My mother peered from sexual literature juvenile nonfiction

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My mother peered from around the corner, the yellow kitchen telephone glued to the side of her head, the long wiggly cord stretched fully to accommodate the distance from the kitchen center. She waved her hand in greeting and disappeared back juvenile nonfiction around the corner, laughing at whatever tidbit her girlfriend had divulged juvenile nonfiction on the other end of the line. I smashed my forehead into the glass again; more forcibly this time, like a crazed ram. Again, the stretch, the look, juvenile nonfiction and then the wave. The pain was quickly setting in and I realized that I was going to have to take drastic measures to communicate my dire situation to my mother, the waver. I stood on the icy cement step and screamed at the top of my lungs, "Help me, I'm dying." My mother peered around the corner again, pulled the phone from her ear, and studied me, convinced that I had finally lost my mind like one of my father's cousins.
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