Somehow our reservations got messed up, and I have to share a room with my parents. At least there are two beds, and the clerk, who I don’t like because of the way he checked out my breasts, said it would only be for one night. These things happen, he said in a half-smirking voice. It is supposed to be my parents’ second honeymoon, and I am supposed to have a room of my own—I’ll be in college next year after all! But I’m mature enough not to pout about it.

When we get to the room, Dad says, “Honey, why don’t you check out the pool for an hour or so before dinner.” I know enough to know that he and Mom want to have sex, so I grab a towel and my suit and set off.

I get lost. I wander down one corridor after another and the next thing you know I’m back at our room. I don’t dare enter. I don’t dare even listen too hard. I try to find the pool again. I end up in the laundry room. This is crazy. I’m getting a little upset. I try a different route, and I end up at the reception desk. It is embarrassing, but I’m brave enough to ask the desk clerk how to get to the pool. “Sorry,” he says, smirking again, eyeing what little I have in the boob department again, “pool’s closed. Renovations.”

Now what am I going to do? I have some books in my backpack. I have my cellphone in my backpack. But my backpack is in the room. I say a naughty word to myself. Maybe I say it out loud, because the clerk raises his eyebrows. “Uh, the workout room is open,” he says.