She emerged from the back door and lifted her face to the sun.
We stared through the garage door from the dark. None of us breathed. In that rectangle of light, she was separate from us, unreal and apart, as if spot-lit and on stage.
It was the year all the rules governing our bodies changed. Our blood flowed only southward, draining our brains of everything but pubescent thoughts of sex. We lounged half the summer on the sticky vinyl seats of a dry-docked motorboat in Milo Squires’s garage, floating steamy images to the rafters–Marcie Schmidt’s tan liquidy legs treading water beneath an iridescent two-piece; Sharon Stone’s crotch in that, you know, that scene. What if you turned into a girl and had breasts? Jesus!
These daydreams were confined mainly to that musty boat, but sometimes the supercharged air spilled over to the driveway.
Milo’s stepmom–more like an older sister–once invited herself into basketball, drink in hand, breasts spilling from her shortie nightie. What could we …