gonna.”
“Enough,” the mother screams and then there is silence.
Cheryl looks around the yard and back at the house. Everything is still and shadowless as if stunned by the heat, the light, and the peak of the day. The house appears flat, as if it’s been cut out from a magazine and glued back into another picture. Even with the fence around it and the ivy from the neighbors’ yard growing over, wrapping around like guy wires, it is as if at any moment the house might take off and disappear into the wild blue yonder. There are no anchors, no signs of life, no swing set, pool, barbecue, nothing except Cheryl in the backyard.
She looks at the house but focuses on the sensations of herself in the heat, of her clothing in the heat, against her body. Cheryl wears her clothing like the protective coating on a cold capsule. Clothing divides her body into reasonable sections, arms and legs that need to be kept apart from other arms and legs, safe from the possibility of skin touching skin and rubbing itself raw.
Outside, as she sweats, her clothing separates itself from her body and begins to slip slightly, working against her, moving independently. When she breathes in, her bra creeps up and sticks, like a rubber band around her ribs, biting her and then creeping up again, higher, when she exhales.
In a moment of extreme consciousness, she sits straight up, reaches her hand up the back of her shirt, and releases the bra, sending it snapping across her chest like a slingshot. She pulls it off under her shirt and drops it, lifeless, onto the grass.
In the hot air the surface of her skin becomes tacky and the tops of her thighs touch and stick together, gripping each other in a vaguely masturbatory manner. She moves her legs to separate them. This touching and pulling apart causes a soft lip-smacking sound. Her thighs rub together even in her thoughts.
There is the distant sound of a doorbell, a sound like the tone in a hearing test. When you hear the beep, raise your finger. She hears the doorbell and then a muffled voice.
“Chunky, Chunky, are you here?”
She hears the boy who lives next door, the boy who is three years younger than her, the boy she plays games with that they tell no one about. She does it because he wants to and she wants to and she can’t find anyone her own age to do it with, and besides she feels better doing it with him because she’s bigger than him, and he does what she tells him to. He doesn’t care that she’s fat because he’s getting to and he doesn’t know anyone else who is getting to, and he likes that she is older because even though he can’t talk about it anywhere, it gives him a new kind of credibility even if it’s only in his mind. She doesn’t let him see her actually naked; that’s one of her rules and part of what makes it all right. He just sees bits and pieces but it’s never too much, never overwhelming. He doesn’t try to kiss her and she likes that.
“Chunky, are you here?” His voice is higher than it should be. She doesn’t like it when he talks. “Chunky, I think you’re home.”
She hears him calling but doesn’t answer. It doesn’t mean she doesn’t want him, but she can’t bring herself to speak. She lies on the lawn chair and thinks of him coming around the house, into the backyard and finding her. She thinks of him topless, his shoulders looking new and too big for the rest of him. She sees him unzipping his shorts and pulling them down, his erection jutting forward like an extra limb, a birth defect. She spreads her legs and he comes toward her. She has to spread her legs very wide in order to make a space between her thighs. He kneels on the grass and pushes in.
He grabs her breasts and squeezes them again and again like they are the black rubber bulbs on bicycle horns. He pushes into her hard and quick and she can feel it everywhere. He slams in and the newest part of her, the freshest fat, the softest flesh, jiggles. Her hips, thighs,
“Enough,” the mother screams and then there is silence.
Cheryl looks around the yard and back at the house. Everything is still and shadowless as if stunned by the heat, the light, and the peak of the day. The house appears flat, as if it’s been cut out from a magazine and glued back into another picture. Even with the fence around it and the ivy from the neighbors’ yard growing over, wrapping around like guy wires, it is as if at any moment the house might take off and disappear into the wild blue yonder. There are no anchors, no signs of life, no swing set, pool, barbecue, nothing except Cheryl in the backyard.
She looks at the house but focuses on the sensations of herself in the heat, of her clothing in the heat, against her body. Cheryl wears her clothing like the protective coating on a cold capsule. Clothing divides her body into reasonable sections, arms and legs that need to be kept apart from other arms and legs, safe from the possibility of skin touching skin and rubbing itself raw.
Outside, as she sweats, her clothing separates itself from her body and begins to slip slightly, working against her, moving independently. When she breathes in, her bra creeps up and sticks, like a rubber band around her ribs, biting her and then creeping up again, higher, when she exhales.
In a moment of extreme consciousness, she sits straight up, reaches her hand up the back of her shirt, and releases the bra, sending it snapping across her chest like a slingshot. She pulls it off under her shirt and drops it, lifeless, onto the grass.
In the hot air the surface of her skin becomes tacky and the tops of her thighs touch and stick together, gripping each other in a vaguely masturbatory manner. She moves her legs to separate them. This touching and pulling apart causes a soft lip-smacking sound. Her thighs rub together even in her thoughts.
There is the distant sound of a doorbell, a sound like the tone in a hearing test. When you hear the beep, raise your finger. She hears the doorbell and then a muffled voice.
“Chunky, Chunky, are you here?”
She hears the boy who lives next door, the boy who is three years younger than her, the boy she plays games with that they tell no one about. She does it because he wants to and she wants to and she can’t find anyone her own age to do it with, and besides she feels better doing it with him because she’s bigger than him, and he does what she tells him to. He doesn’t care that she’s fat because he’s getting to and he doesn’t know anyone else who is getting to, and he likes that she is older because even though he can’t talk about it anywhere, it gives him a new kind of credibility even if it’s only in his mind. She doesn’t let him see her actually naked; that’s one of her rules and part of what makes it all right. He just sees bits and pieces but it’s never too much, never overwhelming. He doesn’t try to kiss her and she likes that.
“Chunky, are you here?” His voice is higher than it should be. She doesn’t like it when he talks. “Chunky, I think you’re home.”
She hears him calling but doesn’t answer. It doesn’t mean she doesn’t want him, but she can’t bring herself to speak. She lies on the lawn chair and thinks of him coming around the house, into the backyard and finding her. She thinks of him topless, his shoulders looking new and too big for the rest of him. She sees him unzipping his shorts and pulling them down, his erection jutting forward like an extra limb, a birth defect. She spreads her legs and he comes toward her. She has to spread her legs very wide in order to make a space between her thighs. He kneels on the grass and pushes in.
He grabs her breasts and squeezes them again and again like they are the black rubber bulbs on bicycle horns. He pushes into her hard and quick and she can feel it everywhere. He slams in and the newest part of her, the freshest fat, the softest flesh, jiggles. Her hips, thighs,
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