Zipped by Laura McNeal

black bra with matching brief. Each had fancy lacy scallops at the edges, and when Mick held the bra in his hand he could see right through it.
    He stared at the underwear a long time before dropping it back on top and closing the hamper. Then he made appropriate sound effects—flushing the toilet, running water at the wash-basin—before coming downstairs. He phoned Reece from the kitchen, where Nora was slicing carrots to go with the pork chops. “I’m taking Foolish to the park now,” he told Reece.
    â€œWhich park?” Reece said.
    â€œThornden,” Mick said.
    He grabbed his jacket from the sofa and headed for the backyard to leash Foolish.
    â€œDinner’s at six,” Nora called after him.
    Mick pretended not to hear.
    Mick had been tossing Frisbees to Foolish for about ten minutes before Reece ambled up. He was a big kid who gave a general impression of looseness. His Nikes were untied, his flannel shirt was untucked, and he’d made slow walking part of his personal code of conduct. “You walk fast, and citizens might erroneously believe you’ve bought into the system,” he once told Mick.
    Today he sat on a tabletop with his feet on the bench and said, “So our own Mick Nichols is gainfully employed.”
    Mick grinned and waited for Foolish to set the Frisbee at his feet.
    Reece said, “You know what you are now? Part of the working class. One more lump folded into the buttery batter.”
    Mick gave a little laugh and tossed the Frisbee in a long slicing arc that ended with Foolish snatching it from the sky. It was hot in the sun. Mick shed his leather jacket and laid it on the table beside Reece.
    A few tosses later, Reece said, “What’s this?”
    Mick turned. Reece was holding the green floppy disk, turning it over in his hand. Mick’s first impulse was to say, “None of your business, put it back,” but he knew that would only feed Reece’s interest. He tried to sound matter-of-fact. “It’s the second draft of my muckraker essay,” he lied, “which I can’t lose, because I already lost it once.”
    As Mick spoke, Reece studied him closely. “Then why didn’t you label it?”
    Mick gave the Frisbee a casual toss. “Because I know what it is.” Then he turned to his friend. “Also where it is, so if you wouldn’t mind zipping it back into the pocket . . .”
    Reece was still regarding the disk when something beyond Mick caught his eye. Reece sat transfixed, staring. Finally he said in a low voice, “Okay. Incoming at three o’clock. Two females. Really, really excellent bazongas.”
    Mick gave the girls a quick glance—they carried heavy textbooks, wore long SU T-shirts over cutoff denim shorts, and were spreading out a blanket in the sun. Mick turned back around. “College girls,” he said.
    Reece was undeterred. He kept staring. A half minute passed, and then he said, “I urge you to take another look, Mickman.”
    Mick did. The girls had pulled off their shirts and were sitting now in denim cutoffs and bikini tops. They were putting on sunscreen. Reece said, “Throw the Frisbee over there.”
    Mick said, “That would be impressive.”
    Reece stared at the girls fixedly. “Okay. Let’s go talk to them.”
    Mick had to laugh. “They’re five years older than us, Reece. And this is not to mention the fact that you and I don’t go up and talk to girls of that caliber, ever.”
    Reece gave it some thought and said, “I read in one of Mr. Reece’s psychology books that lots of women secretly crave younger men.” Mr. and Mrs. Reece were Reece’s joke terms for his parents.
    Mick laughed again. “You’re not a man, kiddo. You’re a Reececake.”
    Reece said nothing but kept staring. Finally he said, “Okay, I’ll go alone.”
    â€œYou, Winston Reece, are going to go