So you did, opening your trap only to suggest that maybe you could do it yourself, and she looked at you like you were crazy, because she knew you'd never stand for her watching you while you did it, to make sure you did it right. God damn but your eyes are burning, and you swore to yourself as you ran outside that you wouldn't rub your eyes this time, but you forgot when the sweat that the untimely July winds didn't blow away ran from your forehead and through your eyebrows and lashes. The wind didn't blow away the sabre-teethed chiggers either, and no amount of Off can kill or repel them when Markie Johanson tackles you for the umpteenth time. You've cheated too often at Hide and Seek or Tag- Igotyou, noyoudidn't, yesIdidIgotyoushirt, shirtsdon'tcountyouhavetohitme- so now he just tackles you, even if you don't see him coming, even if you're crouched behind a tree and he sneaks up on you and a good hard slap on the back would do the trick, he still tackles you anyway. Slaps won't work either because even in the dead of winter you'd howl like a dying man and tell him you had a sunburn from being at the lake all day with your sister sonoslapsgoddammit.

You want to look in the mirror and see how bad your eyes are, maybe Markie will think it's cool again like last time when they were bloodshot like some kind of freak out of a cheap horror film. Besides, you've been sweating like a pig and it's not even the cool kind of sweat that collects on the bare chests of your sister's boyfriends at the lake, beading and running down slow in that manly man way- you'll never have sweat like that anyway because even at thirteen you have hair on your chest like your dad, though it's a different color, and the sweat will only collect there. Tonight you're sweating like a miner, dirty and oily and slick and doesn't it feel good to get inside where the AC is on, even if the lights are a weird kind of yellow from being in the dark for so long. Markie went home to get some kool-aid. You aren't quite thirsty yet, and your eyes smart too much for thirst to rear it's dusty head for the moment, so you walk through the kitchen and thank God your mom's gone to play bridge with your other neighbors because if she saw you covered in grass and dirt and scratching at the chiggers absentmindedly but vigorously she'd have enough cows to start a herd. On the weekends when you see your dad, there's no Off, there's no bridge, there there sure as hell aren't any cows. The bathroom door's closed which is weird, also weird is the fact that the laundry room light is on, something you didn't notice at first because now you don't know if the itching on your sides or the burning in your eyes is worse. No one leaves lights on in your house after mom's cow fest a while back, like you all were living sometime in the mid-nineteen seventies and there was another god damn energy crisis going on. And no one left doors closed after your little brother had his own calf-attack, thinking there were monsters behind them. So what's your deal, you little goofball? Since when do you get suspicious right in the middle of the worst chigger attack since four summers ago, right in the middle of what will probably be remembered as the night you lost your eyes to acidic Off.

Seat's up, too.

Man, your eyes are really red this time. They look worse than that time Markie smacked you in the mouth and you hit your head on the tree. All you said was your sister wasn't as cheap as his, which is true, not only because yours is a year younger but also because yours hasn't slept with anyone, much less half the guys in the high-school, nor has she ever been pregnant. Jesus Christ, he's the one who's always insulting his own sister, what's his deal? But now your eyes are even more red, even though one of them bled that time, and yes, your mom had a cow, two bulls, and a couple of chickens when that happened, but nope, you didn't tell her Markie did it, and he played less rough for a while, but not long. Your eyes are redder but maybe it's the weirdness of the light from being outside, which is getting less weird, because you're getting used to it again, which means your eyes must be working okay, and to hell with it, take your shirt off so you can get at those chiggers better, now give yourself a couple of really hard fierce tugs with your chewed fingernails on your sides and then lean down and turn on the water and wash your eyes out.

Cold, colder for being against the hot and you're damn right your thirst, when your eyes are done you cup one hand while scratching with the other and drink- well, enough to water all them cows, you bet. All the ones mom would have if she saw you drinking out of your dirty hand like that. Switch hands so you can keep drinking and scratch the other side. Ahh, the water on your side is like ice and fire, because the chiggers go nuts, almost so much that the itch is a heat and not an itch at all. Splash some more water on your other side. Your eyes feel better. Your stomach gurgling. You use your shirt as a towel, forgetting like the dumb ass you are that it's got Off all over it, which you only notice right when it hits your face and you smell it over even the youngstink of your sweat. Evergreen scent, which did smell different when mom got it a few weeks ago, but you can still smell that good old mediciny, outdoorsey, aerosolsy smell that was, is, and always will be Off. Don't admit it to yourself but, you kind of like that smell, don't you? Anyway you said you'd meet Markie on your front porch where there's a yellow light that doesn't attract the bugs so you walk through the kitchen again after dumping your shirt in the floor of the laundry because after all, you're only thirteen years old and you can't be expected to remember every god damn thing in the world. Round the corner and go into the living room.

Gross.

Your sister's new boyfriend and she are on the couch, smooching, lying down to do it, and damn it all if he isn't on top. Yeah, it's a real good thing mom's playing bridge, you wouldn't be at all surprised if your sister played subliminal message tapes while your mom slept just to get her out of the house. Look at him. His shirt's off like yours is, and yeah, he's got those muscles all her boyfriends seem to have and he's tan, not burnt, even though you're not- burned, yet, but you will be, because you've got white skin like your sister does- what the hell? Is her shirt off too?

You can't tell because they're really wriggling around and making short puffy noises with their breath which is weird because people shouldn't breathe when the kiss, not like that. There you go, you can make a comment on that as you walk past, maybe even thump the goober on the head, he's probably so horny he won't even get up and chase you for it. No, wait, something even better, the asshole's trying to get his shorts off with one hand while he holds her hands over her head, and his forehead is pressed very hard into her chest. What a dork. He should be chewing on her neck- she loves that, her diary says so. Looks more like he's trying to hold her down.

Huh, her eyes are as red as yours are. Maybe mom gave her a shot of the Off before she left.

So you don't thump the guy on the head, because if he doesn't notice it, what's the point? Are you going to tell Markie you thumped your sister's boyfriend while they were making out? Markie'll just make some comment about how he would take a thumping and a whole lot more for one shot at your sister. Then you'll have to say how all you did was offer a few bucks for a shot at his. Then Markie'll thump you. Then you'll thump him back. By the time you get done spending the last of your energy recovering from and dishing out the shoulder punches, you sister's boyfriend will have been pushed off for trying too much, just like all the others, and he'll come outside looking for the kid who hit him while he was getting, basically, nothing, and he'll pay you back for it. Just walk on by.

Door's open, you hear a soft no, a mewling almost, a kind of protest -plea-expression of disbelief. That's what you'll decide it sounded like a day later. But right now it's drowned out by a throaty chuckle, like someone stealing a car and watching the owner take a prat fall while he does it. Who gives a good god damn, as dad would say, there's Markie sitting on the step, chugging a Pepsi, he must've stolen it from his older brother's refrigerator, now we're talking serious thumps, but hell, maybe he'll give you a chug of your own if you promise to keep your mouth shut. What the hell? Markie's offering it to you anyway. Maybe your eyes are still red from the Off, maybe he's remembering that time he cut your eye, hell, maybe it's the middle of July on a Thursday night and you're thirteen and your best friend and you have played hard and now it's time to relax. It occurs to you to make a crack about his sister, but he's been generous. Maybe you'll make a crack about your own. No, he'll just help it along and then you'll have to defend her and insult his after all. Why do you have to say anything? Scratch your sides, breathe the night air, wait for the wind which seems to have died for the night. Look at the stars- no, they're all behind clouds. Maybe it'll rain.

Ouch, the door hits your back hard. You look up through your hair in time to see the boyfriend step past you and hop down the stairs with light steps. He flips his hair like those arrogant assholes do on the beach staring through mirrored sunglasses at chicks, while sweat rolls down their necks. You stare at the chicks, too, but the sweat collects on your forehead, causing zits. You hate those arrogant assholes. He's walking across the street. You tell Markie you bet he'll rev his motor, even though he's got one of those cheap foreign cars you wouldn't even drive if it was free. Yeah, right, you'd drive your great-grandmother's Edsel if it meant you could drive at all. Yup, he revved his motor, and he's gone like a bad smell.

After a while Markie gets up and burps for effect. He says something that passes in the thirteen-year-old's lingo for goodbye and disappears into the darkness. You've got nothing better to do so you just sit there on the porch and think about nothing at all. Damn, that's good. if you ever have nothing else, you've got nothing at all.

Here comes your mom, and it's like there's a parade through the front of your house: first you, then the boyfriend, then Markie, and now her, and you'll be god damned but she isn't huffing and puffing, and she isn't looking ready to chop your head off for one reason or another. What the- she even rustles your hair a little and says to come inside in a voice that's pretty close to nice. Take a bath before you go to bed. she says. You were going to do that, honest to god you were, and you feel a little bit cheated that she told you to first, like now you can't do it because she said to do it, but a hot shower would do those damn chiggers a turn. Fine. Okay.

Again, inside it's cool and the light isn't weird anymore because you weren't outside in the dark, you were under a yellow light even, which means, in fact, that inside it's very very white. Cool. You're tired. Go up the stairs- mom must be in the kitchen because she wasn't in the living room and one of your brother's toys is on the stairs and you can bet your bottom dollar she would've got that on her way up. No, wait, top of the stairs and the light is on in your brother's room and through the door you can see her bending over to give him a kiss. He rolls over a little bit but stays asleep and before she can see you to pass on the good feelings, wherever the hell they came from- oh be nice she isn't always that bad, she's a decent mom after all, quite being such a rebellious little puberty-tripping asshole- you step into the bathroom and turn on the light.

The water an hour ago and half a Pepsi decide it's now or never, fella, so you yank up one leg of your shorts and underwear and pull out what's necessary to take care of that, shake and wiggle when you're done, no need to wash your hands this time cause you're about to take a shower. Not a bath, even though your mom calls it that and probably will when you're forty years old and got kids of your own. You toe-off your sneakers, take off your socks, and slip out of your shorts and underwear as one. Huh. The water won't heat up. You've got your hand in the shower behind the curtain, and it's not getting warmer. You've got the hot all the way on and the cold all the way off and it is not getting warm at all. Huh. Jenni must have taken a shower after her boyfriend left. Good damn idea. Your eyes drift down and that's a lot of toilet paper in the trash can. Maybe your little brother did it. What's that under it? Denim? You're buck ass naked and the shower is going full blast cold and you're rooting through the trash and there's Jenni's favorite cut-offs, and her shirt and her bra and yup, there's her underwear, the yellow one you're always embarrassed to find with your own undies in the laundry when mom or she haven't found time to fold them yet, there's her yellow ones, the lacy and admit it, sexy-but-not-on-your-sister ones, just sexy in their own way which is why they're embarrassing, and it's pretty weird that your mom would let her even own something like that much less wear them, but she is older than you after all, and she's even got a job so maybe she bought the undies herself, which means you guess of she wants to cram them way down at the bottom she can. That's weird, but you itch so damn much now all of a sudden you just might take a cold shower after all. Anything to stop them chiggers.