Carolina Moon

to learn, to sweat, he also expected me to be a boy. He was a good man, a good father, and for the first twelve years of my life he was everything solid and warm and fine.
    I missed him long before he died.
    But when he cut me loose that day, I took my bike, the streamlined twelve-speed I’d been given for Christmas, and drove through the thick, hot wall of air all the way to Wade’s. We had a tree house, back of Wade’s yard, up in an old sycamore. Dwight and Wade were already there, drinking lemonade and reading comic books. It was too damn hot to do much else, even if we were twelve.
    But Wade’s mama never could leave us be. She was forever coming out and calling up asking didn’t we want this or why didn’t we come in and have a nice cold drink and a tuna fish sandwich. Miss Boots always did have a sweet heart, but she was a royal pain in our collective asses that summer. We were on the cusp of manhood, or so we considered ourselves, and it was more than mortifying to be offered tuna fish and Pepsi-Cola by a mother wearing a starched apron and an indulgent smile that turned us back into children again.
    We escaped, headed down to the river for a swim. I believe, out of duty, we made rude, and to us, brilliantly clever insults regarding Dwight’s plump white ass. He, in turn, retaliated by comparing our male parts to various unattractive vegetables. Naturally, such activities kept us all in hysterics for an hour.
    It was very easy being twelve. We discussed important matters: Would the Rebel Alliance come back and defeat Darth Vader and the Evil Empire? Who was cooler—Superman or Batman? How would we con one of our parents into taking us to see the latest Friday the Thirteenth movie? We would never be able to face our schoolmates if we hadn’t seen the insane Jason slaughter his annual quota of teenagers.
    Such were the vital questions of our lives at the moment.
    Sometime after four, I suppose it was, after we’d made ourselves half sick on wasp-stung peaches and underripe pears, Dwight had to get home. His aunt Charlotte was coming in from Lexington for a visit, and he was expected to be clean and on time for supper. Dwight’s parents were strict, and it would not pay him to be late.
    We knew he would be forced to wear pressed shorts and a bow tie for the evening, and with the generosity of friends, we waited until he was out of earshot to snicker about it.
    Wade and I left soon after, parting ways on the road. He for town and me for Beaux Reves.
    I passed Tory on the way. She didn’t have a bike. She was walking home, toward me. I imagine she’d been up playing with Hope. Her feet were bare and dusty, and her shirt was too small. I didn’t really notice any of that at the time, but I remember now just how she looked, that heavy brown hair pulled back from her face, those big gray eyes that stared right into mine as I zoomed by without a word. I could hardly have taken a moment to speak to a girl and maintain my manly dignity. But I recall glancing back, and seeing her walking away on strong legs tanned with summer.
    The next time I saw her legs, there were fresh welts scoring them.
    Hope was on the veranda when I got there, playing at jacks. I wonder if young girls still play at jacks. Hope was a terror at it, and could whoop anyone she persuaded to challenge her. She tried to get me to play, even promised to give me a handicap. Which, of course, insulted me beyond bearing. I think I told her jacks were for babies and I had more important things to do. Her laugh, and the sound of the ball bouncing, followed me inside.
    I would give a year of my life to go back to that moment and sit on the veranda while she beat me at jacks.
    The evening passed as others had. Lilah shooed me upstairs to bathe, saying I smelled of river skunk.
    Mama was in the front parlor. I knew because the music she liked was playing. I didn’t go in, as I knew from experience she didn’t care much for smelly, sweaty boys in the front parlor.
    It’s funny, looking back I see how much we were, Wade, Dwight, and I, ruled by our mothers. Wade’s with her fluttery hands and warm eyes, Dwight’s with her bags of cookies and candy, and mine with her unbending notions of what was tolerable, and what was not.
    I never realized that before, and don’t suppose it matters at this point. It might have mattered then, if we’d understood it.
    On this evening, what mattered was avoiding my mother’s disapproval, so I headed straight