Kc that girl is s slut

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That was the winter Christine and I vowed to become anorexics. Our big boobs sometimes obscured our skinniness, but we knew being anorexic was not about being thin. By morning, though, we were over it, sitting down to big bowls of cereal, witness already to our failure. It was my idea to lose our virginities.

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We made a wager: if she won, I would do the dishes for a whole month. Shortly after our parents bought our house, when I was in the fifth grade, they tore out the second floor and some of the first. Five years later, no progress had been made past the initial demolition, and it was never clear to us whether it was money, plans, or just disinterest that was the chief cause of living that way.

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Christine and I slept in bunk beds in a corner of the basement cordoned off with sheets hung from the ceiling. The only way we could be persuaded to sleep in that windowless basement was the door that led to an outside stairwell—not so that we could sneak out, at least not at first—but because the door made the dark basement feel like it had an escape route.

Our room resembled the living conditions of impoverished Africans who were always on TV in those days. Even though our father was a doctor, we were worse off than most of the dairy families and even some of the alfalfa farmers. Our father liked being the kind of doctor who traded for lawn mower repair and free beef because of his Hippocratic oath, but mostly he did it because he was cheap.

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Smith was a surgeon, which made him more important than our father, who was only a family practice doctor. Smith was also a Bishop in the Church and three of his five children were boys our age. Because they were Mormon the Smith boys only dated Mormon girls, except for the one in my grade, who was a skater and smoked pot, and whom I had loved since the first time I had seen him, one week after we moved to Idaho. Christine and I passed silently by their house. Every night our father would lie on the living room carpet and drink Amaretto while watching late-night reruns of M. We fell short of his expectations and he believed this was due to our ignorance of the good deeds of Joseph Smith.

The first time he had Sister Smith come by after school our mother was at work. Sister Smith and another lady had already made themselves comfortable before Christine and I knew that we were having a Home Visit. Sister Smith wore Birkenstocks and chunky jewelry from the hippie store in Twin Falls, and she talked about Jesus like He was a close friend.

I could never quite believe Sister Smith was a real Mormon, unlike the lady with her, who smelled like baby diapers and wore big glasses and never smiled. I sat Indian-style on the floor with our little brother Chip curled in my lap, sucking his thumb like a big baby. Chip liked the Mormon ladies because they had brought cookies and for a while they sang goofy songs about popcorn and spring.

Sister Smith did most of the talking while the other lady held her white Book of Mormon in her lap. I stared at Sister Smith and thought how much Joe looked like his mother—brown eyes, strong nose, thick hair, healthy and full like they were made Kc that girl is s slut something wonderful. I imagined people in cities, real people, looked like her and her son.

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When Sister Smith stopped talking, I lasted about two seconds. We do. Our mother hated God. The other lady glanced at all of us skeptically before bowing her head. The next weekend my best friend Kara invited my sister and me to sleep over at her house so we could all sneak out with Cole and his friends. The plan held real promise: someone would be declared a winner by sunrise.

We slipped out the back door into winter fog. Cows were braying in the night. We went past the barns and feed pens, crossing a pasture and going under several electric fences. The smell of the dairy was strong and finally we reached the road. When we opened the doors a warm burst of cologne wafted out and the interior lit up with pale blue light. Cole sat at the wheel and next to him his friend, Rob, grinned and Kara squealed as she climbed in on his lap. There was no one else in the car. Christine shot me a look of triumph and slid in behind Cole. A water bed took up most of his bedroom, and the rest was stereo and speakers.

Christine and Cole collapsed on the bed. She acted like a wife, the way she gazed back at us, inviting us to find room where we could. I squeezed into a space by the foot of the bed, between a giant speaker and a tower of plastic milk crates crammed with records and tapes. Across the room, Rob pushed a pile of clothes into the corner and sprawled in it like a prince.

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Kara dropped into his lap, nuzzling his neck. I looked at my shoes: purple Chuck Taylors. I thumbed through the closest crate and found all sorts of great records, even several Fugazi albums. Cole had given Christine dubs and mixes from this collection, but she refused to share the tapes, even though she rarely listened to them. She said they were a sacred gift. There were no music stores in our town, and only a tiny Music Land chain store down in Twin Falls. It was hard to get your hands on good music. Now I was at the source, at the altar, and all I could think was that I desperately needed to find someone to have sex with me.

An import. I scrambled for the volume knob and apologized, feeling unbearably stupid and big in the room. Even lame music was better than the noise those guys were making. My shoulder was pressed against a four-foot tall speaker, and I could feel the woofer through the cloth, the deep bass vibrating my arms and chest. I closed my eyes and put my hands between my knees and squeezed. Every time it started to feel good the song ended and I could hear them, the wet sounds and the swishing of water in the water bed. I wondered what it would be like to be different people or to live somewhere else.

What would it be like to be Cole or one of the Smith children? Smith was a flawless pillar of the community. Or that, despite every privilege and gift, Joe Smith was just a common stoner. You are only ever just you.

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Another great song came on, the segue carefully overlapped, Cole had an uncanny talent for mixing, and for a while I had this aching feeling that burbled out from my lap, and rippled out over my bones, pooling in my toes and fingertips. I shook my head and wishfully chalked the feeling up to some girl version of blue balls, unable to bear the thought of solitude. When the tape ended I opened my eyes and saw that everyone was dressed and leaving.

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At the end of the hall rather than turn for the front door we went into the kitchen. She had faded blond hair, and with the dark paneling around her she looked like a ghost. I could not look at her without thinking she had a dead husband. Cole and Rob were pulling out boxes of cereal, filling flimsy plastic bowls, and nudging each other like a couple of frisky dogs.

We never got this sort of thing at home. On Monday Christine said they broke up because Cole was gay and there was no point. Christine smacked me hard on the ear when I pointed out that maybe Cole became gay because she was such a slut. Not long after the big break-up Cole spread a rumor around the high school that Christine had worms. She went berserk and tried to fight the rumor but then I went and told everyone it was true and that our dad had given up treating her. By Friday she started messing around with Joe Smith. Because of them the principal invoked a new rule, announced school-wide over the intercom: No fondling on school property.

If he wanted to be up all night calving, he liked to say, he should have gone into ranching. Excellent subsidies and no malpractice.

Kc that girl is s slut

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