and repeated the definition under his breath until he could recite it like the
naughty sounding commandments from Sunday school.
Henry spent the rest of the week sneaking moments with JM every chance he
got. The folds of the paper began to swing freely like hinges and wore lines
across the image. Luckily they didn’t ruin any of the good parts. Henry would
look at JM’s breasts and privates and struggle to take in both at once. His
vision would double if he stared for too long, and he would have to shake his
head and blink. Then he would hear a noise and it was back to page forty-one
for JM and back to the stack for Ken Griffey, Jr.
It got so that Henry couldn’t resist running to the closet the minute he was
alone. When he went to sleep he stashed the picture and a penlight between
his sheets and would awaken the next morning still clutching the paper under
his pillow with the penlight at his feet or on the floor. He would smooth JM
out and kiss each of her breasts before hiding her again. Kissing her sent soda
bubbles crawling up his bones.
That Saturday, when Henry rode his bicycle to Bryce’s house, JM rode in his
pocket. Bryce’s dad was waxing his Chevy Silverado in the driveway. He did
that every weekend, or at least every weekend Henry was there. Henry said
hello and Bryce’s dad waved but didn’t look up from the cloudy film on the
truck as Henry went inside through the garage.
Justin was already there. He lived closer to Bryce than Henry did, and Henry
felt a pang of jealousy seeing them together. They were playing loud music
that sounded like lumberjack saws bending back and forth, and Bryce and
Justin were taking turns jumping off the couch and rolling across the floor.
“Hey guys,” Henry shouted.
“Hey,” Justin said.
Bryce was too busy jumping around to respond. A decorative plate fell off a
shelf onto the carpet without breaking.