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mother
turned down her nose at this. “You know the rule.”
     I rolled my
eyes. “I know. I just want to give her a chance to see it.”
     “Alright,
but leave the door open.”
     I rolled my
eyes again as I took Jo’s hand and we went upstairs.
     My room
looked like what most teenage boy’s rooms probably look like if you add a
passion for photography and a desire to travel. Maps hanging on the walls.
Shelves full off photography material. An Ansel Adams here and there.
     “Wow, you
really do want to travel,” Jo said leaning forward to look more closely at the
antique looking map of Europe I had pinned to a corkboard with little pins
marking of all the places I wanted to visit.
     “Yeah, a big
part of me wants to be a war correspondent, but another part of me doesn’t want
to get shot, so I think I’ll try Europe first.”
     Then she sat
down on the bed.
     “So, this is
your bed huh?” she asked with a flirty little tilt of the head.
     My ears
perked back. “Yeah.”
     She ran her
hand over the top cover.
     “You should
close your eyes.”
     “Why?”
     She looked
out the open door then back at me and whispered. “Cause I want to do something
naughty.”
     I swallowed.
Then I closed my eyes.
     I wasn’t
quite sure what I was expecting, but she definitely had my attention.
     I could hear
rustling.
     “Okay, you
can open them,” she whispered.
     When I did I
saw her holding a pair of lace, white panties. She pulled back the top blanket,
laid them out flat on the bed and put the cover back. Then she turned, as
though nothing had happened, and went back downstairs.
     I didn’t
know how to respond.
     “Thank you
for dinner Dawn, but I should probably be heading home,” I heard Jo say
downstairs, so I went down and gave her a ride home.
     “What was
that all about?” I asked as we approached her street.
     “What?”
     “What do you
mean what?” I asked looking over at her.
     She bit her
lip.
     She just
looked at me. Then we both burst out laughing.
     

Eight
     
     
     It was
Sunday afternoon. It had been raining all morning leaving everything coated in
a layer of vibrant wetness.
     Jo had been
studying the work of Howard Schatz for several weeks now and decided it was
time to conscript me and her friend Amy to go with her up past Evergreen to a
pond in the woods that she and Susan played in years earlier when their parents
had brought them up into the area camping. 
     Amy was
usually willing to get doused in powder, climb a tree or wade through cold
streams for the sake of art. She had an interesting look because she was so waifish
with her pale skin and pale grey eyes, and the only thing that she wanted in
payment was a large, cherry slushy from Seven-Eleven. So, we made our way up
into the forest, drinking our slushies and turning our teeth red, looking for
the spot where Jo wanted to photograph. Once we found it I pulled over, and Jo
got out and put on a wet suit that she had brought with her. She had also
bought a waterproof camera case that looked like an industrial-strength
zip-lock bag that smelled of fresh rubber. I watched with interest to see how
it worked as Jo unzipped the top, slid her camera in, zipped the top shut and
rolled the top over on itself, sealing the camera in.
     “Have you
tested that case?” I asked her, nervous of dunking a camera in water.
     “Yeah, I put
the TV remote in it and put it in the bathtub. It seemed to work just fine.”
      SEEMED to
work just fine? Well, not my camera, thank you very much. I thought to
myself as I watched her.
      Once
we had all of our gear together we walked out into the trees until we came upon
a mythic looking specimen with a single large branch stretching out over a
pond. From the end of its branch hung a thick rope, browning from age and
algae, with a large knot at the end.
     “Up until we
were about ten, Susan and I loved stripping down to our underwear and swinging
out into the pond. This place has