The Only Girl in the Car

( 9 )

Overview

The Only Girl in the Car

Bookworm and dreamer, Kathy was a young girl with a tender heart, an adventurer’s spirit, and a child’s terrible confusion about her proper place in the world. As the oldest daughter in a family of six children, she seemed trapped in her role as Big Sister and Mommy’s Helper. Then, one day, teetering on the brink of adolescence, hormones surging, she heard someone call her “cheesecake,” and suddenly saw her path.

“Cheesecake, jailbait, sex kitten”—the ...

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Overview

The Only Girl in the Car

Bookworm and dreamer, Kathy was a young girl with a tender heart, an adventurer’s spirit, and a child’s terrible confusion about her proper place in the world. As the oldest daughter in a family of six children, she seemed trapped in her role as Big Sister and Mommy’s Helper. Then, one day, teetering on the brink of adolescence, hormones surging, she heard someone call her “cheesecake,” and suddenly saw her path.

“Cheesecake, jailbait, sex kitten”—the very words seemed to be “doors opening” to a splendid new self. But from the moment she decides to lose her virginity and reels in her prey, a “full-grown man,” fourteen-year-old Kathy is headed for trouble. One cold, raw March night some months later, parked in a car with four boys on the outskirts of her small suburban town, she finds it.

Though she could never have foreseen the outcome of that night, the “boys in the car could just as well have been Gypsies foretelling my future,” she writes. Girls who break the rules in small towns like the one she lived in are expected to pay a very high price for their transgressions—and she did.

And yet...this young girl, as scrappy a protagonist as any in our literature, manages to transform her fate. The story of how she came to be in that car, and how she stepped out of it forever altered, to be sure, yet not forever damaged, is the theme of this extraordinary coming-of-age tale.

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Editorial Reviews

From the Publisher
"This is the most honest, unflinching account of the sexuality of an adolescent girl I've ever read.  Kathy Dobie treads fearlessly in that undiscovered country."
—Haven Kimmel author of A Girl Named Zippy

“Kathy Dobie writes a prose so fine that she leaves the reader breathless with pleasure.”
—Richard Rodriguez

The Only Girl in the Car is a memoir at its best—haunting honesty combined with literary grace. An impossible task, but this book accomplishes it, in a form so elegant as to seem effortless…. What a storyteller, and what a soul to tell it!”
—Jennifer Lauck, author of Blackbird

"The Only Girl in the Car is at once as comfortable as a dear friend and as terrifying as a dear friend's darkest secret. Open and honest and dignified, this is the memoir, often funny, always intelligent, of an era, of a family, but, most of all, of a remarkable and resilient girl's intimacy with her own mistakes."
Cathleen Schine, author of Alice in Bed, The Love Letter, and The Evolution of Jane

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Product Details

  • ISBN-13: 9780385318839
  • Publisher: Random House Publishing Group
  • Publication date: 3/2/2004
  • Edition description: Reprint
  • Pages: 228
  • Sales rank: 448,755
  • Product dimensions: 5.50 (w) x 8.20 (h) x 0.52 (d)

Meet the Author

Kathy Dobie has written for Harper’s, The Village Voice, Vibe, Salon, and a number of other magazines. She lives in Brooklyn, New York.

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Read an Excerpt

A House for Children

Let me show you the house of my childhood. a gray house, oyster gray with white trim, sitting on the intersection of Treadwell and Clifford streets in Hamden, Connecticut, neither grand nor mean, just a solid-looking house with a small backyard, a one-car garage with an orange basketball hoop set above the doors, and tiger lilies languid along the driveway. In the backyard, there's a red-and-green jungle gym and swing set that my parents bought at Sears and my father put together himself, kneeling down in the grass in his shirtsleeves, the instructions spread out in front of him, holding a metal rod in each hand, sweat pouring from his brow.

The front yard is moon-shaped and open to the street, giving it a wild and friendly feeling like you might get running down a hill or holding your arms out to someone else running down. On the right side of the house, there's a sunporch with a red-and-green striped awning, a fence and a privet hedge. Between the fence and the hedge, a dirt path has been worn through by my brothers, sisters and me, a shortcut, a children's way to go. The adults must plod up the driveway. There, our blue station wagon is parked under the basketball net.

A white picket fence runs between our house and the house of the family next door, the Wrights, who have a girl named Terry who is my age—eight on the day I'm picturing—and a tomboy. Terry takes trumpet lessons and so does my older brother Bill, and sometimes they take their trumpets and play out of the attic windows to each other, leaning out over the driveway below.

Terry also takes dance classes with me at Miss Marie's Dance Studio on Whitney Avenue. I like ballet, she hates it. Only tap is rough and noisy enough for her. Tap, tap, tap, jump and bang away on the wood floor. Once in ballet class, we had our legs up on the bar and Terry fell over backward. She stayed in the same pose, flat on her back but with one leg up and her toes pointed prettily in the air, did it because she thought it was funny to see Miss Marie and Miss Vera—who didn't give a damn about her—fuss and fuss because they thought she might be hurt, a hopeless dancer but still a tuition-paying daughter of somebody. When I want to play with Terry, I don't ring the doorbell, I stand at the back fence and yell, "Ohhhhh, Terr-eeeeee!" And sometimes to make her laugh I say, "When you're wright, you're wright."

Here's the attic of our house with its slanted, wood-paneled ceilings and the windows tucked under them. There are two bedrooms up here, my sister Cindy's and mine, and our older brothers' room, Michael and Bill's.

In my brothers' room, two of the three windows look out over the intersection of Treadwell and Clifford. It's not much of a view, I suppose, gray and white houses going up along the block, smallish yards, telephone wires looping above the trees like a pencil sketching, a solitary traffic light bobbing above the intersection like a boat on a breeze; but to a child of the suburbs, the view from an attic window is like the view from a castle or a hilltop. Only three floors up but you're as high as almost any high suburban thing, up there with the treetops, the gray roofs and chimneys, the crows, the sparrows, the rain when it's coming down fast before it hits anything.

Michael and Bill have a nubby red carpet in their room, red-and-tan bedspreads, and twin beds that are always made up—we can't go downstairs in the morning without first making our beds. Their desks are already boys' desks, the ink blotters covered with graffiti, the shelves above lined with basketball trophies and not much more, none of the pretty little knickknacks that my sister Cindy and I have collected. Michael's the oldest in the family, a redhead, wiry and energetic, and that's his bed by the two windows overlooking the interesection, and his desk next to the third window in the room, the one that looks down on to the backyard with its swing set and jungle gym. Michael's ten and already confident of his place in the world. Or so it seems to me.

After we come home from church on Sunday, Michael makes the rest of us kids play Mass in the dining room—he is the priest and we are the parishioners, standing and kneeling and standing and sitting and kneeling all over again. We call him Captain Catfish because he's the firstborn and because we have a catfish in the tank downstairs that is the same coloring as Michael, an orangy red, like a flame.

Michael gets the window views but Bill, one year younger, blond and blue-eyed, the family wit, if you can be a wit at nine, gets the bigger desk and dresser. My parents try hard to keep things balanced between us.

"I love all of my children equally!" my mother says, so fervently and so often that I feel it should be inscribed in the house somewhere, above the kitchen doorway perhaps.

Here's the bedroom I share with my sister Cindy, who's one year younger than I—our twin beds with their white blankets, our blue-painted desks, hers covered with statues and pictures of owls and mine with bells and dolls. We have only two little windows, and they look out over the driveway and into the attic of Lori Wright's house, so close it seems like the houses might be secretly talking to each other.

A real live hamster lives in a cage on the shelf above Cindy's desk. His name is Mr. H., and when he's not hurrying and snuffling along the sawdust on the cage floor, he's running on the wheel, running and running and running, his long claws clicking on the wheel and the wheel making a rattling, whirring sound. Between his running and the fact that he ate his mate after she ate all her babies, Cindy and I don't like him much, but what can we do? We have to live with this murderer, this monster, feed him pellets and water in the morning, clean his cage on Saturdays, and watch him exercise all day.

The four of us older kids are only one year apart from each other—ten, nine, eight, and seven. We make up a little tribe of our own, a merry band, the Four Musketeers, and the attic is our domain and hideaway.

Up until this year, we all slept together in the boys' bedroom, but then my father and my great-uncle Lance built another room and we were divided, the boys and the girls, a division I think of as not unlike one of God's acts of creation in Genesis, which seem to me to be about making distinctions, separating the day from the night, the land from the sea, sending birds up, fish down.

We're very close, the four of us, and we manage that without really knowing one another. We don't talk about our feelings. We don't know the exact shape of each other's fears and joys, but we know the scent of each other when we sleep, the sharp, sweet smell and rushing sound of one of us peeing in the toilet bowl in the morning, the feel of Michael's stiff curly hair, springy on the palm of my hand, the shape of the whitish scar on Billy's knee where a long sliver of wood pierced it when he went sliding across a wooden floor one day, the sound of Cindy's dreams at night, the murmurs and quickened breath and sudden shouts of "Help! He's getting away! The frog's on the bridge!"

Our closeness is mute and sensual. We're like a pack of wild animals, eating, drinking, running, always running together until we rest together, running up and down the stairs, through all the rooms of the house, out the back door and over the green, green lawn like lions or birds or floods.

In the weeks after our parents separated us, the girls in one room, the boys in the other, we slept with our doors open, not wanting to shut one another out. Michael and Bill sang Cindy and me to sleep at night, or tried to. Mostly they sang church songs, rousing and mournful and not in any particular order, so their dirgelike rendition of "Swing Low, Sweet Chariot" might be followed with their shouting out, "When the Saints Go Marching In." Cindy and I were so appreciative, and so worried that they wouldn't know how appreciative, that we felt obliged to applaud after each song and call out, "Encore! Encore!" It became what you call a vicious cycle—we couldn't sleep and they couldn't stop singing, and so after a while they gave it up. One night, the bedroom doors seemed to close of their own accord.

Down the stairs we go, to the second floor, where my parents sleep, and little Beth, and where the baby will sleep, too, when he arrives. Beth Ann has a tribe of stuffed animals in her bedroom. She needs a tribe of them, I think, for she is a few years apart from the rest of us and so just a little outside of our merry band. I don't know if she's lonely. I know she's solitary, telling her secrets to her animals and her Mrs. Beasley doll. It makes me feel odd that she has an old lady for a doll, a blue-and-white polka-dotted lady, but old nonetheless with an apron and granny spectacles. Who is taking care of who here?

She's four and she will become Mommy's helper once I stop—the oldest girl and then the youngest, each stepping up in her own time to pound the cutlets, peel the carrots, measure the flour, run down to the basement and put the laundry in the dryer.

Beth Ann's real name is Elizabeth Ann. Our parents named her after the newest saint to be canonized, Elizabeth Ann Seton, but from the start they simply called her Beth Ann.

Beth Ann has long blond hair, which my mother or I brush back into a ponytail. The tail makes a corkscrew and bounces up and down just like a spring when she walks. She has tiny features, pink cheeks, blue eyes. This fifth child was born with arthritis in one leg, and before she even turned two, they made her wear a cast and then a brace for a year. So Beth Ann didn't stand and then walk the way other toddlers do. She got as far as standing, and then they put her in a brace and she had to go back down on the ground, pulling herself along with her arms. My father called her a "trouper." When she looked up at me from the floor, all wide blue eyes and pink cheeks, her little lips in a Cupid sort of bow, she looked like a cheerful storybook caterpillar.

Stephen isn't born yet. He's in my mother's belly. It's fall and he won't arrive until the middle of winter.

Let's take a morning, any morning, a school morning in the fall of that year. The second-floor hallway smells of Irish Spring soap and shaving cream. The bathroom door is open and the steam from my father's shower is still tunneling out and filling the cold autumn hallway with moist heat and prickly scent, like the tracks a big animal might leave, for my father has just finished his shower and left to begin dressing. From my parents' bedroom, I can hear bureau drawers being pulled out and slammed shut, their brass pulls clanking, closet doors opening and closing, the sharp, swift sounds of my father getting ready to go to work, his feet, in shoes now, tapping briskly across the wood floor, a readiness and an energy that puts my sleepiness to shame and thrusts me down the stairs—late, late, I can't be late! I'm always late, it seems, always one step behind where I'm supposed to be.

The hallway stairs lead into the living room, and both are covered in a blue and green shag carpet, an ocean of a carpet, all waving tendrils, lovely on the feet and the source of many games for us children, games I'm beginning to grow out of, like "shark," in which we must hop from one piece of the furniture to the other, never letting our feet touch the sharky sea of the carpet, lest we be eaten alive.

In the kitchen, the light is fluorescent bright on the white linoleum floor and the gray Formica table, and my brothers and sisters are already seated and bent into their cereal bowls, tucked in behind boxes of Cheerios and Kix and Lucky Charms, Michael and Bill and Cindy reading the backs of theirs while they eat, Beth Ann pretending to.

"Hi, honey," my mother says. "Did you have a good sleep?"

She is in her lacy pink nightgown, her green furry robe, her satiny slippers and white athletic socks, and still she shivers. The end of her nose is pink. Her short hair, a brownish blond, is tousled, her face is young, though varicose veins wind themselves around her slender legs, pushing out knots here and there as if a beautiful blue vine were putting out hard buds.

My mother spends her days in the kingdom of children. There, she is our queen, and also our most lowly servant. She was only nineteen when she married my father, dropping out of college against her mother's wishes, twenty when Michael was born, twenty-one when Bill came along, twenty-three and -four for me and Cindy. Her childhood was the exact opposite of ours; it's as if she was born in another country altogether. She was an only child, and fatherless, too, for her parents separated when she was two years old. Her mother had left her husband and driven halfway across the country from Oklahoma to Connecticut, where her sister Bert was living, and my mother never saw her father again. When she was a girl, she prayed to God for a brother or a sister just so she would have some company. Now, with five of us and another one snuggled inside, she's never alone, but she's shy around other adults, and when we are out among strangers I feel that we, her children, serve to cloak and protect her.

She's allergic to something in the morning air, and while she fixes our lunches and tells us to take our elbows off the table or get our pajama sleeves out of the milk, she furiously rubs the end of her nose and sneezes, always in groups of three, achoo achoo achoo. From behind his cereal box, my brother Bill says, "God bless, God bless, God bless you." And no matter how many times he has said that, and this must be the seven hundredth, my siblings and I marvel at his wit.

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First Chapter

A House for Children

Let me show you the house of my childhood. a gray house, oyster gray with white trim, sitting on the intersection of Treadwell and Clifford streets in Hamden, Connecticut, neither grand nor mean, just a solid-looking house with a small backyard, a one-car garage with an orange basketball hoop set above the doors, and tiger lilies languid along the driveway. In the backyard, there's a red-and-green jungle gym and swing set that my parents bought at Sears and my father put together himself, kneeling down in the grass in his shirtsleeves, the instructions spread out in front of him, holding a metal rod in each hand, sweat pouring from his brow.

The front yard is moon-shaped and open to the street, giving it a wild and friendly feeling like you might get running down a hill or holding your arms out to someone else running down. On the right side of the house, there's a sunporch with a red-and-green striped awning, a fence and a privet hedge. Between the fence and the hedge, a dirt path has been worn through by my brothers, sisters and me, a shortcut, a children's way to go. The adults must plod up the driveway. There, our blue station wagon is parked under the basketball net.

A white picket fence runs between our house and the house of the family next door, the Wrights, who have a girl named Terry who is my age--eight on the day I'm picturing--and a tomboy. Terry takes trumpet lessons and so does my older brother Bill, and sometimes they take their trumpets and play out of the attic windows to each other, leaning out over the driveway below.

Terry also takes dance classes with me at Miss Marie's Dance Studio on Whitney Avenue. I likeballet, she hates it. Only tap is rough and noisy enough for her. Tap, tap, tap, jump and bang away on the wood floor. Once in ballet class, we had our legs up on the bar and Terry fell over backward. She stayed in the same pose, flat on her back but with one leg up and her toes pointed prettily in the air, did it because she thought it was funny to see Miss Marie and Miss Vera--who didn't give a damn about her--fuss and fuss because they thought she might be hurt, a hopeless dancer but still a tuition-paying daughter of somebody. When I want to play with Terry, I don't ring the doorbell, I stand at the back fence and yell, "Ohhhhh, Terr-eeeeee!" And sometimes to make her laugh I say, "When you're wright, you're wright."

Here's the attic of our house with its slanted, wood-paneled ceilings and the windows tucked under them. There are two bedrooms up here, my sister Cindy's and mine, and our older brothers' room, Michael and Bill's.

In my brothers' room, two of the three windows look out over the intersection of Treadwell and Clifford. It's not much of a view, I suppose, gray and white houses going up along the block, smallish yards, telephone wires looping above the trees like a pencil sketching, a solitary traffic light bobbing above the intersection like a boat on a breeze; but to a child of the suburbs, the view from an attic window is like the view from a castle or a hilltop. Only three floors up but you're as high as almost any high suburban thing, up there with the treetops, the gray roofs and chimneys, the crows, the sparrows, the rain when it's coming down fast before it hits anything.

Michael and Bill have a nubby red carpet in their room, red-and-tan bedspreads, and twin beds that are always made up--we can't go downstairs in the morning without first making our beds. Their desks are already boys' desks, the ink blotters covered with graffiti, the shelves above lined with basketball trophies and not much more, none of the pretty little knickknacks that my sister Cindy and I have collected. Michael's the oldest in the family, a redhead, wiry and energetic, and that's his bed by the two windows overlooking the interesection, and his desk next to the third window in the room, the one that looks down on to the backyard with its swing set and jungle gym. Michael's ten and already confident of his place in the world. Or so it seems to me.

After we come home from church on Sunday, Michael makes the rest of us kids play Mass in the dining room--he is the priest and we are the parishioners, standing and kneeling and standing and sitting and kneeling all over again. We call him Captain Catfish because he's the firstborn and because we have a catfish in the tank downstairs that is the same coloring as Michael, an orangy red, like a flame.

Michael gets the window views but Bill, one year younger, blond and blue-eyed, the family wit, if you can be a wit at nine, gets the bigger desk and dresser. My parents try hard to keep things balanced between us.

"I love all of my children equally!" my mother says, so fervently and so often that I feel it should be inscribed in the house somewhere, above the kitchen doorway perhaps.

Here's the bedroom I share with my sister Cindy, who's one year younger than I--our twin beds with their white blankets, our blue-painted desks, hers covered with statues and pictures of owls and mine with bells and dolls. We have only two little windows, and they look out over the driveway and into the attic of Lori Wright's house, so close it seems like the houses might be secretly talking to each other.

A real live hamster lives in a cage on the shelf above Cindy's desk. His name is Mr. H., and when he's not hurrying and snuffling along the sawdust on the cage floor, he's running on the wheel, running and running and running, his long claws clicking on the wheel and the wheel making a rattling, whirring sound. Between his running and the fact that he ate his mate after she ate all her babies, Cindy and I don't like him much, but what can we do? We have to live with this murderer, this monster, feed him pellets and water in the morning, clean his cage on Saturdays, and watch him exercise all day.

The four of us older kids are only one year apart from each other--ten, nine, eight, and seven. We make up a little tribe of our own, a merry band, the Four Musketeers, and the attic is our domain and hideaway.

Up until this year, we all slept together in the boys' bedroom, but then my father and my great-uncle Lance built another room and we were divided, the boys and the girls, a division I think of as not unlike one of God's acts of creation in Genesis, which seem to me to be about making distinctions, separating the day from the night, the land from the sea, sending birds up, fish down.

We're very close, the four of us, and we manage that without really knowing one another. We don't talk about our feelings. We don't know the exact shape of each other's fears and joys, but we know the scent of each other when we sleep, the sharp, sweet smell and rushing sound of one of us peeing in the toilet bowl in the morning, the feel of Michael's stiff curly hair, springy on the palm of my hand, the shape of the whitish scar on Billy's knee where a long sliver of wood pierced it when he went sliding across a wooden floor one day, the sound of Cindy's dreams at night, the murmurs and quickened breath and sudden shouts of "Help! He's getting away! The frog's on the bridge!"

Our closeness is mute and sensual. We're like a pack of wild animals, eating, drinking, running, always running together until we rest together, running up and down the stairs, through all the rooms of the house, out the back door and over the green, green lawn like lions or birds or floods.

In the weeks after our parents separated us, the girls in one room, the boys in the other, we slept with our doors open, not wanting to shut one another out. Michael and Bill sang Cindy and me to sleep at night, or tried to. Mostly they sang church songs, rousing and mournful and not in any particular order, so their dirgelike rendition of "Swing Low, Sweet Chariot" might be followed with their shouting out, "When the Saints Go Marching In." Cindy and I were so appreciative, and so worried that they wouldn't know how appreciative, that we felt obliged to applaud after each song and call out, "Encore! Encore!" It became what you call a vicious cycle--we couldn't sleep and they couldn't stop singing, and so after a while they gave it up. One night, the bedroom doors seemed to close of their own accord.

Down the stairs we go, to the second floor, where my parents sleep, and little Beth, and where the baby will sleep, too, when he arrives. Beth Ann has a tribe of stuffed animals in her bedroom. She needs a tribe of them, I think, for she is a few years apart from the rest of us and so just a little outside of our merry band. I don't know if she's lonely. I know she's solitary, telling her secrets to her animals and her Mrs. Beasley doll. It makes me feel odd that she has an old lady for a doll, a blue-and-white polka-dotted lady, but old nonetheless with an apron and granny spectacles. Who is taking care of who here?

She's four and she will become Mommy's helper once I stop--the oldest girl and then the youngest, each stepping up in her own time to pound the cutlets, peel the carrots, measure the flour, run down to the basement and put the laundry in the dryer.

Beth Ann's real name is Elizabeth Ann. Our parents named her after the newest saint to be canonized, Elizabeth Ann Seton, but from the start they simply called her Beth Ann.

Beth Ann has long blond hair, which my mother or I brush back into a ponytail. The tail makes a corkscrew and bounces up and down just like a spring when she walks. She has tiny features, pink cheeks, blue eyes. This fifth child was born with arthritis in one leg, and before she even turned two, they made her wear a cast and then a brace for a year. So Beth Ann didn't stand and then walk the way other toddlers do. She got as far as standing, and then they put her in a brace and she had to go back down on the ground, pulling herself along with her arms. My father called her a "trouper." When she looked up at me from the floor, all wide blue eyes and pink cheeks, her little lips in a Cupid sort of bow, she looked like a cheerful storybook caterpillar.

Stephen isn't born yet. He's in my mother's belly. It's fall and he won't arrive until the middle of winter.

Let's take a morning, any morning, a school morning in the fall of that year. The second-floor hallway smells of Irish Spring soap and shaving cream. The bathroom door is open and the steam from my father's shower is still tunneling out and filling the cold autumn hallway with moist heat and prickly scent, like the tracks a big animal might leave, for my father has just finished his shower and left to begin dressing. From my parents' bedroom, I can hear bureau drawers being pulled out and slammed shut, their brass pulls clanking, closet doors opening and closing, the sharp, swift sounds of my father getting ready to go to work, his feet, in shoes now, tapping briskly across the wood floor, a readiness and an energy that puts my sleepiness to shame and thrusts me down the stairs--late, late, I can't be late! I'm always late, it seems, always one step behind where I'm supposed to be.

The hallway stairs lead into the living room, and both are covered in a blue and green shag carpet, an ocean of a carpet, all waving tendrils, lovely on the feet and the source of many games for us children, games I'm beginning to grow out of, like "shark," in which we must hop from one piece of the furniture to the other, never letting our feet touch the sharky sea of the carpet, lest we be eaten alive.

In the kitchen, the light is fluorescent bright on the white linoleum floor and the gray Formica table, and my brothers and sisters are already seated and bent into their cereal bowls, tucked in behind boxes of Cheerios and Kix and Lucky Charms, Michael and Bill and Cindy reading the backs of theirs while they eat, Beth Ann pretending to.

"Hi, honey," my mother says. "Did you have a good sleep?"

She is in her lacy pink nightgown, her green furry robe, her satiny slippers and white athletic socks, and still she shivers. The end of her nose is pink. Her short hair, a brownish blond, is tousled, her face is young, though varicose veins wind themselves around her slender legs, pushing out knots here and there as if a beautiful blue vine were putting out hard buds.

My mother spends her days in the kingdom of children. There, she is our queen, and also our most lowly servant. She was only nineteen when she married my father, dropping out of college against her mother's wishes, twenty when Michael was born, twenty-one when Bill came along, twenty-three and -four for me and Cindy. Her childhood was the exact opposite of ours; it's as if she was born in another country altogether. She was an only child, and fatherless, too, for her parents separated when she was two years old. Her mother had left her husband and driven halfway across the country from Oklahoma to Connecticut, where her sister Bert was living, and my mother never saw her father again. When she was a girl, she prayed to God for a brother or a sister just so she would have some company. Now, with five of us and another one snuggled inside, she's never alone, but she's shy around other adults, and when we are out among strangers I feel that we, her children, serve to cloak and protect her.

She's allergic to something in the morning air, and while she fixes our lunches and tells us to take our elbows off the table or get our pajama sleeves out of the milk, she furiously rubs the end of her nose and sneezes, always in groups of three, achoo achoo achoo. From behind his cereal box, my brother Bill says, "God bless, God bless, God bless you." And no matter how many times he has said that, and this must be the seven hundredth, my siblings and I marvel at his wit.
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Introduction

The questions, discussion topics, and author biography that follow are intended to enhance your reading of Kathy Dobie’s The Only Girl in the Car. We hope they will enrich your experience of this riveting, poignantly honest memoir.

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Foreword

1. One of the first characters Kathy Dobie introduces is Brian, the thirty-three-year-old she meets on her parents’ front lawn. What are your first impressions of Brian and Kathy, based on this initial encounter? How did those impressions change throughout the book?

2. Though many of Kathy’s experiences reflect the time period during which they occurred, her fantasies and impulses have several universal qualities. What outcomes would you predict for today’s teenage Kathy Dobies?

3. Religious imagery frequently appears in this memoir. In what way does the author’s attitude towards God vary from the time she maintains a secret “chapel drawer” to her concluding paragraphs about the Reverend Betty Neal?

4. When Kathy embarks on a mission to lose her virginity, what does “virginity” represent to her? Does the actual experience provide any of the benefits for which she had hoped?

5. Chapter eleven describes the ironic cross-country vacation that Kathy’s parents think of as a wholesome family activity. Why do you suppose they were so unaware of Kathy’s communication with leering passersby? Were you surprised by Mr. Dobie’s lack of response when his co-worker called the snapshot of Kathy “cheesecake?”

6. What does Bill teach Kathy about their family’s protocol regarding rebellion?

7. Does Catholicism lend a particular tone to Kathy’s youth that other faiths might not have? Why? What are some examples?

8. Kathy’s parents told her years later that they heard her sneaking out at night but, short of locking her in her room, “didn’t know what todo.” Do you agree with their actions? To which parent does Kathy seem more responsive?

9. Does the Teen Center provide a microcosm of Hamden? What drew Kathy to the Center? Why were the teenagers there so quick to judge her and exonerate Jimmy?

10. Discuss the experiences that formed your bridge from childhood to adulthood. How did your impulses compare to Kathy’s? How has your own perception of the opposite sex evolved from the time you were a teenager?

11. Compare Kathy’s relationship to Bill to that of her other siblings. Does her affection for him seem mutual?

12. Discuss the significance of the following line, which refers to a tan blonde who catches the gaze of Kathy’s father: “I wanted to be her, collecting stares as I walked down the street, pulling fathers from their suitlike selves.” What might the “suitlike self” mean to her? What were some of the other motivations behind her adolescent actions?

13. Kathy mentions her mother’s dinner-table proclamations against feminists. “Stephen wouldn’t have understood her agitation…. The rest of us had begun to harden our hearts against her. We had to, for she had set all her hopes and dreams, her sense of worth, on the idea of a big, happy, loving family. And we were going to crush her dream.” What makes Kathy so certain that she and her siblings would never live up to Mrs. Dobie’s ideal?

14. What did Kathy’s parents demonstrate to her about gender and power?

15. In your opinion, does Kathy’s horrific experience with Jimmy and his cohorts constitute rape? Do you believe that her friends would have been more sympathetic if the incident had happened in the twenty-first century?

16. In the face of Kathy’s ostracism, Cindy becomes a surprising source of unconditional support. How does this turn of events shape Kathy’s depiction of her family?

17. What are the challenges and benefits of growing up in a large family? What do the final chapters of The Only Girl in the Car indicate about Kathy’s attitudes toward life in groups?

18. How do Kathy’s images of New York compare to her depictions of Hamden and New Haven?

19. Do you consider Kathy’s writing of this memoir, albeit with pseudonyms, to be a risky act?

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Reading Group Guide

The questions, discussion topics, and author biography that follow are intended to enhance your reading of Kathy Dobie’s The Only Girl in the Car. We hope they will enrich your experience of this riveting, poignantly honest memoir.
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Customer Reviews

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Sort by: Showing all of 10 Customer Reviews
  • Posted May 29, 2012

    more from this reviewer

    I only write a review if I read a 5-star book, and this one defi

    I only write a review if I read a 5-star book, and this one definitely qualifies. I applaud the author's courage that allowed her to write this memoir; I could personally relate but doubt that I could share with the world the way she has. But it wasn't the actual events that captured me so very much, it was the way she put the words together to tell us about them. I felt as though I were living through these events with her (or even AS her), living in her house, with her family, and her feelings. I laughed and laughed when she described her sister wearing the snorkeling gear, and again when she described the expression on her sister's face when she sat down in her brace and toppled over, even though the scenes were poignant because of the significance of those events in both their lives. And my tears fell (I didn't even realize my eyes were welling) over the rape and the subsequent horrible treatment she endured by just about everyone in that town. Kathy Dobie's honesty made me think about things that happened to me when I was a teen and young adult, things I pushed out of my mind at the time so I wouldn't have to really feel them, but I found myself thinking differently about those events, without judging myself and without self pity. I don't know why that happened--maybe it's because we grew up in the same era--but it's a powerful thing when reading someone else's memoir allows you to find closure with your own painful past events. Ms. Dobie is a phenomenal writer. I'm so glad I read this book.

    1 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

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  • Posted May 27, 2010

    A good, sad story-

    This story was good and eye opening. The author, who is a bookworm, tells her story about growing up in a large family. She thinks sex is the answer to everything, love, friendship, belonging and acceptance. She is out of control. This is a good story. If you have ever known an "easy" girl, this story might give you some insight. It is a sad story but believe many girls can relate. I love the title of the book too- it really fits the situation. Not the most up-beat story but you will enjoy it.

    1 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted September 14, 2014

    Loved this book

    Amazing writer telling a compelling story...what's not to Love.

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  • Posted May 15, 2010

    An honest view of the double standard

    I didn't know how I would feel about this book when I started reading, but couldn't put the book down until the end. This can and does happen to many girls/women who get the title 'slut' for being openly sexually active and proud. I'm glad I was able to see how Kathy lived through it all.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted September 27, 2005

    Painfully honest..

    At times, I'm sure that this was a difficult book to write. I found it honest, sincere and written with a great deal of humility. Some lessons in life are learned with a high degree of pain and suffering. What an incredibly strong young woman! Thank you for sharing your story.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted July 9, 2003

    Flawless

    This memoir touched the core of my soul. I'm a 29 year old woman who is haunted by a past similar to that of Kathy Dobie. This book has been immense therapy for me. Kathy Dobie tells her story in a fearless and tender voice. I stumbled upon this book by accident and I thank God I did. Thank you Kathy Dobie, from the bottom of my heart.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted May 30, 2003

    College Student, English/ Womens Studies Major

    Awesome,enthralling, captivating and simply wonderful. I recommend this book to all women, and maybe even to all the men that believe women to be sex objects!! This book will open both your heart and mind.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted June 28, 2010

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    Posted May 7, 2011

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  • Anonymous

    Posted November 19, 2008

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