A flower taught me how to pray
But as I grew, that flower changed
She started flailing1 in the wind
Like golden petals2 scattering4
—“Petals”
She called herself Dandelion—the hearty5, bright-yellow wildflower with small tooth-shaped petals that gives the early signal that spring is near. After its flowering is finished,the petals dry and the head becomes a ball of lacy dust feathers carrying seeds. The legendgoes that if you close your eyes, make a wish, and blow the feathery pieces into the air,your wish will scatter3 into the world and come true. The English sometimes call them Irishdaisies. And the tea made from the root and leaves is widely believed to have healingbenefits. But these wildflowers can also be a menace, poisoning precious flowers andgrowing grass—weeds to be uprooted6 and discarded.
When I was a little girl, my older sister seemed to live on the wind. She was alwayssomewhere far away. Childhood memories of her exist in my mind as flashes of lightningand thunder. She was exciting but unpredictable — her torrential gusts7 always carriedinevitable destruction with them.
The distances between my mother, my father, their first daughter, and myself are farreaching. Unlike her, growing up, I never spent any significant time as part of a wholeinterracial family. Most of my experiences were with one parent at a time—me with mymother, or me with my father. I have no recollection of them as a happily married couple.
It is bizarre to me that they were even married, not just because of race, but how differentthey were as people. But before I was born, the Carey family consisted of a Black father, awhite mother, and a mixed boy and girl. The four of them would walk down the street, andpeople would know. This rebel Carey quartet experienced the spectacular ignorance andwrath of a society woefully unprepared to receive or accept them; Loving v. Virginia, theSupreme Court decision that struck down the law banning interracial marriage in theUnited States, wouldn’t happen until three years after my mother and father’s marriage.
As a result of the hostility11 from their community and country, Morgan and Alison wereinstructed by our parents to refer to them as “Mother” and “Father,” in the hope, Iimagine, that the formality might elevate their status to respectable. My parents seemed tothink that if neighbors or other onlookers12 heard their girl and boy say, “Good morning,Mother” or “Hello, Father,” they wouldn’t perceive them as disgusting.
Morgan and Alison were beautiful children and were very close when they wereyoung. Alison had skin like creamy butterscotch pudding, with a head of thick, deep, darkcurls and eyes to match. She was extremely intelligent and curious and she loved to learn.
I was told she brought home good grades, got into good schools, and loved music too. Butshe lived firsthand the discomfort13 and animosity directed at her and her offbeat14 Black andwhite family. She saw their neighbors throw raw meat studded with broken glass to theirdogs, and their family car blown up. She saw things inside the family too, things a childshould never see and I will never know. I do know that what she experienced damagedand derailed her girlhood.
She was fully10 aware when the family unit unraveled and our parents turned on eachother; she absorbed the full pain of a family coming undone15. She also saw anotherdaughter come into the clan16, breaking the symmetry and changing her status as the onlygirl and youngest. I was the new little one. When my mother and father could no longerlive together without emotionally torturing each other, they tore themselves apart tosurvive separately. The three of us children would be plagued by pain, resentment17, andjealousy for a lifetime.
Alison and Morgan both believed I had it easier than they did. Our father was verystrict with them. He was not harsh with me because three or four years old was the oldest Ihad been when we were all together. During one of their countless18 fights, I vaguelyremember my mother yelling at him something like, “This one is mine! You will not beatthis one.” I was her little one. She often said she “didn’t have the strength” to challengemy father’s aggression19 when my siblings20 were growing up.
I only have one memory of all of us having dinner together. It was a sort of“restorative dinner”—my parents trying one more time to see if we could pull it togetherand be a family. We were all sitting around the table, and I started singing.
My father said, “Children should be seen and not heard.”
The entertainer in me took that as a cue, so I got up from the dining table, walked thefew feet to the living room area (which was in plain view and well within earshot), stoodon top of the coffee table, and continued to sing at the top of my lungs. Alison and Morgandropped their heads, ducking before the wrath9 of our father that they were certain wouldinevitably ricochet around the room. But my mother gave him a look, and he didn’t sayanything. My sister and brother were flabbergasted. I was not hit, yelled at, punished, oreven stopped. They would have never, ever dared defy our father. No wonder they hatedme.
Needless to say, the dinner didn’t save us. Divorce was inevitable8. My mother andfather made the final decision to break up before all was broken. I remember I was takento our neighbors’ house, and they gave me popcorn21 while my family was next doordiscussing the dismantling22 of the Careys. After several violent encounters involving thepolice, by court order my father and brother could not live together. At one point Morganhad been taken to Sagamore Children’s Psychiatric Center, a care facility for seriouslyemotionally troubled children and families in crisis. Morgan was a crisis. I also heard apsychiatrist had concluded that a significant contributing factor in Morgan’s behavioralproblems was Alison, who had a talent for instigating23 and manipulating Morgan to hisbreaking points. Alison is very clever. So Morgan had to live with my mother, and she hadmade it clear to my father that he would not have me. That left Alison scattered24.
I’ve heard Alison express that she felt like my mother tossed her away, that she clearlyloved Morgan and me more than her. I’ve also heard my mother say Alison chose to livewith our father because she felt bad and didn’t want him to be alone. There is likely sometruth in both of their perspectives. I was too young to really understand.
I don’t really know what life was like for my sister living with our father, just the twoof them, broken and angry. It must’ve been dangerously claustrophobic — a constantclashing of feelings of abandonment and resentment toward my mother under their roof.
They had no real space to resolve, no chance to heal. Order and obedience25 was how myfather tried to make sense out of the chaos26 of society and the rubble27 his family structurehad become.
The child now in his sole care was a bitter, broken teenage girl, and he had no tools todeal with her dysfunction and hurt. Eventually my father and Alison did form a bond,united in their disdain28 for my mother. I believe they also bonded29 over the inevitablevisibility of their Blackness.
Predictably, Alison turned to boys and sex in an attempt to fill the family-sized hole ofrejection in her heart. At fifteen she met a handsome Black nineteen-year-old military“man,” and Alison got pregnant. Our mother wanted her to have an abortion30. Our fathertold her she could have the baby if she got married. The young man was stationed in thePhilippines, and with our father’s permission Alison followed him, and they got marriedthere. Before she left, I recall sitting on the bed with her in her room at our father’s house.
What I remember of her room was that on her wall was a shelf of books and a shelf offancy dolls—the ones with big, poofy lace quincea?era-type dresses. I would look up atthose dolls, far out of my reach—there for show, not for playing.
I was staring at them when she pointed31 to her belly32 and said, “There’s a baby in there.”
A baby where? In her stomach? I was too young and didn’t understand at all what shemeant. I didn’t understand much about Alison then.
I’ll never forget her bizarre combined baby and bridal shower at my mother’s house.
They put a little girl on the cake—a doll, not one that looked like a grown woman but alittle baby doll with dark brown hair like my sister’s. The whole thing was so confusing tome. I was a little girl, wondering, Is this a baby-is-coming party or a girl-is-going party? Icouldn’t tell if it was a festive33 or tragic34 occasion. My mother was pacing and pissed off.
My teenage sister had a swollen35 belly, and she kept pointing at it and saying to me,“There’s a baby in here; look, there’s a baby in here.” And there was this weird36 cake witha little doll on it. How was a little girl supposed to understand all of this?
And so, for a long time afterward37, I always thought, “Okay, so I guess at fifteen iswhen people have kids and get married.”
It twisted my reality. But it also focused me. I made the promise to myself that was notgoing to be me. My sense of self-worth, or rather, my sense of self-preservation was bornat that bon voyage/bridal/baby shower. I vowed38 I was not going to be promiscuous39 ever.
This promise to live a different life led me to become a very prudish40 person. I knew then—suddenly finding myself an auntie before I was eight years old—that Alison’s path wasnot going to be my life. Once the last slice of baby-bridal cake was gone, my sister wasgone too, for several years.
I will never understand what happened to her in the Philippines. But I do know whenshe left my father’s house, the remainder of her fragile childhood was left behind.
After a few years in the Philippines, Alison returned to Long Island. I was abouttwelve years old, and she was twenty. Whatever had happened to her over there, or onLong Island, or in a back room somewhere, had taken its toll41 on her. That super-smart,beautiful girl with the dark curls who was my big sister had hardened into a strange kindof absence. Something, or many things, must have happened to her to lead her to barterher body for money and drugs, as she went on to do for years. Back then, there was somuch I didn’t know, but there also was so much I should have never found out, certainlynot so young. The years between us might as well have been centuries.
When Alison came back, she would drift from place to place and man to man,occasionally crashing with us at my mother’s house between the many randomrelationships with men she collected and discarded. There was one older man—I guessedhe was about sixty. He had half a head of hair, all of which was gray. He was polite to mymother and would sometimes fill our refrigerator with food, so I guess she trusted him?
One evening at the shack42, Alison and my mother got into one of their innumerable epicarguments, and for some unknown reason Alison took me with her to this oldergentleman’s house. There’s little of his house, or that night, that I remember because whenwe arrived, Alison sat me down on a light-brown couch and handed me a little chalky ice-blue pill with a crease43 carved down the middle and a glass of water.
“Here, take this,” she said.
I took it. Within minutes (I think) I was in a heavy, scary darkness, pushed down into aplace beneath sleep, and I couldn’t pull myself out. I don’t know how long I was knockedout. I felt like I’d been absorbed into the couch (the only reason I remember the color). Itwas harrowing.
At twelve, I probably weighed eighty pounds soaking wet, and Alison gave me awhole Valium. I don’t know why my sister drugged me. I don’t know why my mother letme go with her and this man. Perhaps they both wanted me out of their hair for theevening, but my life was in jeopardy44 in her hands. This may have been the first time thatyear she could have seriously hurt me, but it certainly wasn’t the last.
Even though by her twenties Alison had already gotten married, given birth, gottendivorced, traveled thousands of miles away, and done dreadful things, she could still bezany and spontaneous. The worst had not yet happened between us, so I was genuinelyhappy for the wild stray visits she made to my mother’s house. On her good days she wasa bright burst of energy in our often-bleak little dwelling45. She seemed mature and had ahollow kind of glamour46. She took a new interest in me as a preteen now rather than a littlegirl. She paid attention to the obviously neglected outside of me, swooping47 in andcorrecting my disastrous48 attempts to make myself pretty, which to a twelve- year- oldmeans everything. After I accidentally made my hair all kinds of shades of ugly orange,she took me to get a toner for my hair and made it one color. She took me to a place thatmade my eyebrows49 beautiful. She took me shopping for my first bra. She and I wouldmake earnest attempts at being normal. We were trying to be sisters—or so I thought.
Even though I was young, I knew my sister was doing things that were not good. Imean, she had a beeper, and only drug dealers50, rappers, and doctors had beepers backthen. She wore a nice manicure — bright- pink nail polish, sometimes decorated withrhinestones. Once, as she was dropping me off in front of my mother’s house, she dipped asharp pink nail tip into some white crystal powder and held it up to my face, saying, “Justtry it, just try a little bit; who cares?”
I knew it was cocaine51, and it scared me to death. Thank God, I didn’t take the sniff52. Iplayed it off and calmly replied, “No thanks! Bye; see you later.” I shudder53 to think whatcould’ve happened if I’d walked into her trap and then that house. I don’t know whatwould’ve happened if I’d snorted cocaine right before seeing my mother, or ever in mylife.
It was all such a setup. Alison began bringing me around her friends, and I startedlooking forward to our secret outings—though for all the initial glamour and excitement, itwas a very scary time in my life. Even though it was a long time ago, I still havenightmares about it. Alison did not choose how her life began, and I know she wentthrough trauma54 too. It seemed as though she’d turned completely away from the light.
One day, she explained that it was time for me to meet her fabulous55 boyfriend, John,and the other girls she hung around, who she’d been telling stories to me about. John wastall, with green eyes, a large, fluffy56 Afro, and a strong charisma57. Christine, a seventeen-year-old runaway58 white girl, an older woman named Denise—“older” meaning she wasmaybe twenty- eight — and my sister, then in her early twenties, all lived in a housetogether with John. I looked up to Christine; she had a worldly air about her, yet she alsoseemed like a little girl. Her pale skin was sprinkled with tan freckles59, and she hadmedium-blond hair that fell softly to her shoulders, which were long and thin like the restof her body. She could’ve been in a teen movie, but instead she was there, in that house.
She was damaged.
John’s house was nicer, brighter, and cleaner than where I lived. They had a brand-new couch. There was a television, and I could watch whatever shows I wanted. They hadall the snacks I could want. They had Juicy Juice. We couldn’t afford any of that at home.
A couple of times my sister came to where I lived and filled the refrigerator with the stuff Iliked. This was part of the confusion I felt about our relationship. It sometimes felt andlooked like she cared, but her motives60 were always unclear. Was she being a nice bigsister, or was she creating an appetite in me for what I knew I could have all the time atJohn’s house? It was manipulation masquerading as love.
My sister told me not to tell anyone I was going to the house where she lived withJohn, especially not my brother. She told me that my brother didn’t like him because Johnhad beat him at backgammon. Being so young and na?ve at the time, I believed theiranimosity was about a board game, not a prostitution and drug operation. So there was noone who knew, no one to protect me. Dysfunctional families are ideal prey61 for abusers, theexposed little ones vulnerable to being picked off. Now, of course, it’s clear to me that thefun house was a whorehouse. I think my sister was kind of like the hustler, the talentscout. But at the time, I had no idea; after all, I was only a twelve-year-old girl. Winningme over was so easy—literally like giving a kid candy, but instead of candy it was a hairrinse, a bra, and a Juicy Juice box.
John, my sister, and I would drive to the city together. I remember one time we weregoing somewhere, and the radio was playing a song he loved. He loudly screamed out thelyrics, while my sister and I giggled62 at his strangled singing. They let me smoke cigarettesin the backseat of the car. I felt cool and free.
We would go to IHOP to get pancakes. They took me to Adventureland and I playedPac- Man. In those moments, I almost felt like someone’s precious little sister. I washaving all these fun adventures and thinking to myself, I finally know what it feels like tohave a big sister who’s in my life for good. And I like this easy breezy guy, John. This waswhat I’d been missing. I was starting to feel something resembling stability, a sense that Ihad something that looked like a normal family and was moving toward somewhere Ibelonged.
But confusing and curious things quickly started happening.
The closer I got to my sister, the more clearly I could see her broken parts. She hadsecretly gotten me my own phone line, which only she called me on. She would havethese desperate bouts64 of drug-induced hysteria and call me late at night, in the middle ofan episode. I’d talk her down off the ledge65, then try to go back to sleep, get up early in themorning, and complete the seventh grade. No one at school knew that frequently, just afew hours earlier, I had subdued66 my suicidal big sister. Killing67 herself became a commonthreat that she shared with me in the wee hours before I went to the school bus stop.
Then the calls stopped for a while. Finally, one day, Alison phoned and said she andJohn were coming to pick me up. I was excited to think of the three of us together again,riding, laughing, smoking, singing, and playing. But John showed up alone.
We began driving, but there was no radio blasting, no talking. It wasn’t fun at all, and Ifelt that something wasn’t right.
Finally I asked, “Where is my sister? When are we going to pick her up?”
John kept his eyes forward and assured me, “Oh, she’ll be here later.” I was sitting inthe front seat, and I could clearly see the handgun resting against his thigh68.
John, his gun, and I made two stops: a card game and a drive-in movie. There’s a look,a feel, and a smell to rooms where grown men play in the dark. It was dank and cluttered69.
The air was dense70 with cheap booze, stale menthol cigarette smoke, and unspokenperversions. There were no pretty things. It was hard for me to see and hard to breathe.
I don’t know exactly how many men there were; I don’t know how many guns, howmuch money, or how many vile71 thoughts were at the table—but I do know it was all men,and me. I sat in a corner on the sticky floor where I could see the door and held ontomyself. I stayed still and kept my eyes down as the grown-man jokes, grown-man cussin’,grown-man hungers, grown-man fears, and grown-man fantasies flew above my head.
Every now and then I’d catch a glimpse of one of them leering at me or hear a lewdreference to me in their conversation.
I don’t remember how I got from the card-room floor back into the front seat of hiscar. What I do remember is feeling dirty from the sticky floor and the men’s filthy72 words. Iknew my sister was not coming to clean me up this time. A panic bubbled up in my throat.
Where am I going? Why am I alone with my sister’s boyfriend? Why did he take mearound those disgusting men? Why can’t we just go to IHOP? Where is my sister? Whereis she? I began to pray.
Our next stop was the drive-in, where almost immediately John put his arm aroundme. My body went stiff. My eyes were fixed73 on his gun. John pushed in closer and forceda hard kiss on me. I was nauseous and scared; I felt immobilized. From the corner of myeye I noticed an elderly white man pull up and park next to us, peering directly into John’scar.
The look on the man’s face was a mix of revulsion and recognition. He clearly saw anadult man—John, with his round Afro—and a little girl, small with blond coils of hair. Hesaw the powder-blue car and John’s light-brown skin. He saw the details, and even if hedidn’t detect my distress74, he could see this was no place a little girl would ever want to be.
John pulled out of the drive-in slowly and drove me home in silence.
I committed that man’s face to memory. He is still there, fresh and frozen in thatterrible time. I believe he was a prayer in person.
After a couple of days back in my room, the phone began ringing again, but this time Iwouldn’t pick it up. I resumed pretending I had a regular seventh-grade life. I wanted to bea child again. Sometimes all the kids in my neighborhood would play chase (tag) at night.
Most of them lived in nice houses with two parents, and sisters who didn’t burden themwith thoughts of suicide and set them up with pimps. I longed to blend in to a typicalsummer night in an everyday Long Island neighborhood, to play and clown around withother regular kids. I just wanted to outrun my drama through a game of chase.
We often played in an area not far from the beach that had a kind of roundabout. Wewould hang out at that spot and sometimes build a fire, make funny voices, and sing. Onenight we were deep in a group game of chase, kids scattered about running and weaving,when I saw a car coming down the road. I immediately recognized it as John’s car. It wascreeping along, ever so slowly, as if the driver was looking for something or someone.
Panicking, I instinctively75 ducked behind a house, pretending to hide from whoever was“it.” There was no way I could tell my friends that I was “it” to a pimp with a gun.
John eventually drove away. Though I had narrowly escaped him again, the fear ofmen followed me for a very long time. When I got home I unplugged the phone from thewall and disconnected from trusting my big sister forever.
I had nobody to tell what had happened. I couldn’t tell my mother. I didn’t have anyreal, close friends. I had never really fit in. Even if I did, how could I have explained it to akid from a regular household who ate dinner at six o’clock, went to bed at nine thirty, andgot in trouble when they didn’t brush their teeth? They’d never be able to understand. Bigsisters are supposed to protect you—not pimp you out. So I didn’t tell or trust anybody.
But as a girl, you still want your big sister, and dandelions are still flowers when they firstbloom.
One visit from my sister, among all the visits and memories, marked me the deepest.
We tried to have tea. Tea was a thing in my mother’s house, but it was anything butproper. There was no cheery, whistling kettle; we boiled the water in a small beat-upsaucepan on an old stove in the tiny, flavorless, dingy76, grime-colored kitchen. Matchingcups and saucers were certainly nowhere to be found; we had mismatched cups and mugs,the kind found in the box marked “Free” at yard sales on Long Island. English breakfastwas the staple77 tea flavor; we each had a cup with a steeping tea bag. I had a thick ceramicbrown drip-glazed mug that was chipped at the lip. I was holding the steaming, fragrantblack tea with both hands when the phone rang.
“Oh hello, Al,” we heard our mother answer. It was our father.
We were both a little shocked. My father rarely called my mother’s house, and if hedid, it was almost always to scold us about something. Alison and I exchanged a quickglance—who had done what now? Suddenly my mother looked in my direction, and Icould tell they were discussing me. I vigorously shook my head “no” and mimed78 refusal.
Alison and I were just about to have tea, maybe even a rare light moment, and I knew I’dhave to get serious when it came to talking with our father. And who knew what Alisonmight have done that I’d have to hear about.
But Mother didn’t cover for us. “Yes, she’s here; hold on,” she said, holding the phoneout and shaking it at me. Whatever “normal sister moment” Alison and I were trying tocreate was totally blown. I straightened my face, got up begrudgingly79, and took the phone.
Then I shook it and stretched the cord over to Alison, gesturing for her to take it.
“Nooooo, you take it,” she said back. A silly back-and-forth commenced between usfor a few moments—a game of who would take the burden of talking to Father. It wasalmost fun.
Finally I put the receiver to my ear. “Hi, Father. I’m fine,” I said, repressing the urgeto let out a little giggle63. As I went through the mechanical niceties of the conversation, mysister began gesturing wildly, shaking her head and slicing her hand across her throat,signaling for me not to let on that she was there. As I tried my best to carry on theconversation with our father, I made silly faces back at her, doing all I could not to breakinto laughter. My sister could be pretty theatrical80, and in that moment I found her extrahilarious. I thought we were playing a game. Eventually I figured it was her turn to try andtalk seriously to our father while I tried to make her laugh, so I said, “Guess what—Alisonis here! Want to talk to her?” Laughingly, I motioned at her to take the phone.
But she wasn’t looking at me. She was looking down at her mug of still-steaming teain her hand, and when she lifted her face, her eyes were rabid, without a trace of theirformer playfulness. Before I realized what was happening, she yelled “No!” and, in aflash, threw the boiling-hot tea on me.
The next thing I remember I was stripped down to my waist, and a doctor wasremoving the remaining bits of my white-and-turquoise diagonal-striped top, which wasembedded into the flesh of my shoulder, with large tweezers81. The doctor had had to sliceoff my shirt with an instrument, as some of the fibers82 had begun to fuse with my skin. (Ifucking loved that top—one of the very few cute pieces I had, and now it was out ofrotation, stuck to my back.)
My back was splattered with third-degree burns. I couldn’t recognize it as mine, as itturned different shades of maroon83 from the violent scalding I received at the hands of mysister. The horrific physical sensation had been so intense that I blacked out. Afterward,my back was numb84 and couldn’t be touched without causing me excruciating pain. It tookyears before I could accept a simple pat on the back, as most of my skin had to completelyrenew and repair itself.
The deepest injury, though, was from the emotional trauma. Feelings are not like skin;there are no fresh new cells coming to replace ruined ones. Those scars go unseen,unacknowledged, and unhealed. The truly irreversible damage to me came from the burnof my big sister, not the tea. Her arson85 was deliberate—she burned my back and my trust.
Any faint hope I’d held up to that point of having a big sister became scorched86 earth.
I know my sister was deeply wounded. She is the most brilliant and broken person Ihave ever known. I may never understand what hurt her so badly that it made her hurt somany others in return, but to me, she was her own most permanently87 damaged victim.
From my perspective she chose to take up permanent residence in “Victimland.” Thepromise of her life was squandered88 in a tragic series of cheap bargains rather than beingredeemed through the difficult, lifelong work of recovery and rebuilding oneself.
Alison has burned me in many ways and more times than I can count. Over and over Ihave tried to be her fire department, financing treatments and paying for stays in premiumrehabs. But even with substantial resources, there is no way to rescue someone whodoesn’t realize they’re burning. The scars I carry from my sister are not just a reminder,they are lessons. They have taught me that perhaps our worlds are far too different to everoverlap, hers made of fire and mine of the light.
I always hoped and wished Alison would get better, so we could get better. Iunderstand she was severely89 emotionally injured and had to take her enduring pain out onsomeone. She chose me. Through the years, both my sister and brother have put me on thechopping block, sold lies to any gossip rag or trashy website that would buy or listen.
They have attacked me for decades. But when I was twelve years old, my sister druggedme with Valium, offered me a pinky nail full of cocaine, inflicted90 me with third-degreeburns, and tried to sell me out to a pimp. Something in me was arrested by all that trauma.
That is why I often say, “I’m eternally twelve.” I am still struggling through that time.
And I miss you, dandelion
And even love you
And I wish there was a way
For me to trust you
But it hurts me every time
I try to touch you
—“Petals”
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flailing
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| v.鞭打( flail的现在分词 )；用连枷脱粒；（臂或腿）无法控制地乱动；扫雷坦克 | |
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petals
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| n.花瓣( petal的名词复数 ) | |
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scatter
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| vt.撒，驱散，散开；散布/播；vi.分散，消散 | |
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scattering
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| n.[物]散射；散乱，分散；在媒介质中的散播adj.散乱的；分散在不同范围的；广泛扩散的；（选票）数量分散的v.散射(scatter的ing形式)；散布；驱散 | |
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hearty
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| adj.热情友好的；衷心的；尽情的，纵情的 | |
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uprooted
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| v.把（某物）连根拔起( uproot的过去式和过去分词 )；根除；赶走；把…赶出家园 | |
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gusts
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| 一阵强风( gust的名词复数 )； （怒、笑等的）爆发； （感情的）迸发； 发作 | |
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inevitable
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wrath
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fully
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hostility
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| n.敌对，敌意；抵制［pl.］交战，战争 | |
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onlookers
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| n.旁观者，观看者( onlooker的名词复数 ) | |
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discomfort
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| n.不舒服，不安，难过，困难，不方便 | |
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offbeat
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| adj.不平常的，离奇的 | |
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undone
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| a.未做完的，未完成的 | |
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clan
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| n.氏族，部落，宗族，家族，宗派 | |
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resentment
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| n.怨愤，忿恨 | |
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countless
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| adj.无数的，多得不计其数的 | |
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aggression
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| n.进攻，侵略，侵犯，侵害 | |
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siblings
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| n.兄弟，姐妹( sibling的名词复数 ) | |
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21
popcorn
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| n.爆米花 | |
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dismantling
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| （枪支）分解 | |
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23
instigating
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| v.使（某事物）开始或发生，鼓动( instigate的现在分词 ) | |
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scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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obedience
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| n.服从，顺从 | |
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chaos
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| n.混乱，无秩序 | |
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rubble
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| n.（一堆）碎石，瓦砾 | |
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disdain
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| n.鄙视，轻视；v.轻视，鄙视，不屑 | |
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bonded
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| n.有担保的，保税的，粘合的 | |
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abortion
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| n.流产，堕胎 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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belly
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| n.肚子，腹部；(像肚子一样)鼓起的部分，膛 | |
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festive
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| adj.欢宴的，节日的 | |
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tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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swollen
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| adj.肿大的，水涨的；v.使变大，肿胀 | |
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weird
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| adj.古怪的，离奇的；怪诞的，神秘而可怕的 | |
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afterward
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| adv.后来；以后 | |
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vowed
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| 起誓，发誓（vow的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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promiscuous
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| adj.杂乱的，随便的 | |
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prudish
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| adj.装淑女样子的，装规矩的，过分规矩的；adv.过分拘谨地 | |
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toll
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| n.过路(桥)费；损失，伤亡人数；v.敲(钟) | |
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shack
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| adj.简陋的小屋，窝棚 | |
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crease
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| n.折缝，褶痕，皱褶；v.(使)起皱 | |
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jeopardy
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| n.危险；危难 | |
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dwelling
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| n.住宅，住所，寓所 | |
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46
glamour
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| n.魔力，魅力；vt.迷住 | |
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swooping
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| 俯冲，猛冲( swoop的现在分词 ) | |
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disastrous
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| adj.灾难性的，造成灾害的；极坏的，很糟的 | |
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eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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dealers
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| n.商人( dealer的名词复数 )；贩毒者；毒品贩子；发牌者 | |
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cocaine
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| n.可卡因，古柯碱（用作局部麻醉剂） | |
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sniff
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| vi.嗅…味道；抽鼻涕；对嗤之以鼻，蔑视 | |
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shudder
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| v.战粟，震动，剧烈地摇晃；n.战粟，抖动 | |
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trauma
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| n.外伤，精神创伤 | |
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fabulous
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| adj.极好的；极为巨大的；寓言中的，传说中的 | |
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fluffy
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| adj.有绒毛的，空洞的 | |
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charisma
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| n.(大众爱戴的)领袖气质，魅力 | |
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runaway
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| n.逃走的人，逃亡，亡命者；adj.逃亡的，逃走的 | |
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freckles
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| n.雀斑，斑点( freckle的名词复数 ) | |
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motives
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| n.动机，目的( motive的名词复数 ) | |
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prey
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| n.被掠食者，牺牲者，掠食；v.捕食，掠夺，折磨 | |
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giggled
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| v.咯咯地笑( giggle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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giggle
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| n.痴笑，咯咯地笑；v.咯咯地笑着说 | |
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bouts
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| n.拳击（或摔跤）比赛( bout的名词复数 )；一段（工作）；（尤指坏事的）一通；（疾病的）发作 | |
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ledge
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| n.壁架，架状突出物；岩架，岩礁 | |
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subdued
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| adj. 屈服的，柔和的，减弱的 动词subdue的过去式和过去分词 | |
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killing
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| n.巨额利润；突然赚大钱，发大财 | |
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thigh
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| n.大腿；股骨 | |
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cluttered
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| v.杂物，零乱的东西零乱vt.( clutter的过去式和过去分词 )；乱糟糟地堆满，把…弄得很乱；（以…） 塞满… | |
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dense
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| a.密集的，稠密的，浓密的；密度大的 | |
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vile
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| adj.卑鄙的，可耻的，邪恶的；坏透的 | |
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filthy
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| adj.卑劣的；恶劣的，肮脏的 | |
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fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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instinctively
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| adv.本能地 | |
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dingy
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| adj.昏暗的，肮脏的 | |
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staple
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| n.主要产物，常用品，主要要素，原料，订书钉，钩环；adj.主要的，重要的；vt.分类 | |
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mimed
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| v.指手画脚地表演，用哑剧的形式表演( mime的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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begrudgingly
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| 小气地，吝啬地 | |
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theatrical
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| adj.剧场的，演戏的；做戏似的，做作的 | |
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81
tweezers
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| n.镊子 | |
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82
fibers
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| 光纤( fiber的名词复数 )； （织物的）质地； 纤维，纤维物质 | |
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maroon
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| 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 | |
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numb
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| adj.麻木的，失去感觉的；v.使麻木 | |
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85
arson
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| n.纵火，放火 | |
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86
scorched
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| 烧焦，烤焦( scorch的过去式和过去分词 )； 使（植物）枯萎，把…晒枯； 高速行驶； 枯焦 | |
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permanently
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| adv.永恒地，永久地，固定不变地 | |
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squandered
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| v.（指钱，财产等）浪费，乱花( squander的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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severely
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| adv.严格地；严厉地；非常恶劣地 | |
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inflicted
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| 把…强加给，使承受，遭受( inflict的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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