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17 The Star Her closet is a universe made for trying on the brightly colored dresses, a standing field of flowers wider than the cramped stamp of dirt behind the house. Ignored every day starched white, reached back into a past still laced with big band music, rationed cigarettes, Chanel No. 5, Stepped into shoes and grew to adolescence, the clock clock clock of heels Time racing down the hall to when he too would be tall, cool, desirable—an adult—just like Lena Horne. How could they not love him as he made his grand entrance, posed, placed a trembling hand on narrow hip, waited breathlessly, sure of their applause? ...

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