RichardDaub.com, March 2024

At the side of the house where the trash receptacles were kept, Carl, who had, the night before, pilfered several cans of Budweiser from the fridge and consumed them in his room, was now quietly disposing of the empties when he thought he heard a girl call his name.

He looked around but didn’t see anyone, then resumed his task until he heard it again. This time it was closer and came from the other side of the rotting stockade fence surrounding their next-door neighbor’s backyard, a rusty grave of car parts, oil drums, bench presses, alcohol stills, and lawnmowers surrounding an above-ground pool full of primordial green water.

“Oh,” Carl said. “Hey, Sherry.”

Sherry was a year younger than Carl. She wasn’t that pretty and had a bad home perm that didn’t help, but her body had blossomed and she was wearing a neon pink tank top, cutoff jeans, and a little bit of makeup. She’d always just been another of the kids on the block, but now she looked like sex.

“You’re getting good at guitar,” she said.

“Thanks,” Carl said, surprised. He had recently purchased a used white Phantom electric guitar and 12-watt Peavy Audition amp and had been practicing riffs from Led Zeppelin II.

“I was watching you play the other night when you had your shirt off,” she said. “You had on the yellow bandana and you were sweating.”

“Uh, yeah, I was just working out in the basement and then I went upstairs and started jamming.”

“Yeah, and you were really pumped up. It made me touch myself.”

“Oh. Wow.”

“I finished really quickly, then I did it again.”

“Jeez, Sherry. Why are you telling me this?”

“Because I see you touching yourself all the time, and I thought that—”

“Wait, what? How?”

“When your window is open like that, I can see your reflection on the glass when you’re on your bed.”

Carl looked up at his bedroom windows. They were Andersen casement windows, the kind that swing out by turning a handle, and, sure enough, on one of the panes, he saw the reflection of his unmade bed.

“You do it a lot,” she said.

“No I don’t! What the hell?”

“It’s okay. I do it way more than you. But it gets kind of boring after a while, and, you know, I was thinking that you probably get bored of it too.”

“Uh, yeah, I guess.”

“Do you wanna come over? Nobody’s home, and I’ll let you go all the way. I want you to.”

Carl looked at one of the “NO TRESPASSING” signs posted all over their yard, then back at Sherry.

“For real?”

“Sure. It’s no big deal.”

He looked around again, then said, “Uh, okay, but I have to run into the house for a minute.”

His mother was out food shopping, his stepfather at work. His younger brother and sister were in their rooms with the doors closed. He stopped in the living room and listened for a moment, then proceeded into his mother and stepfather’s bedroom, where, from his stepfather’s travel bag, he retrieved from inside the lining of the Remington electric razor case a Trojan ribbed and lubricated condom, which he slid into his tube sock.

Sherry was waiting at the gate and unlatched it. He followed her through the yard and into the house, a ranch with early-1960s décor that smelled of stale cigarette smoke and Lysol, but tidy.

Her room was at the end of the hall, the walls covered with posters and magazine photos of Michael J. Fox, Ralph Macchio, Kirk Cameron, Jon Bon Jovi, and New Kids on the Block.

She closed the door.

“I can’t believe you’re really here,” she said. “I’ve never done this before for real, but I think I know what to do. And I’m a good kisser. I’ve kissed two boys. Do you wanna make out?”

Carl shrugged and said, “Sure.”

Like shy dancers, they positioned themselves in the middle of the room and tried to figure out what to do with their hands, until she had hers around his neck and his on the small of her back. Carl was taller and had to lower his head to kiss her. Their lips met. A tentative peck. Another peck.

She slipped her tongue into his mouth. Her kisses became aggressive and he fell backwards, landing on the stuffed animals, she on top of him, still kissing.

She sat up and removed her tank-top, then unhooked her bra and tossed it aside.

“You can touch them,” she said.

Her nipples were firm and sensitive. She closed her eyes and shivered at his touch. He leaned forward and put his mouth on one of them, prompting her to moan. She touched him through his shorts.

“Do you think I’m pretty?” she asked.

Hesitating very slightly, Carl answered, “Yes.” He knew she had noticed.

“I know that I’m not,” she said. “But that’s okay.”

“You are. It’s just a little weird because you were always just the kid next door. But I think you’re pretty hot now. I really do. I mean it.”

She smiled, then leaned in to kiss him. Eyes closed, mouth parted, she did look pretty.

Just as their lips met, there was a noise from somewhere else in the house.

“Oh no, it’s my father,” she whispered. “He’s home early, which means he’s probably drunk and will kill you if he finds you here. Just wait here a minute and I’ll go distract him, then sneak out the back the same way we came in.”

She put on her tank top and left the room, running down the hall exclaiming, “Daddy! Daddy! I just saw the mouse again in the kitchen!”

“What? Where is he?” he growled. “I’m gonna kill that motherfucker!” Then there was a crash of pots and pans and more cursing.

Carl slipped out the back door unnoticed.

Moments later, in his own bedroom, he closed the windows and lowered the blinds. ▪