I was nine years old, leaning up against the painted steel of the swingset like I was hott shit. I probably was, because I was nine. This gnarly little ginger, not much taller than myself, rolls up on me and says, Hey.
I say, Hey.
He says, Jump.
I flare my nostrils because that’s what happens to my face when I give a dirty look.
No really, he says. Jump.
I give a little spring up on the balls of my feet and turn away to stare at some grassy hill I’m pretending to find fascinating.
Later I find out he had put some money down with his boys on if my bra was stuffed or not. That was the last time I ever let a dude boss me around, I’ll tell you what.
