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I was still writhing from the Ivory soap scrubbing my grandmother had just administered on that narrow trail of hide behind my sunset-red ears. Not satisfied that I had adequately cleansed that particular spot by myself, she caught me from behind with that terry-cloth sandpaper of hers and began to rub me with the same intensity as when cleaning the stovetop. What was it with ears? My knees were certainly more deserving candidates. They were usually dyed grass green, or caked with black from encounters with road tar. My knees were plenty sturdy enough to withstand the scrubbing—but they always escaped notice. The attention was always on that same sensitive peninsula behind my ears.

“I won’t be able to hear a single word in the show,” I moaned.