regarding what his penis was up to, Jack answered as he often did: “Not much.”

“Let’s have a look, baby cakes.” He showed her. He heard such sorrow in Emma’s sigh, or maybe he’d been thinking too much about Anna and the train. He didn’t want to go on disappointing Emma forever.

“Sometimes it dreams,” Jack began.

“Dreams what? Who’s in the dreams, Jack?”

You are,” he answered. (This seemed safer to admit than the Miss Wurtz part.)

“What am I doing in the dreams, Jack?”

“It’s mainly your mustache,” he admitted.

“You little pervert, you squirrel dink, Jack—”

“And Miss Wurtz is wearing just her underwear,” he blurted out.

“I’m with The Wurtz? Jesus, Jack!”

“It’s more like Miss Wurtz is alone, with your mustache,” Jack confessed. “And the underwear.”

Whose underwear?” Emma asked.

He sneaked along the upstairs hall to Lottie’s room and brought Emma the latest edition of Lottie’s mail- order catalog. “You dork, Jack—I wouldn’t be caught dead in this stuff. I’ll show you some underwear!”

He had seen her previous training bra—her present bra was only a little bigger. But when Emma removed the bra, there was a more noticeable shape and substance to her breasts than before; and when she took her panties off and held them against the pleats of her skirt, the lace that rimmed the waistband was a new experience for Jack and the little guy.

“It moved,” Emma said.

What moved?”

“You know what, Jack.” They both looked at the little guy, who was not as little as before. Emma leaned over his penis. “Miss Wurtz,” she said. “Shut your eyes, Jack.” Of course he did as he was told. “Caroline Wurtz,” Emma whispered to his penis. “I’m gonna bring you some real underwear, little guy.” Even with his eyes closed, Jack knew that the little guy liked this idea.

“I think we’re finally getting somewhere, Jack.”

“Can I undo your braid, Emma?”

“Now?”

“Yes.” She allowed him to do this, never taking her eyes from his penis. Her hair fell all around his hips; he felt it touch his thighs. “It’s working, baby cakes,” Emma reported. “You had the right idea.”

“Kettle’s boiling!” Lottie called from the kitchen.

“Let me be sure I understand you,” Emma said, ignoring Lottie. “It’s basically The Wurtz with my mustache and Lottie’s underwear.”

“Not Lottie’s—it’s the underwear from her catalog.” (The thought of Miss Wurtz in Lottie’s underwear was unappealing.)

“Whose hair?” Emma asked.

“Yours, I think. It’s long hair, anyway.”

“Good,” Emma said. He couldn’t see her; her hair, now undone, completely hid her face. “We seem to be zeroing in on a few priorities.”

“Zeroing in on what?”

“Clearly you have a hair thing, honey pie. And the usual older-woman thing.”

“Oh.” (Nothing about his older-woman thing, not to mention his mustache-and-braid fixation, felt the least bit usual to Jack.)

“Oh, my God, now we’re really getting somewhere!” Emma announced; she threw back her hair. Jack had a hard-on like he’d never seen before. If the little guy had stood up any taller, he would have cast a shadow all the way to Jack’s belly button—lint and all.

“Jesus, Jack—what are you gonna do with it?”

Jack was at a loss. “Do I have to do something with it?” he asked.

Emma hugged him to her bare breasts; his enlarged penis brushed against her scratchy wool skirt. Jack shifted slightly in the big girl’s embrace, until the little guy was more comfortably touching Emma’s bare thigh. “Oh, Jack,” Emma told the boy, “that’s the sweetest thing to say—you’re just too cute for words. No, of course you don’t have to do anything with it! One day you’ll know what you want to do with it! That’s gonna be some day.”

He touched one of her breasts with his hand; she held his face more tightly there. The next thing was the little guy’s idea, entirely. Emma and Jack were sitting on his bed, hip to hip—they were hugging each other—but his penis had somehow not lost contact with her thigh. And if Jack could feel her thigh, Emma must have been able to feel his penis. He was eight; she was fifteen. When Jack swung one of his legs over her far hip, he found himself lying on top of her with the little guy in her lap—now touching both her thighs.

“Do you know what you’re doing, Jack?” Emma asked. (Of course he didn’t.) Her gum was a mint flavor. Jack could feel her breath on the top of his head. “Maybe the little guy knows,” she said, answering herself. Jack’s arms could not reach around her hips, but he held her there—his right hand touching the lace waistband of her panties, which Emma had spread on top of her skirt. “Show me what the little guy knows, baby cakes.” Her tone of voice indicated that she was teasing him—the baby cakes was an affectionate appellation, but faintly mocking in the way Emma usually said it.

“I don’t know what the little guy knows,” he admitted, just as the little guy and Jack made an astonishing discovery. There was hair between Emma Oastler’s thighs!

The instant the tip of his penis touched this hairy place, Jack thought that Emma was going to kill him. She scissored her legs around his waist and rolled him over onto his back. The little guy was all bunched up in her itchy wool skirt. Emma had some difficulty finding it with her hand, with which Jack feared she might yank it completely off—but she didn’t. She just held his penis a little too roughly.

“What was that?” he asked. He was more afraid of the hair he had felt than he was of the way Emma held him.

“I’m not showing you, honey pie. It would be child molestation.”

“It would be what?”

“It would freak you out,” Emma said. Jack could believe it. He had no desire to see the hairy place. What Jack, or the little guy, strangely wanted was to be there. (Jack was actually afraid of what it might look like.)

“I don’t want to see it,” he said quickly.

Emma relaxed her scissors-hold around his waist; she held his penis a little more gently. “You got a hair thing, all right,” she told him.

“The tea is going to get too strong!” Lottie hollered from the kitchen.

“Then take out the tea bags or the stupid tea ball!” Emma shouted back.

“It’s getting cold, too!” Lottie called to them.

When Emma pulled her panties back on, she turned her back on Jack; conversely, she put on her bra and buttoned up her shirt while she faced him. It was clear that the little guy had touched a private place, but why was there hair there?

“How’s the homework going?” Lottie cried. She was verging on the kind of hysteria that implied to Jack she was reliving the horror of her haywire epidural.

“What kind of life does Lottie have?” Emma asked Jack, but she was looking at his penis. The little guy was returning to normal size before their very eyes. “You gotta watch this guy every second, Jack—it’s like having your own little miracle. Or not-so-little miracle,” Emma added. “Oh, cute! Look! It’s like it’s going away!”

“Maybe it’s sad,” the boy said.

“Remember that line, Jack. One day you can use it.” He couldn’t imagine under what circumstances an admission of his penis’s sadness would be of any possible use. Miss Wurtz knew a lot about lines. Somehow Jack sensed she would disapprove of this one—too improvisational, maybe.

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