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all the boys dreamed of. She was in her early thirties, well endowed and always without a bra. She was the stuff of fantasy, commanding awestruck stares and boners in equal proportions. But her power was not limited to the boys alone: Nate noticed that she had an effect on all the party regulars – women, too. As she wandered back into the group he knew the odds of snagging a few Bugles were greatly improving. He said, “Her drink’s on the guard rail on the other side of where everyone’s sitting. When she goes to get it, you go, Pip.”
    And, true to form, all eyes followed Mrs Patterson and her pendulous breasts. Without a word, Pip was up and running, and Nate watched as the small boy slipped quietly in and took not just a handful, but the whole damn bowl. At the guard rail, Mrs Patterson leaned with her back against the teak, her hands pressed palm-first into the top of the railing. The effect was to push her elbows out past the line of her back, tightening the thin white fabric of her blouse against her large, unrestrained breasts. Pip could have turned a cartwheel while stealing the Bugles and no one would have noticed. Mrs Patterson, or more accurately, Mrs Patterson’s boobs, were mesmerizing. Even the women were watching.
    â€œ Tete en pain! Now that’s a pair of tits!”
    Nate and Pip almost shrieked at the voice behind them in the darkness. It was Tristan, of course, and he had already drunk one of the beers the boys had liberated from the party and was in the process of finishing the second. Once he had recovered, Pip thrust the Bugles in front of Tristan without question, an offering, really, and the big thirteen year-old mashed his fist into the bowl.
    Nate scrunched his face up. “Come on, Tristan, quit it. Those things are like gold.”
    Tristan just sneered. He was descended from generations of French landowners, stretching back to the days of buccaneers and tall ships bristling with cannons as the English and French fought for control of this sparkling Caribbean jewel. His family and others like them had become the island’s wealthy, owning huge plantations that grew bananas, nutmeg, coconuts, and dozens of other crops – just as they had for hundreds of years. His life was one of privilege – despite his ragamuffin appearance in cut-off jeans and a sleeveless top – and he often wielded that privilege like a club.
    â€œWhy do you guys love these things?” Tristan said, emptying a crushed handful into his mouth. “Salty fuckers.” He took the bowl and ate another handful. Pip reached for some and Tristan simply waved him away.
    Even at night, Tristan wore no shoes, and Nate could see in the half-light that the soles of his feet were black and cracked, hard as shoe leather. He watched as Tristan assumed possession of Pip’s lawn chair, and felt a small prick of annoyance at the way the little Dutch boy squatted dutifully beside him. Pip was a genuinely nice kid, and being Nate’s neighbor the two had struck up an easy friendship. But it was different whenever Tristan was around; Pip’s personality seemed to shrink in Tristan’s shadow, and Tristan knew it, too.
    Still, like all the other kids, Nate acknowledged that Tristan had something that none of the others had. There was no name for it at their age, but they all recognised it, and fell in line behind Tristan whenever he was around. It was that way for all the kids. Well, almost all.
    â€œTristan, give the garçon his crisps,” came yet another voice from the darkness. This time all three boys jumped and at least two of them yelped – loud enough to draw a handful of quizzical glances from the party.
    Richard stepped into the light and laughed. He was the youngest of the group, and all the boys smiled when they saw it was him.
    â€œRichard, you dufus!”
    â€œJeez – you almost killed us!”
    The little blonde eleven year-old smiled brightly and