Shot Gun

Last April my parents threw the ball to me. "You deal with your delinquent sister," they said, and walked out of the den to sit on the deck and plan a trip without us.

She was sneaking her boyfriend in the window. He bent the storm screen so it didn't fit, and he crushed the butterfly bush. Mom pounced on her when she got home from school, and they went back and forth. My sister called her a fat bitch; my mom called her a little slut and went for her throat. My father walked in, pushed them apart like boxers, and took my mother's side without hearing the story.

They rented a condo in Destin.

I didn't want to be her parent, she was sixteen months older, but I handled it. With them gone things went smoothly.

We stuck to our curfews. We shared the car with no fight; I let her drive.

We pooled money for beer and Lean Cuisines.

We smoked pot in the kitchen, and my sister shot-gunned me, which is the closest I ever came to kissing her on the mouth.

We ransacked mom's stuff and wore her shirts and socks, perfume and jewelry.

We had a small party Friday night. My sister's boyfriend came and left through the window for grins. She let him fuck her.

The next morning I cooked a big breakfast -- pancakes, bacon, I sectioned pink grapefruit, brewed coffee -- so she would tell me everything, how time slowed down, how they kissed on and on. He was in no rush. It was like he was the girl, and finally she pulled his face away from her tits, and asked him to jump inside her so they'd be as close as two people get. She said it burned a little but was great.

We had another party Saturday. I caught up with her, fucked her guy's brother on my mother's side of the bed, and made a rusty red mess. I couldn't slow him down. He skipped the kissing, the sucking on my neck, the touching my amazing tits. He was on his knees so I could see everything. It looked ugly. His legs slapped against my ass. It burned a lot; I told her a little.

My sister said milk would get the stain out, but after three washings in hot water it was still there. We agreed to say it was Alabama clay from the baseball diamond, that we'd run around the bases after our high school's Great Playoff Victory in our sock feet and forgotten to pre-soak.

We were fine. Stronger than they thought possible. Comrades in stolen bracelets. They didn't need to come home.

About the author:

Pia's home right now, working on a short story collection called HOW PRETTY WOMEN CHEAT. There'll be lots of bad advice in there.