From the day
Perspective: The Teenager · Sight
I’m dodging my father’s glare and the suffocating scent of his pomade, staring instead at the strange, jagged shapes in the Sunday paper. He’s grumbling about "FRENCH ART AND WAR; Important Members of the Cubist and Other Schools Have Apparently Not Renounced Their Principles," but I think those wild, fractured lines look far more exciting than his stiff wool suits. I just want to flip the new electric toggle switch, drown out his politics with a phonograph record of *Poor Butterfly*, and forget the world. If the President expects my brother to enlist, he better remember he promised "He kept us out of war."