I hate April Fool’s Day. Every year, my best friend since kindergarten, Charlotte, conspired with Dad to do some horrible prank. In her world, between midnight and noon of April first, she could pull the sickest, worst prank in the world, and I couldn’t do anything about it.

I opened my eyes and glanced around my room. My music posters still covered my walls and not naked men, like she did three years ago. I had kept the one blue sky poster with the thin, muscular man, who wore a red fire fighter helmet, stubble on his chin, smooth, defined chest and ab muscles, his cock hung down between thick, black, pubic hair. The size of my hand, the red tip resembled his firefighter helmet. He had no hair on his legs and the end of the poster cut off his feet. The poster lay hidden between my mattresses, which I pulled out when Mom and Dad went out, to study, scrutinize, and memorize each detail. He painted his right pinky blue and his left pinky pink. His smile rose higher on the left, and he had wrinkles beside his right eye, but not his left.

I groaned and glanced at the clock, eleven am. I hope. Once, Charlotte changed all the clocks, and I arrived at school an hour late. All the grade two students laughed at me, and their shrill voices hurt my ears. The teacher suppressed a smile as she stared at me. With her hair in pigtails, Charlotte extended her chubby finger, her mouth wide, and screamed, “Gotcha!”

I checked my phone. Eleven am, and a text from Char: “How did last night go?”

Last night. The perfect night. The ideal guy, the perfect restaurant, with an ultimate end to a flawless date. I replied, “Good.”

I slipped out of bed and stepped on my warm, plush carpet and not cups of ice water, like she set up in third grade—no shaving cream in my underwear drawer, nor my slippers. I glanced at the crumpled dress from last night and smiled at the memory. I bet it still smells of him—a surprisingly feminine smell for such a manly man. My body still remembers his touch, my lips remember his lips, my breasts and vagina remember his kisses, caresses, and licks. Nerves still tingled in remembrance of his smooth, soft fingers.

Rain pounded on the window, not a sprinkler like in grade one. I pulled on Dad’s warm New York Knicks hoodie. The wool inside caressed and cushioned my naked body. It smelled like Dad. His favorite hoodie that I adopted in January, which he still gives me a hard time about. He only wore it after the Knicks won, but I wear it all the time. Who’s the true fan? I pulled on my grey, ‘sweet’ ass, sweats and wandered to the washroom.

No Saran Wrap on the toilet, and the faucet worked, it didn’t spray me. The soap bottle contained soap. Nothing so far, which meant Charlotte and Dad had planned something worse.

Mom sat with coffee in the kitchen, and the smell invaded the whole house. I rubbed my eyes and sat down in the chair opposite her. Books, papers, and a half-finished puzzle, covered our old scarred by my childhood table. Dad never puts things away. A pile of paper, playing cards, and tissue paper, covered Dad’s chair, where Mom must have pushed it to make room for her coffee. A photo of the three of us from our trip to Florida Disney hung behind Mom. Dad had a full beard, which Mom made him shave for Christmas photos, bright red, sunburnt cheeks and nose, a Mickey Mouse covered grey shirt, khaki shorts, and long white socks. Mom wore a massive straw, sun hat that cast her, and part of me beside her, in a shadow. She wore the same shirt as Dad, but with a long, ankle-length, black skirt. I refused to wear the similar shirt they bought, instead I had on my ‘heart New York’ navy shirt, with black tights. A smudge of white sunscreen made a line along my neck.

I leaned forward and laid my head on my arms. The smell of Dad and Mom’s coffee made me smile. Mom sat with a slight hunch, her hair uncombed, and pulled up in a ponytail. Her naked breast peeked out from the crack in her bathrobe. Her bright red nipple nuzzled in the fuzzy, pink fabric. She had a hickey on her neck and wore no makeup. Mom and I had the same nose, too large for our faces. Thankfully, I inherited Dad’s ears, because Mom’s stuck out too much, and looked horrible when she put up her hair.

“Good morning, Dear. Your Dad’s at the grocery store. Text him if you want anything,” Mom said and stared at the dirty dishes on the counter. Shit, I forgot to load the dishwasher last night. Understandable, because last night was the most incredible night of my life. My head hurt, but my insides soared. I had trouble keeping my legs still, so I pulled them up on the chair and hugged them, while I rested my chin on my arm.

“How was your date last night?” Mom asked. She sipped her coffee like an addict getting a fix. She let out a sigh, and a half smile after every sip, and she never let go of the cup handle as if someone might steal it. My insides warmed with the remembrance of his kiss. The best kiss of my life. Softest, gentlest, most perfect.

“Fine,” I said and texted Char, “Hey, you’ll never believe what happened last night.” Char knew about my date, but she would never guess what we did, or what he did to me. Just the memory made my crotch twitch and tingle, my insides twisted, and I moistened. I shifted in the chair, not to rub, but for comfort and embarrassment that Mom sat across from me.

“Text your father that we need more eggs. I forgot,” Mom said. She stared at the cobwebs on the ceiling, the dull light from the rain, the patter of the drops, Mom’s coffee, Dad’s smell, my moistening pussy, my erect nipples, everything made a perfect Saturday morning after a perfect Friday night. I glanced around and wondered how Charlotte would ruin it.

I texted Dad, who texted, “I’ll fertilize your mom’s eggs later.” Gross. I can’t believe they still kiss, let alone have sex. Old people make me sick. Like, I know that they still love each other, but why can’t they just stop with the gross sex stuff? Dad’s the worst, since he’ll kiss Mom on the street. Once, he pinched her bottom while we waited in line at the store. Grow up, already.

Char texted, “First me. I ate pussy last night.” Of course, she did. But then I remembered the day, April Fools. While too simple a joke, and while we have wondered what a girl would taste like, no way would Tasha let her lick her pussy, and I had a guy lick mine. She didn’t have another friend that would allow her, and she’s not outgoing enough to get a random, cause wow, gross. So, did it even happen?

“Fuck off, pictures, or it didn’t happen,” I texted and glanced up at Mom. She hummed a tuneless melody, her shoulders swayed with her hum, her red-tipped fingers cradled her coffee cup. Her bright red nipple appeared, and disappeared, with her sway, and I smiled at Mom. I have watched her drink coffee like this for years - different bath robes, last year’s baby blue, different mugs, this year’s favorite, “World’s Greatest Sex Machine,” but always the same. Dad would come home from shopping, declare his love for his two favorite girls, kiss me on my forehead, Mom on her lips, and I would help him put away the groceries.

Char sent a picture of her face between pale pink spread legs. Her short pink tongue above a black-haired, red-lipped, moist pussy. That slut. Who? My face turned red at the idea of my Mom across from me. She would die if she saw this. Strait-laced, unlike me. Char and I have played, but we have never done something like this. I scrolled to hide the picture and prayed that Mom didn’t glance over and see my red-faced embarrassment.

“I thought you liked guys. Who?” I texted. We talked about licking a girl and Char even asked to taste me. However, I couldn’t believe she had done it. Char’s red face against that slut’s pale legs. Char’s red lips against the lesbo’s engorged lips, caused my pussy to get wetter. My musk joined Mom’s coffee, and Dad’s hoodie to confuse my brain. I almost rushed to the washroom to text privately, maybe play a little, but laziness and comfort kept me in the kitchen.

“I like guys, but I couldn’t pass up the opportunity last night,” she texted. I glanced up at Mom with her half smile. Her face shone in the kitchen lights, her shadow on our blue flowered wallpaper made my baby scribbles almost disappear. Crayon marks that Mom and Dad had fought over, Mom to remove them, Dad to keep them. Dad won, just like the old coffee maker, old toaster, old refrigerator, all repaired too many times, all with their little idiosyncrasies.

“Slut,” I texted and smiled. Charlotte loved sex and anything sexy. She showed me my first porn site, she convinced me to steal my first kiss, she made Mom upset with her raunchy comments and behaviour, but Dad just laughed and claimed his daughter, and his wife, needed to learn to lighten up. He referred to Char as his second daughter whenever Mom complained.

“What happened with you?” she texted. I wanted to hear the how and when of her night but I also couldn’t contain my excitement, that I let a guy lick my pussy for the first time. A hunk. The perfect guy. A guy I barely knew. Char must feel this way when she plays around. She’s had a boy lick her. She has even given a few blow jobs, and not just to her boyfriends. She swallows and claims to enjoy the taste. Given how my nerves and pussy tingles, I could understand why she does sexy stuff. I wouldn’t do it with so many guys, but I wanted to get licked again, maybe even have someone put something inside me.

“Alex,” I texted. I met Alex online sixteen days ago. We chatted. We had the same dreams, same beliefs. He didn’t laugh at my belief in UFOs. Instead, he sent a link to a UFO book I had already half-finished. He made such clever comments. He went to New York University, Pre-Med, loved the Rangers, Knicks, and Mets, and hated the Yankees. He studied Psychology and approved of Char and her crazy ideas. I knew Dad would like him and Mom would hate him.

“And...” Char texted. She would love Alex. They had a similar sense of humor, not too cruel, but sometimes it hurt. I always laugh later, but sometimes it takes me a while, like when she convinced me to kiss Jack in fifth grade. She forged a note that he wanted to kiss me, but he wanted me to do it because he didn’t want to get teased. I kissed him at lunch. Everyone laughed. Jack ran. At the time, I died in shame. Now, we laugh about it. When we see Jack, I make kissy noises at him, he smiles, and we giggle. I love inside jokes.

“We met at Cheesecake,” I texted. I loved The Cheesecake Factory, because they had everything. The menu took me over ten minutes to peruse. Years ago, Charlotte had arranged a brunch there on April Fools’ day. She convinced them that Tasha had terminal cancer and brought a special white cake with red and blue, ‘Good Luck Tasha’ letters. Our server stood, horrified, and yelled at Charlotte for her crass behaviour. I agreed until Char said, “April Fool’s,” and laughed. Tasha’s parents videotaped my reaction. Four years later, I still laugh at my expression, and my tears of joy, when I found out that Tasha didn’t have cancer and wouldn’t die, although I did want to kill Charlotte at that moment.

“What did he look like,” Char texted. I met him in real life for the first time last night. Tall, but not too tall, he wore a stylish blue and red pin-striped shirt, tucked into black pants. He had soft hands, with well-trimmed, and clean, fingernails. Clean-shaven, with perfect cheeks and chin. Dark pink lips, kissable, smooth lips. Lips that I stared at most of dinner. Hazel eyes, that reflected the world around us, but brighter, and more mysterious. Thick brown eyebrows, under warm dark brown curls, and he had a diamond earring in his right ear. Perfect in every way.

“Perfect,” I texted. Char and I have talked about the perfect man. She tends to like them taller, but I like them life-sized. Alex checked every box that I wanted. Intelligent but not arrogant, a wise, mature person who still loved to have fun. He understood the complexity of the teenage girl. He laughed at Charlotte’s pranks over the years. He liked her spirit and we speculated what she might do this year over dinner. He listed things she had already done or things Charlotte would scoff at for their simplicity.

“And...” Char texted. I could imagine the jealousy rising in her. She has never met the perfect guy. Lots of boyfriends but no one special, unlike me. While not my first date, it developed into an ideal date with my new flawless boyfriend. But we hadn’t made it official. We did nasty stuff, but didn’t discuss what that made us. That must mean true love, after all, only true loves don’t need to talk about relationship status, we just knew.

“We had dinner,” I texted. I had a bacon, cheddar burger, with onion rings. They over crisped the bacon, but cooked the onion rings to perfection. Alex had a steak that smelled almost as good as he did. He smelled like Char sometimes does. I loved that scent and often commented on it. She never told me the scent’s name and always hid any bottles when I came over.

“We finished at midnight,” I texted, like in the fairy tales—a clear night with a giant full moon that dominated the sky, and reflected off the lake. I could imagine swimming with Alex in the silver lake. Water would stream down his neck, that I would kiss, down his well-formed pecs, which I would kiss, down his abs, which I would lick. Maybe we could go swimming later this weekend. No, I only have a frumpy, old, one-piece suit that sucks. First, I must convince Mom to lighten up and get me a bikini. Not a string, because I didn’t want Alex to think of me as a slut, but something just as sexy. Something black, or metallic blue, like in that horror movie we watched last weekend.

“We went somewhere special,” I texted. Alex blindfolded me and put me in the back of his BMW. The leather seats cooled my thighs, and while I wanted to peek, I didn’t dare. I knew he would drive me to some special place to see the moon and kiss—the perfect kiss, to cap the perfect night.

His soft, warm hands moved my legs, and closed the door with a soft thump. The new car smell made me smile. He had a classy car to go with his classy life. How he could afford such a nice car while he went to university, I couldn’t imagine. He didn’t live with his parents, and I wondered if he would take me back to the apartment he shared with his roommates. The quiet car caused my mind to tumble to what his bedroom would look like - classy, with black modern furniture. His bed would have black silk bed sheets. I wanted to go there soon, but not tonight. Tonight, I wanted to cuddle with him in the moonlight just like the songs—two young lovers under the big, full eye of the universe.

He slipped into the car. The rumble of the engine vibrated my body, my insides twisted, and I groaned in desire for this beautiful man. My panties shrunk and caused me significant discomfort. I wanted to remove them, I wanted him to touch me, but no sex yet. Not on the first date. Only a kiss. Just a kiss.

As we drove, I breathed in his scent. He smelled different, sweeter. Did that mean excitement? Sweat rolled down my neck despite the cold air from the open windows. Car noises, sirens, and people noises at the stops, dimmed, and disappeared, as we drove. The scent of fresh trees replaced the foul city smells. Gravel crunched under the car tires and we stopped. His breathing deepened, and his scent filled the car, mixed with the trees’ fresh, flowering fragrance. The air held extra moisture, like it would rain soon, but not now.