July 19, 2017:
Lew-wee the now pubescent with voice breaking throws her down laughing on the blacktop. It's an oily alleyway in bright afternoon and he's calling the neighborhood boys: "Squish her tits! C'mon everybody. Feel her up good!"
"She's very... well-shaped," your mother primly purses, disapproval dripping. Yah idiot, she's a fucking fox — says the invisible thought bubble over your teenage head.
In the canyon one day you ask her straight up, in a surprising act of premature maturity. "Do you want a boyfriend?" She doesn't, but she does want to play truth or dare, and she does want to kiss, and she does want to get felt-up gently under her t-shirt and bra, her little brother as failed chaperone getting an eight-year-old eyeful.