Had I asked my brother the color of blouse I’d worn the day before, he might have said “Orange?” which I never wear because it makes me look green.

Had I, on the other hand, asked what bra, he’d have nailed it. “Black,” knowing it was the one with embroidered top, thin straps, but most importantly, the one that falls away when I reach for the Post Toasties. He knows its size -- 34B as I plan to grow into it -- because from looking when it was in the laundry. He likes how it shows nipple under my white blouse with the pearl buttons, something Mom never catches because around her, I add a sweater. Not that he doesn’t see them when I’m in my PJs, but it’s more fun when I’m dressed.

I was sitting on his lap because, though there were two seats in the cab of Uncle Leslie’s combine, only one was for the driver, and we both wanted to see the world from that position. As to why we’d climbed in, we were exploring around my aunt and uncle’s farm and combine cabs don’t lock. They’d be easy to steal, my criminal-self figured, and as all John Deeres seem to be green, once you’d stolen one, nobody could identify it. Out here where they farm, however, they’re more honest.

My brother had pushed my butt to get me up the ladder, but that was because it was hard to ascend

He’d wrapped his arms around my middle once we’d seated ourselves, but that was because the driver’s seat was elevated. The dashboard presumably made things combine whatever combines combine, but being from the city, we didn’t think it wise to experiment. More monitors than in a rocket ship, though I’d never been in the latter. We did recognize the radio, though, and the station that came on was the country music that’s pretty much the same as regular music, except the singers wear cowboy hats.

I don’t know why I poked around under the dashboard -- I’m a curious type, as Mom points out -- but that’s where, to my amazement, I found a box of condoms, Lifestyles by the marking. I learned about rubbers from school. The package was opened and a few were missing.

But as this was something I didn’t want to discuss with my brother, I shoved the box back where I found it and returned to co-piloting -- in a conceptual sense, anyway -- the million-dollar John Deere. Maybe not a full million, but a whole lot.

How odd, a stash of condoms in Uncle Leslie’s John Deer

Having positioned myself with my brother’s arms under mine, all I had to do was to pretend to drive to help him feel me up. Girl combine drivers probably don’t wear blouses, though. Maybe sweatshirts. Mom’s still a country girl at heart and wears Wranglers. Me, I prefer my jeans from the Gap.

We’d fooled around like this a thousand times and he knew from the way my bra didn’t swoop down in the middle that it was my regular white one. A farm-girl’s bra, I’d call it.

I looked out the front windows, as a combiner has to keep her combine aimed in the right direction — even one that’s parked — while the truck fills up with what she’s combining.

I couldn’t see a girl driving this thing, though. Other than Mom, of course, when she was my age. Uncle Leslie had taken her out that morning to show her this machine. “Your mom was one crackerjack combiner way back when,” he’d reminded us, to which she’d grinned. “One crackerjack dancer, too, at the grange, but she’d never dance with me because I was her brother,” to which she’d rolled her eyes.

I wasn’t that worried that anybody was going to bother us, as our folks and Aunt Joy and Uncle Lee were playing bridge, not much of a way to spend a vacation, in my opinion, but it wasn’t my call.

“I’m almost a B,” I informed him, once he started to run his hands over my boobs. Guys probably like Ds.

“What?”

“That’s why it’s loose sometimes,” pointing out that his eyes weren’t unnoticed.

Mom thought it cute, the way he’d walk me out the door, his hand on my back, but I knew it was so he could rub the back of my bra. Maybe even, she saw what he was up to, somewhat akin to when she’d catch us fighting on the sofa. Moms can be OK.

“Boner boy,” I informed him, bluff, but what seemed a good bet.

“No way!”

“Whatever,” wiggling to confirm what I’d bluffed.

He was still trying to unhook my hooks. Just squeeze the thing together, I wanted to tell him, but a sister oughtn’t to be too bossy.

I wiggled some more to feel his penis, but couldn’t tell much. It was good for him to think I was feeling him up too, though.

It must have been in wiggling that I bumped something on the dashboard that didn’t come with a standard John Deere.

The flash of light turned everything white which then reappeared in blurred shades of gray, which morphed into pastels, and then colors more vivid. The radio was now playing the kind of country music about divorce and trucks.

What’s going on?

I was still sitting on my brother’s lap in a combine cabin, a green one, but the windows weren’t wraparound. The interior seemed more boxy. The steering wheel seemed more like a steering wheel and less like a joystick. The dashboard was dials and switches, not spaceship-like. Outside looked like before, though, a field that stretched forever.

My brother interrupted my amazement. “What the fuck?”

I hadn’t a clue what the fuck. “Let’s get out of here!”

The rungs of the ladder weren’t quite the same, I somehow realized, but led the way down. Best I could tell, though, we were still the same. We seemed to be located where we’d been before, just down the farm road from the house, but what before had seemed a dusty lane, was more gravelly. Didn’t matter. We wanted out of there!

We didn’t even talk, just ran toward Uncle Leslie’s. Maybe they’d know what’s going on.

When we reached the barn -- that, too, seemed different, newer construction -- there was no house where the house should have been, just what looked to be a construction project. Behind it was an older place where this morning Uncle Leslie’s machine shed had been.

“What the fuck?” again my brother.

On the porch of the older place were a boy and a girl of about our age. Who are they?

The boy looked at us with a start. “You lost?”

I thought fast, as I didn’t want to start explaining about a combine cab that did a switcharoo. “Hiking.”

“Oh,” he answered as if maybe that made sense. “Where you from?”

I didn’t know if that meant where we were actually from, or where we started our hike. “The city,” seemed safe.

“Cool. We go there some.” I’d not said which city, but to them, maybe which city was just assumed.

“You live here?” I asked, needing some more information.

“Dad’s building us a new house,” nodding to the work in progress. “He doesn’t get much done when we’re combining though.”

“Combining?”

“Yeah. Like you said, you’re from the city. Jenny and me,” nodding to the girl beside him, “we help out. I drive it, she drives the truck and then we switch. I’m Leslie, but the way.”

Jenny and Leslie? Too weird! Mom’s and our uncle’s names!

I looked again and I could see the similarities! More than similarities, actually, as Mom had photos from when she was a teenager. This is majorly weird!

“Who’s President?” I asked, realizing that maybe I didn’t even know when it was.

The boy Leslie looked at me as if it was an odd question. “How come?”

I thought fast. “It’s for a joke.”

“Reagan”

I had to think faster. “Never mind. It’s a dumb joke.”

Are these two somehow Mom and Uncle Leslie from a long time ago? But before I could better frame my confusion, the boy asked, “Got any weed? We can pay.”

My brother, who was surely as confused as I was, at least had a sensible answer. “Sorry.”

Then the girl, Jenny, her name, entered the conversation. “Just because they’re from the city doesn’t mean their dopers. They’re on a hike.” and then to us, indicating her brother, “And he’s in FFA.”

I wasn’t sure what FFA was, but it didn’t matter. “Your last name is Rupp?” just to make sure I wasn’t putting things together wrong.

“How’d you know?”

“The sign,” nodding to the mailbox, which to my relief did, in fact say that. “Our mom was a Rupp.”

“There’s a bunch of us,” she noted. “Want a Coke?”

This needed some figuring out.

We sat down on the steps and she produced the sodas, smiling in the way Mom smiles. Whenever it was, Cokes came in bottles.

“We can give you a lift back,” Leslie offered.

Back to where? I again had to think quickly “Thanks, but my brother here needs the exercise. He does track.”

“Really? Me, too. Hurdles,” which came as a non-surprise to me, as Uncle Leslie ran hurdles at Iowa State. Mom has a picture of him in the Drake Relays.

But I still needed to figure out how we got here. “So you know how to drive that combine?” trying to divert the conversation from us and maybe finding something out about that machine.