Author: Alexandra Oliver

Seventeen circle the rim of the gym in orbit around the instructor who yells and yells and yells. They listen to him. (The fathers, in hopefulness, peer from the halls.) …

I always went for darkness as a girl: those ashy Europeans wrapped in capes, the ranks of zombies browsing in the mall, the cabin-dwelling fan with swelling hopes, her novelist …

Apparently, it’s very, very bad to let a well-dressed man into your home. An Oxbridge accent, coupled with the claim your husband’s hurt, and he’s from Scotland Yard: disaster! When …

The females of my family extolled the virtues of our Queen, her cautious charm, the opera glove that sheathed the guiding arm. For this was ours, the Englishwoman’s mould. But …