Fortunately Jane insisted that I didn’t need to change the sheets on the sofa bed for Frances and Walter. “You look pretty clean.” “Appearances can be deceiving,” I mumbled. Her own room was small and dark and square, painted a dusky purple. In addition to the bunk beds against one wall, covered with zebra-striped nylon spreads, the room was furnished with a dresser and a desk and chair, all of which had been painted a sticky-looking black. A black plastic beanbag chair slumped in one corner beside a very dirty pink shag rug. A small Sony television sat on a plastic milk crate in front of the beanbag chair. On the walls were posters of rock bands, baleful-looking young men in black with names like Insomniac and the Strokes spelled out in Gothic lettering. Books, magazines, spills of school papers, hair elastics, gum wrappers cluttered every surface, accompanied by the smell of unwashed underpants, Patchouli perfume and bubble-gum, which rose up threateningly at me as soon as I crossed the threshold.
What do You think about The Ghost At The Table: A Novel?
