Purple Kool-Aid spews out of our noses, soaking onto the floor and our game of Go Fish, as we try to stifle the giggles. Only it's not funny. We hear the old neighbor man banging on the screen door. He calls out, "Michael Shane. Where's that little cousin of yours?" As I start to groan and tremble, Mikey shoves me in the closet, says, "Shhh, he'll hear you. Don't worry, I'll get rid of him." I squeeze in down behind the trousers and shoe boxes, too scared to cry. Mikey's footsteps echo down the hall, clunking from the too-big cowboy boots he wears with his shorts. Then a creak from the back door opening. Their voices and the faint smell of the old man's stinky cigar. Gagging, I put my hand over my mouth, close my eyes, and pretend I'm invisible.
the cold clasp
of a first brassiere