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” Ava said, and looked to begin crying.“Are you crying?” said Bea.“Just gettin’ a little nostalgic,” said Ava. “Those were good times, good for me, good for Julian. Good times.” Her friend nodded.“There it is, the house,” said Ava. “Let’s go inside.”Inside the two women looked around, no sign of life, but the place was clean, almost shiny: just like the last time she’d been by, thought Ava. The cleaning ladies were still doing their job. Going out into the back yard, it too was manicured and the plants were all tended to and green or whatever.“Well, it doesn’t look like he’s been around,” said Bea.“No, and I’m not surprised. That would have been too good to be true,” said Ava.“Hmm,” said Bea.“I remember he used to hang out sometimes at the Ice House Bar when he drove for Rock and Sand back in the day,” said Ava. “I want to go over there, but I do not want to run into him and seem to be stalking the man. I mean if you know what I mean.”“I do know what you mean. But, I kinda thought. Jasmine, walk around the car to theother side. Roger will hold the leash above ethe car. On the other sideyou'll have some privacy from us. Finish changing your clothes. Becareful with these nice silvery shorts, put them straight into the bagso they don't get dirty. you'll need help with the buttons on thejumper, so come back around when you're done."I had to turn to the side to walk around the car, which meant that mybrothers got to see more of me. My hands were tiny and didn't covermuch, but luckily my breasts were tiny too. I was hoping that they werelooking away, but as I walked past them Mom said, "Look, boys, at howtruly beautiful she is! Like a sculpture! Such perfect beauty is nothumanly possible!" I know," Roger said. "We're lucky about that antidote."On the other side of the car, I hoped that my mother and brothersweren't able to see me through the windows, or even above the car roof.As it was, I was totally open and visible to anyone who would walk ordrive past the car on.
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“I’m not that good, but it’s always been a hobby. When I was young, I had this dream of working for a men’s magazine.”“Really, you mean like Sports Illustrated or something?”“Hmm, no, more like Maxim or Playboy,” I said. “Blame it on Anna Nicole Smith.”“Oh, that’s cool,” she said, smiling. “You mean like pin-up style. I’ve always wanted to do something like that.“No way,” I said. “I honestly never pictured you as the type.”“Oh, and why’s that,” she said. “You think I’m too old or something?”“No, not at all,” I said. “You’re never too old. You just struck me as more…I don’t know, conservative, I guess.”“Ah,” she said. “So because my Volvo has a Mitt Romney bumper sticker, you naturally assumed I was uptight.”“Well, no,” I said stuttering like a fool. The more she spoke, the more Cynthia reminded of the girls I knew back in high school, the ones who’d been spoiled since birth and hid their emotions under a well-practiced smile and an annoyingly bouncy disposition, suitable in this case.

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