have occurred to her to live anywhere else. To leave West Virginia, even to leave Welch, would have been unthinkably disloyal, like deserting your family.
"Just because I live here now," I said. "doesn't mean I couldn't move.""That would be a terrible mistake. You live here. Think of what you'd miss. Your family and friends. And senior year is the highlight of your entire high school experience. You'd miss Senior Day. You'd miss the senior prom."* * *I walked home slowly that evening, thinking over what Miss Katona had said. It was true that many grown-ups in Welch talked about how senior year in high school was the highlight of their lives. On Senior Day, something the school had set up to keep juniors from dropping out, the seniors wore funny clothes and got to skip classes. It was not exactly a compelling reason to stay on in Welch for one more year. As for the senior prom, I had about as much chance of getting a date as Dad did of ending corruption32 in the unions.
I'd been speaking hypothetically about moving to New York a year early. But as I walked, I realized that if I wanted to, I could up and go. I could really do it. Maybe not right now, not this minute梚t was the middle of the school year梑ut I could wait until I finished eleventh grade. By then I'd be seventeen. I had almost a hundred dollars saved, enough to get me started in New York. I could leave Welch in under five months.
I got so excited that I started running. I ran, faster and faster, along the Old Road overhung with bare-branched trees, then on to Grand View and up Little Hobart Street, past the barking yard-dogs and the frost-covered coal piles, past the Noes' house and the Parishes' house, the Halls' house and the Renkos' house until, gasping33 for air, I came to a stop in front of our house. For the first time in years, I noticed my half-finished yellow paint job. I'd spent so much time in Welch trying to make things a little bit better, but nothing had worked.
In fact, the house was getting worse. One of the supporting pillars was starting to buckle34. The leak in the roof over Brian's bed had gotten so bad that when it rained, he slept under an inflatable raft Mom had won in a sweepstakes by sending in Benson & Hedges 100s packages we'd dug out of trash cans. If I left, Brian could have my old bed. My mind was made up. I was going to New York City as soon as the school year was out.
I clambered up the mountainside to the rear of the house梩he stairs had completely rotted through梐nd climbed through the back window we now used as a door. Dad was at the drafting table, working on some calculations, and Mom was going through her stacks of paintings. When I told them about my plan, Dad stubbed out his cigarette, stood up, and climbed out the back window without saying a word. Mom nodded and looked down, dusting off one of her paintings, murmuring something to herself.
"So, what do you think?" I asked.
"Fine. Go.""What's wrong?""Nothing. You should go. It's a good plan." She seemed on the verge35 of tears.
"Don't be sad, Mom. I'll write.""I'm not upset because I'll miss you," Mom said. "I'm upset because you get to go to New York and I'm stuck here. It's not fair."* * *Lori, when I called her, approved of my plan. I could live with her, she said, if I got a job and chipped in on the rent. Brian liked my idea, too, especially when I pointed37 out that he could have my bed. He began making wisecracks in a lockjaw accent about how I was going to become one of those fur-wearing, pinkie-extending, nose-in-the-air New Yorkers. He began counting down the weeks until I left, just as I had counted them down for Lori. "In sixteen weeks, you'll be in New York," he'd say. The next week. "In three months and three weeks, you'll be in New York."Dad had barely spoken to me since I announced my decision. One night that spring, he came into the bedroom where I was up on my bunk38 studying. He had some papers rolled up under his arm.
"Got a minute to look at something?" he asked.
"Sure."I followed him into the living room, where he spread the papers on the drafting table. They were his old blueprints39 for the Glass Castle, all stained and dog-eared. I couldn't remember the last time I'd seen them. We'd stopped talking about the Glass Castle once the foundation we'd dug was filled up with garbage.
"I think I finally worked out how to deal with the lack of sunlight on the hillside," Dad said. It involved installing specially36 curved mirrors in the solar cells. But what he wanted to talk to me about was the plans for my room. "Now that Lori's gone," he said. "I'm reconfiguring the layout, and your room will be a lot bigger."Dad's hands trembled slightly as he unrolled different blueprints. He had drawn40 frontal views, side views, and aerial views of the Glass Castle. He had diagrammed the wiring and the plumbing41. He had drawn the interiors of rooms and labeled them and specified42 their dimensions, down to the inches, in his precise, blocky handwriting.
I stared at the plans. "Dad," I said. "you'll never build the Glass Castle.""Are you saying you don't have faith in your old man?""Even if you do, I'll be gone. In less than three months, I'm leaving for New York City.""What I was thinking was you don't have to go right away," Dad said. I could stay and graduate from Welch High and go to Bluefield State, as Miss Katona had suggested, then get a job at The Welch Daily News. He'd help me with the articles, like he'd helped me with my piece on Chuck Yeager. "And I'll build the Glass Castle, I swear it. We'll all live in it together. It'll be a hell of a lot better than any apartment you'll ever find in New York City, I can guaran-goddamn-tee that.""Dad," I said, "as soon as I finish classes, I'm getting on the next bus out of here. If the buses stop running, I'll hitchhike. I'll walk if I have to. Go ahead and build the Glass Castle, but don't do it for me."Dad rolled up the blueprints and walked out of the room. A minute later, I heard him scrambling43 down the mountainside.
IT HAD BEEN A mild winter, and summer came early to the mountains. By late May, the wild bleeding hearts and the rhododendrons had bloomed, and the fragrance44 of honeysuckle drifted down the hillside and into the house. We had our first hot days before school was out.
Those last couple of weeks, I'd go from feeling excited to nervous to just plain scared back to excited in a matter of minutes. On the last day of school, I cleaned out my locker45 and went to say goodbye to Miss Bivens.
"I've got a feeling about you," she said. "I think you'll do all right up there. But you've left me with a problem. Who's going to edit the Wave next year?""You'll find someone, I'm sure.""I've thought of trying to entice46 your brother into it.""People might start thinking that the Wallses are building a dynasty."Miss Bivens smiled. "Maybe you are."* * *At home that night, Mom cleaned out a suitcase she'd used for her collection of dancing shoes, and I filled it with my clothes and my bound copies of The Maroon Wave. I wanted to leave everything from the past behind, even the good things, so I gave Maureen my geode. It was dusty and dull, but I told her that if she scrubbed it hard, it would sparkle like a diamond. As I cleared out the box on the wall next to my bed, Brian said. "Guess what? In one more day you'll be in New York City." Then he started impersonating Frank Sinatra, singing. "New York, New York" off-key and doing his lounge-lizard dance.
"Shut up, you big dummy47!" I said and hit him hard on the shoulder.
"You're the dummy!" he said and hit me hard back. We tossed a few more punches and then looked at each other awkwardly.
The one bus out of Welch left at seven-ten in the morning. I needed to be at the station before seven. Mom announced that since she was not by nature an early riser, she would not be getting up to see me off. "I know what you look like, and I know what the bus station looks like," she said. "And those big farewells are so sentimental48."* * *I could hardly sleep that night. Neither could Brian. From time to time, he'd break the silence by announcing that in seven hours I'd be leaving Welch, in six hours I'd be leaving Welch, and we'd both start cracking up. I fell asleep only to be woken at first light by Brian, who, like Mom, wasn't an early riser. He was tugging49 at my arm. "No more joking about it," he said. "In two hours, you'll be gone."Dad hadn't come home that night, but when I climbed through the back window with my suitcase, I saw him sitting at the bottom of the stone steps, smoking a cigarette. He insisted on carrying the suitcase for me, and we set off down Little Hobart Street and around the Old Road.
The empty streets were damp. Every now and then Dad would look over at me and wink50, or make a tocking sound with his tongue as if I were a horse and he was urging me on. It seemed to make him feel like he was doing what a father should, plucking up his daughter's courage, helping her face the terrors of the unknown.
When we got to the station, Dad turned to me. "Honey, life in New York may not be as easy as you think it's going to be.""I can handle it," I told him.
Dad reached into his pocket and pulled out his favorite jackknife, the one with the horn handle and the blade of blue German steel that we'd used for Demon51 Hunting.
"I'll feel better knowing you have this." He pressed the knife into my hand.
The bus turned down the street and stopped with a hiss52 of compressed air in front of the Trailways station. The driver opened up the luggage compartment53 and slid my suitcase in next to the others. I hugged Dad. When our cheeks touched, and I breathed in his smell of tobacco, Vitalis, and whiskey, I realized he'd shaved for me.
"If things don't work out, you can always come home," he said. "I'll be here for you. You know that, don't you?""I know." I knew that in his way, he would be. I also knew I'd never be coming back.
Only a few passengers were on the bus, so I got a good seat next to a window. The driver closed the door, and we pulled out. At first I resolved not to turn around. I wanted to look ahead to where I was going, not back at what I was leaving, but then I turned anyway.
Dad was lighting54 a cigarette. I waved, and he waved back. Then he shoved his hands in his pockets, the cigarette dangling55 from his mouth, and stood there, slightly stoop-shouldered and distracted-looking. I wondered if he was remembering how he, too, had left Welch full of vinegar at age seventeen and just as convinced as I was now that he'd never return. I wondered if he was hoping that his favorite girl would come back, or if he was hoping that, unlike him, she would make it out for good.
I reached into my pocket and touched the horn-handled jackknife, then waved again. Dad just stood there. He grew smaller and smaller, and then we turned a corner and he was gone.
收听单词发音 |
1
maroon
|
|
| v.困住，使（人）处于孤独无助之境；n.逃亡黑奴；孤立的人；酱紫色，褐红色；adj.酱紫色的，褐红色的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
2
shunned
|
|
| v.避开，回避，避免( shun的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
3
sneak
|
|
| vt.潜行(隐藏,填石缝)；偷偷摸摸做；n.潜行；adj.暗中进行 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
4
bylines
|
|
| n.报刊文章撰稿人签名处( byline的名词复数 )；署名；铁路支线；副业 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
|
5
standing
|
|
| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
6
hawking
|
|
| 利用鹰行猎 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
7
standardized
|
|
| adj.标准化的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
8
irate
|
|
| adj.发怒的，生气 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
9
journalism
|
|
| n.新闻工作，报业 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
10
ribs
|
|
| n.肋骨( rib的名词复数 )；（船或屋顶等的）肋拱；肋骨状的东西；（织物的）凸条花纹 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
11
afterward
|
|
| adv.后来；以后 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
12
detailed
|
|
| adj.详细的，详尽的，极注意细节的，完全的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
13
misty
|
|
| adj.雾蒙蒙的，有雾的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
14
decided
|
|
| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
15
kerosene
|
|
| n.(kerosine)煤油，火油 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
16
physicist
|
|
| n.物理学家，研究物理学的人 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
17
jack
|
|
| n.插座，千斤顶，男人；v.抬起，提醒，扛举；n.（Jake）杰克 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
18
auditorium
|
|
| n.观众席，听众席；会堂，礼堂 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
19
enraptured
|
|
| v.使狂喜( enrapture的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
20
legendary
|
|
| adj.传奇（中）的，闻名遐迩的；n.传奇（文学） | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
21
deference
|
|
| n.尊重，顺从；敬意 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
22
helping
|
|
| n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的，辅助的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
23
weird
|
|
| adj.古怪的，离奇的；怪诞的，神秘而可怕的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
24
frisbee
|
|
| n.飞盘(塑料玩具) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
25
mimes
|
|
| n.指手画脚( mime的名词复数 )；做手势；哑剧；哑剧演员v.指手画脚地表演，用哑剧的形式表演( mime的第三人称单数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
26
enroll
|
|
| v.招收；登记；入学；参军；成为会员（英)enrol | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
27
determined
|
|
| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
28
counselor
|
|
| n.顾问，法律顾问 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
29
dangled
|
|
| 悬吊着( dangle的过去式和过去分词 )； 摆动不定； 用某事物诱惑…； 吊胃口 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
30
squinted
|
|
| 斜视( squint的过去式和过去分词 )； 眯着眼睛； 瞟； 从小孔或缝隙里看 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
32
corruption
|
|
| n.腐败，堕落，贪污 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
33
gasping
|
|
| adj. 气喘的, 痉挛的 动词gasp的现在分词 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
34
buckle
|
|
| n.扣子，带扣；v.把...扣住，由于压力而弯曲 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
35
verge
|
|
| n.边，边缘；v.接近，濒临 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
36
specially
|
|
| adv.特定地；特殊地；明确地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
37
pointed
|
|
| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
38
bunk
|
|
| n.(车、船等倚壁而设的)铺位；废话 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
39
blueprints
|
|
| n.蓝图，设计图( blueprint的名词复数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
40
drawn
|
|
| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
41
plumbing
|
|
| n.水管装置；水暖工的工作；管道工程v.用铅锤测量（plumb的现在分词）；探究 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
42
specified
|
|
| adj.特定的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
43
scrambling
|
|
| v.快速爬行( scramble的现在分词 )；攀登；争夺；（军事飞机）紧急起飞 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
44
fragrance
|
|
| n.芬芳，香味，香气 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
45
locker
|
|
| n.更衣箱，储物柜，冷藏室，上锁的人 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
46
entice
|
|
| v.诱骗，引诱，怂恿 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
47
dummy
|
|
| n.假的东西；(哄婴儿的)橡皮奶头 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
48
sentimental
|
|
| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
49
tugging
|
|
| n.牵引感v.用力拉，使劲拉，猛扯( tug的现在分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
50
wink
|
|
| n.眨眼，使眼色，瞬间；v.眨眼，使眼色，闪烁 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
51
demon
|
|
| n.魔鬼，恶魔 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
52
hiss
|
|
| v.发出嘶嘶声；发嘘声表示不满 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
53
compartment
|
|
| n.卧车包房，隔间；分隔的空间 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
54
lighting
|
|
| n.照明，光线的明暗，舞台灯光 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
55
dangling
|
|
| 悬吊着( dangle的现在分词 )； 摆动不定； 用某事物诱惑…； 吊胃口 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
| 欢迎访问英文小说网 |