Chilly morning in late September. People out cleaning up their yards. Air full of the smell of chlorophyll and the drowsy iron song of the mowers. I am sitting on a wall at a busy intersection this Saturday with a friend of mine from school. Since we are trembling on the brink of puberty we are talking about little girls and the ways they have of letting little boys know they’re interested.
And speak of the devil. Along comes this girl I’ve never seen before riding a bike slowly down the sidewalk. Brown hair flowing beautifully down her shoulders, wearing a boy’s oversized flannel shirt over a low cut tank top. When she looks at us she glances only briefly, then tosses her hair back out of her eyes and ends up in a pose with her lips ever so slightly parted. The low tank top really shows us what she’s got, which is her intent. She’s just begun to really get breasts and she wants to make sure no one in the whole world is deprived of knowing that, since no woman in the history of the whole world has ever grown a pair, just her. Kids are like that.
As she rides by I like what I’m looking at so much I break off in mid sentence and gawk at her. After she passes us she raises her rear end just up off the seat of the bike to show us her ass and wiggles it at us so we wont think what’s back there isn’t as good as what’s up front.
The boy sees me staring at her and snorts in disgust.
Oh, that’s Ginger, he says. She’ll give you a piece any old time.
I look at him and raise my eyebrows.
It’s true! He protests indignantly. If you don’t believe me just ask…
I believe you, I believe you, I say. And I bet that’s not all she’d give you.
He shrugs and says, So? Wear something.
Better wear three somethins.
We laugh so hard we are in danger of falling off the low wall. If Ginger hears us laughing at her she gives no indication as she turns the corner.
I never see Ginger again, and it’s a good thing. That girl is trouble, and I would have been in a world of it as soon as she touched me with those cute little hands.