Chapter 5: Woody

BB, the advertising agency, is avant-garde, social responsibility-wise. From the beginning, Peggy and Pru hired indiscriminately — no preference given to gender, sex, skin pimento, nothing like that.

Now Ms. Sloane had only been in town for a couple of weeks or so, but already had an office at BB. I don’t mean a cubicle like mine, but a door, two windows, the real deal. I’m definitely going to start ordering more fish. Boiled Finnin-Haddie, say. Steamed muscles.

“Come in, Birdie.”

The sun was streaming in at a slant, catching all that red hair, sort of making it glow. Easy on the eyes, Ms. Sloane.

“Say, did I ever happen to mention a certain Top Speller Prize?”

“Yes, my first day here.”

“The thing is, see, Tim Brown spelled Arkansas...”

“Anything else, Birdie?”

“Well, one minor thing. The Mumster thought you might have some ideas on it.”

I explained the McGovern condom, omitting, courtesy, the video segment of the narrative. But Ms. Sloane hadn’t cleaned all those fish bones for nothing, “What aren’t you telling me, Birdie?”

Now this redheaded phenom is four years younger than yrs. truly, maybe five, but seemed ... wiser. More settled. More ... knowing the right thing to do. She’d already installed new accounting software which Auntie Pru said, “Streamlined the entire operation.” And she hadn’t even started interning in that department.

I murmured, “This is delicate.”

She folded her arms, no help coming from that quarter.

“Froggy and I ... had a few pops. We’d just won our division of the City darts tournament.” I nodded to myself, yep, this was rounding up to be a logical explanation for what was merely an understandable, youthful escapade.

I said, “Brews for the Brewster.” A dash of clever.

“So, ride to the station, fill out some forms, community service, end of story.”

My mother, who had been leaning against the doorway behind me, said, “Except for the hard-on segment.”

I jumped about a foot and a half in the air and my face felt suddenly hot. Ms. Sloane gazed at me in an evaluation sort of way. Kind of like Megan McGovern.

My mother, relentlessly trespassing into my privacy life, said, “I’ll forward it to you.”

Ms. Sloane nodded.

Trish McGovern lived down the street — Meyer Boulevard — from Froggy and me all of our lives. Back in the day she was called a tomboy, a name I’ve never quite understood. Now she could climb a tree, wrestle you to the ground, stick a jackknife in the old oak tree as well as anyone.

One of the boys, so to speak. Until she wasn’t. It’s a theory in some scientific circles that girls mature earlier, or faster, or younger, or something, than boys. Maybe easier. Froggy and I, innocent as a dewy fencepost, if that’s the proper sediment, hadn’t noticed Trish’s chest until she pointed them out.

Well, she took us from playing mumble-peg to Doctor’s Office in about 17 seconds.