I arrived home to a house full of perfume. Dad was working swing shift at the powerhouse and mom’s Tupperware party would be starting in an hour. I was tired, so I plopped down on the floor and turned on the tube. Normally, my Tuesday nights were reserved for watching Happy Days, but Fonzie had jumped the shark two years earlier and my interest had waned. I turned the channel to The Misadventures of Sheriff Lobo and, within seconds, was groggy. As I was about to doze off, Terry came bopping over and curled up next to me. As I stroked his fur, he turned to look at me, his orbs resembling little puppy dog eyes. Suddenly, a million molecules of dog breath swarmed up my nose.

“Terry!” I said, shoving him away. “Your breath stinks!” Wonder whose ass you’ve been sniffing today. “You need to brush your teeth,” I said, as if he had mastered the English language. But, then again, maybe he had. He certainly wagged his tail when anyone asked him if he wanted a treat. “You’ve got simple chronic halitosis!” I told him. Then, it hit me like a palm to the head. “Hey, wait right here.” He didn’t understand that one. He tried to follow me down the hall. “Sit!” That one, he did. I made my way to the bathroom. In the medicine cabinet, I found exactly what I was looking for: a bottle of Good Ol’ Finks.

“Here ya go,” I told Terry. “This oughtta do the trick.”

I poured a helping of Good Ol’ Finks into his water bowl, and glanced at the clock. It was time for his supper. I opened a can of dog food and scooped some of the processed liver into his dish. Abruptly, I was interrupted by the ring of the telephone. It was Butch.

“Hey, you wanna go fishin’ on the Milk tomorrow night?” he asked.

The Milk River was almost ten miles away. Unlike the clear, blue waters of the Missouri River, which drained from the bottom of the lake, through the power plants, and into the river channel, the Milk River, which flowed into the Missouri nine miles downstream, was the color of chocolate milk. The river was named in 1805 by Captain Merriweather Lewis of Lewis and Clark fame when, upon observing its color, said, “from the colour”—that’s how he spelled it back then—“of its water we called it the Milk River.” Now, I don’t know if they had Hershey’s Chocolate in those days, but I certainly wouldn’t drink milk the color of that river—a murky chocolate brown. Two hundred years later, it still has retained its hue. Its waters were warmer than this part of the Missouri’s, and it housed a large supply of catfish.

“The Milk? Why do you wanna go over there?” I asked, tossing the empty dogfood can in the garbage.

“Didn’t you hear? Gomer Jones caught a seventeen-pound cat over there last night.” News travels fast in a small community, and when it’s news about a big catch, it travels even faster.

“No shit? Where at?”

“Well, he ain’t tellin’ nobody exactly where, but I kinda have a feeling.”

“I don’t know. You think it’s worth it?”

“Sure it is. Hell, a seventeen-pound cat…”

I thought about it for a moment. “Okay, let’s go. We gotta get some worms then.”

“Okay, I’ll flood my backyard. Come over later tonight, and we’ll get some.” Butch’s lumpy backyard was a haven for night crawlers.

“All right. I’ll be there around ten.” I hung up the phone, shut the TV off, and went back to the kitchen to make a bologna sandwich before going to my room for a short nap.

I set my alarm for ten o’clock and plopped down onto my bed. My eyes drifted to the Farrah Fawcett poster hanging on my wall. Amazingly, for the first time, I noticed what appeared to be Farrah’s right nipple protruding through her swimsuit, just like Mary Ellen’s nipples had earlier in the day. Damn, that can’t be. They wouldn’t put that on a poster, would they? I didn’t think it was legal. I looked a little closer. It was a nipple. I sat up in my bed and scooted closer. I rubbed my fingers across the paper teat. It didn’t feel like a nipple, at least not like I had imagined it would feel. I sat back a ways and took another look. Damn, that Farrah is one fine woman. I imagined how Mary Ellen would look in that swimsuit. Good, I bet.

I fell back on my bed, staring at the ceiling and thinking about Mary Ellen. I have to get her alone sometime. I had to conjure up a plan where I could do that. I tossed and turned for several minutes and finally drifted off. I was startled awake from a cry coming from somewhere in the house.

“Ahh! Help me! You get your little peter off me!” It was coming from the living room.

What in the hell? Who had a peter on them, and whose peter was it? I sprung out of bed and flung open my door. Mom’s Tupperware party was in progress. I took a quick glance at my clock. It was only 7:30. What in the world is going on? I cautiously walked out into the living room where I was met with the look of murder coming from my mom’s eyes. “Ron-ald! Would you get this goddamn dog out of here!” No question mark needed.

My eyes quickly scanned the living room in search of the dog. Finally, they locked on Terry who was currently humping Mrs. Torrance’s right leg. She kicked and screamed, causing Terry to forego her leg and find that of Mrs. Cameron. With rapid and repeated thrusts of his tiny, canine pelvis, Terry rubbed his little doggy wiener on her, his tongue hanging out like a basketball star. His eyes were those of a dog on a mission. Mrs. Cameron kicked and screamed until she clobbered Terry with a plastic bowl. He ran off and, just as quickly as he had found Mrs. Cameron’s leg, found the leg of Mrs. Cleveland, who—in my opinion—waited far too long before she began to complain. I grabbed a newspaper and swatted Terry on the butt. A small yelp emanated from his doggy larynx, one that had not yet mastered any words.

“You get in my room!” I ordered him. Somehow, he understood that. He casually blew a greasy dog fart in the direction of the Tupperware ladies and walked down the hall before jumping up on my bed as if nothing had happened. I lay down beside him. “What in the hell were you doing?” I said in a language normally reserved for humans. I didn’t expect an answer, and didn’t get one. I just looked at that mutt, wondering what had come over him. All I needed was a whiff of his breath to get my answer. It wasn’t bad this time; in fact, it was better than that of Butch and Melv. Then, it hit me. I jumped up from my bed and walked into the bathroom. I grabbed the Finks from the medicine chest and looked at the label. Therein lay the answer: fifteen percent alcohol. Holy snockers! “You’re goin’ out back,” I told the little drunkard.

I made it to Butch’s by eight o’clock. We sat around until ten playing Space Invaders before it was finally time to move.

“Come on, let’s get some worms,” Butch said.

I rose off of the couch. “Hey, you got a flashlight for me?”

He pulled one out of a closet. “Here ya go.” I turned it on to check to see if it worked. It did. I don’t know if Murphy ever investigated that one, but I had determined that 90% of the time I’d grab a flashlight, the batteries were dead. This time I lucked out.

We walked out to the backyard where the grass was damp and the ground underneath lumpy. We had learned that lumpy lawns meant that lots of night crawlers lived in the area. We had discovered Butch’s backyard to be a night crawler haven one day while playing football.

“How can you hunt nightcrawlers when you’re scared shitless of snakes?” I asked, remembering one of his greatest fears.

“They’re not the same, dude. You ever hear of anyone getting bitten by a worm?” Well, he had me there.

Butch and I headed in opposite directions, he on his hands and knees and me squatting close to the ground, each of us armed with a flashlight and a one-gallon ice cream bucket with holes poked in the lid. Night crawler hunting was an acquired art, and I had plenty of experience. I shined the light on the ground, searching for a skinny, brown body among the wet grass. My tennis shoes were quickly becoming soaked as I traipsed through the yard. Soon, I came upon my first victim; resting on its belly, partially hidden by a leaf, was a hermaphroditic little creature brought to the New World by those blasted Europeans, the creature that Aristotle called the “intestines of the soil,” Lumbricus terrestris—your basic earthworm.

I reached down toward the creature, careful not to spook it. Closer now. Closer. Then, in one quick motion, I grabbed the upper half of the worm and held on tight. The worm made a run, its bristle-like setae gaining traction in the dirt as its muscles tightened, pulling the rest of its body into the earth. I waited for the peristaltic contraction to subside and then gave the worm another slow, deliberate tug. With a little resistance, it came out in one piece, which was not always the case. Catching a night crawler is a lot like catching a fish, I thought. You let them run a little bit, tire them out, and then reel them in. I dropped the worm in my bucket and called to Butch. “You havin’ any luck?”

“Got three,” he said. Damn, he was quick. We continued to go our separate ways. After about fifteen minutes into our hunt, my bucket was teaming with slimy earthworms. By my estimation, I had captured about two dozen. Then, out of the darkness, I heard, “Hey, Biscuits, come here quick. Look at this!”

Judging by the urgency in Butch’s voice, I knew something unusual must have happened. Grabbing my bucket-o-worms and flashlight, I scampered across the yard to where Butch was standing. I couldn’t believe what I saw. My jaw dropped, and my eyes widened. I moved in for a closer look. I still couldn’t believe it. Butch was pulling on the longest night crawler I had ever seen. It wasn’t any thicker than your average crawler, but it must have been at least three feet long and part of it was still in the hole. I had seen one like this on Wild Kingdom a few weeks back but that was in Australia.

“Holy shit!” I said.

I watched in disbelief as Butch continued to pull and wait, pull and wait, pull and wait. He had the worm wrapped around his forearm several times when the end of it finally came out of the ground, spasmodically squirming around Butch’s wrist.

“Holy shit,” I said again. “Oh, man, whatcha gonna do with it?”

“I dunno. Get me something to put it in!” he shouted with fear in his voice.

I handed him my pail full of worms. “Here, put it in here.” He un-looped the giant worm from his arm and stuffed it into my pail. I quickly snapped the lid. “How big you think that thing is?” I asked, wondering if Guinness had a record for such a thing.

“Six footer, maybe seven.”

Through the translucent pail I could see the monster squirming about, looking like a bucket of snakes. “Holy smokes, that’s a big sucker.” He grabbed a nearby brick and set it on the lid.

“No shit,” I said, not believing what I had just witnessed. “You ever seen anything that big?”

“Hell no.”

We spent another thirty minutes looking for night crawlers. Midnight was fast approaching, and I was beginning to nod off. “Well, I think we have enough bait for tomorrow, don’t ya think? I’m gonna hit the hay.”

“Yeah, I think this will do.”

I went back to my house. I washed up, gargled with some Good Ol’ Finks, and went to bed. I began to dream immediately.

The light from a full moon danced off the water and shone through the window of the Blue Flash. It lit Mary Ellen’s face like an angel. She slid across the seat until her soft, fuzzy sweater lightly touched my arm. No words were spoken as she nuzzled her face in my neck and reached her arm around my body. I placed my arm around her and pulled her tightly against me.

I could smell her perfume, soft and sweet, so feminine. A suggestive Rod Stewart ballad played softly from the radio as a salty bead of sweat dripped from the top of my lip onto my tongue. My heart thudded in my chest so loudly that I was afraid Mary Ellen would hear it. Instead, she lifted her head and moved her lips toward mine. I followed suit. Our lips touched—a magical moment I had dreamed about forever. The sweet taste of her lips found my tongue as we explored each other’s mouths with our own. My fingers touched her sweater as she slid her hand inside my T-shirt. Cautiously, my hand found her breast. I waited a moment to see how she’d react. She kissed me more passionately. Pressing my luck, I cupped her bosom in my hand and felt it through her shirt. It was firm. Alluring. Inviting. I slid my hand down to her waist and then up and under her shirt, my fingers trembling like an aspen leaf. Her skin was soft and warm. She continued to touch my chest. Her lips broke our kiss and found my neck. My body shivered. I reached around Mary Ellen, looking for the clasp on her bra. Our mouths explored each other as I traced my fingers along her bra strap until I came to…what in the world? I tried it again. Using the other hand, I traced from the other side, but I couldn’t find the clasp. Where was the clasp? Panicky now, I gave Mary Ellen a clumsy bear hug. This time I used both hands to trace her bra strap from either side but my fingertips touched with no clasp in sight. What in the heck? Oh, God, now what?

Mary Ellen straightened up and smiled. “It’s in the front, Ronny,” she whispered and then unfastened the bra for me. It fell to the side, exposing her beautiful, cream-colored breasts, the ones I had been dreaming about for days. My quivering fingers somehow found her nipples. They were the size, color, and hardness of a pencil eraser, not the jumbo-sized pencil you used in kindergarten to write in your Big Chief tablet, but rather the size of the eraser on your standard number two pencil that was required of the Iowa Test of Basic Skills. Recalling a move I’d read about in Playboy, I pinched her nipple and waited for a reaction. Her breathing quickened. I felt her fingers trace a line down my stomach until they came to the button on my shorts. Now I was trembling, but she remained cool, calm. With no problem of her own, she unfastened my cutoffs and deftly slid down the zipper. I felt my breath shudder as she reached into my Fruit of the Looms, searching for my manhood. I was about to explode. Suddenly, the heat of the moment was interrupted by a blood-curdling scream coming from Mary Ellen’s mouth. She frantically slid back across the vinyl seat and out through the door, screaming and pointing at me.

In my own state of panic, I looked down to see what she was pointing at. Then I began to scream myself. What in the world? I threw open the door and jumped out of the car myself, trying to get away from the creature I had just seen, but that didn’t work since the creature was actually a part of me. In that area where my wiener should have been was a giant, six-foot long nightcrawler, squirming around like it had just been cut in two.

I bolted upright, drenched in sweat, my heart on overdrive. What in the heck? I cleared my cobwebs, went to the bathroom, and got a drink before returning to bed. As my heartbeat subsided, I read myself to sleep, settling into a long, much-needed rest.

The next morning Butch called, asking if I was ready to go catfishing. Somehow, my nightmare had changed everything. I was becoming obsessed with Mary Ellen, and fishing, for the first time in my life, took a backseat.

“I’m not feeling that great,” I lied. “Why don’t you and Melv take White Lightning over to the Milk and fish?”

“Come on, really? I don’t even have my license.”

“Butch, your folks will both be working and you know Deputy Peete’s routine. Just time it right so you don’t meet him.”

Butch thought about it for a second and then said, “Let me think about it for a bit. I’ll give Melv a call.”

Great. I’d have to wait until the guys left before contacting Mary Ellen. If they found out I lied about being sick just because I wanted to be with her, the shit could hit the fan. I turned the tube to The Price is Right and waited.

An hour passed while I was watching TV. I was getting impatient waiting for the guys to leave. Butch’s car was still parked in front of his house, and there was no sign it was going to be moving soon. Then, just as the Unknown Comic was finishing up his routine on The Gong Show, I heard the doorbell ring. It was Melv.

“Hey, what’s up, man?” I asked him, trying to convince my best friend I was too sick to go fishing.

“Butch says you’re sick, huh?”

“Yeah, I think I caught the flu or something nightcrawler hunting last night.”

“Dang, that’s too bad. I guess we’re gonna head over to the Milk. He said you guys caught a giant one last night, huh?”

“Yeah,” I laughed sickly. “You’ll have to go check it out.”

“All right, man. Get better.” And with that, he was off. I waited a few minutes until I saw Melv and Butch haul their gear into White Lightning and slowly roll down the street. That was my cue.

I climbed on my bike and cruised up to Mary Ellen’s house. She was sitting on the front steps painting her toenails. I pulled into the yard, dropped my bike on the grass, and sat down beside her.

“Whatcha doin?” I asked.

She was dressed in green terrycloth shorts and a white tank top. Her hair was wet and hanging past her shoulders. Looking at her, I couldn’t help but think of Butch and her boobs. And Melv and her legs.

“Just painting my toenails,” she said, stating the obvious. “Want me to paint yours?” she kidded, trying to brush a stroke on my arm.

“No, I don’t think so,” I said smiling. I liked the way she was funny, funny like a guy.

“That was fun yesterday, huh?” I asked.

“It was fun, but that water was freezing!” She shivered at the thought.

“Oh, you just gotta get used to it,” I kidded. I was trying to think of something clever to say. “So, how do you like it up here so far?”

“I like it. It’s not as humid as Texas is. I like that part.” I kept eyeballing her, trying to get a reading on whether she liked me or not. “There’s not a lot of girls around here, are there?”

“You’ve noticed that too, huh?” In reality, there were probably just as many girls as guys in town, but none that had ever taken notice of Ronny Biscans.

“Yeah,” she replied. She stopped polishing her nails and smiled at me. “Guess I’m just stuck with ya’ll for the summer, huh?”

I liked that. “Yep, guess you are.” I laughed. “So, what kind of stuff do you do in Texas?”

“I love to ride horses. I have an Arabian back home called Marvelous. I get to ride in shows and all, but my father has to spend the next six weeks in China on business, so that’s why I’m up here. Riding Marvey is what I’ll miss the most this summer.” She looked down at her toes.

“I see,” I said, trying to somehow relate to horseback riding. “I rode a cow once at a friend’s house.”

“A cow?” She laughed. “What in the world were you riding on a cow for?”

Good question. All I could remember was the cow’s bony back wedging its way up my ass crack; that, and the fact that I just about had to do the splits to get my legs around it. “I don’t remember. It was a few years ago. I was staying overnight with a friend from out of town, and they had this old cow out in the barn. He told me to get on her. I did, but she was so wide I could barely get my legs around her. Then, she made a run for it, and I fell off in about five seconds. ‘Bout cracked my skull.”

Mary Ellen laughed. “You’re not supposed to ride cows, you goofball.”

“Well, I didn’t know. I thought that was something they did on farms.”

“Ranches,” she corrected me.

“Sorry, ranches.” Hell, to me a farm and a ranch were pretty much the same thing. I mean, they did have the Farm and Ranch Report together on TV. “I bet you miss riding horses, huh?”

“I really do.” I could never understand why people liked to ride horses when you could drive a car.

“What do you like about riding ‘em?”

“Oh, they’re so beautiful, Ronny—especially Arabians. If you like horses, you’ll love them.” I could understand that I guess; I felt that way about fishing. “I love the way they smell. I love their spirit. I love the power they have, but also how they can be so gentle. There’s something about them that’s so romantic. I love the freedom of riding on a summer day. It’s like you have this pet you really love, and you get as close to that pet as you can because you can enjoy things and go places with them.”

I tried to imagine myself riding on Terry. That didn’t seem too exciting. I could tell it was something she really missed.

“Hey, can I call you sometime?” I asked, taking a chance I normally wouldn’t, but she made me feel so comfortable.

“Sure.”

“What’s your number?”

“My phone number?”

“Yeah.”

Mary Ellen thought for a second. “I dunno. Let me go check.” She sprung to her feet and walked into the house. I could hear her talking to her Aunt Elaine. She returned moments later. “Fifty-three, oh-nine,” she said as she sat back down on the cement steps and resumed her painting.

Back in those days, you only had to dial the last four digits of the number. Five, three, zero, nine. Five, three, zero, nine, I repeated to myself.

“What’s yours?” she asked.

No girl had ever asked me for my number before. “Five, two, three, two,” I told her.

“Wait here,” she said as she screwed the lid on the bottle of nail polish. She jumped to her feet once more. “Be right back.” Mary Ellen walked into the house and returned with a ballpoint pen. “Let me see your hand,” she said.

I offered it up, wondering if she was going to try to paint my nails again. Instead, she turned my palm and wrote something on it. I waited patiently, curious as to what the message was. When she was done, I looked at it.

“Mary Ellen—5309,” it read.

“Here,” she said, offering the pen to me. “Write your number on my hand.”

I took Mary Ellen’s hand in mine and wrote my number down. The feeling you get when you touch the girl’s hand you’re interested in is like no other. That’s what I was feeling at the moment.

“You have strong hands, Ronny!” she said.

Really? “Thanks,” I said. No one had ever told me that. When I was finished, I didn’t want her to pull away. “There ya go,” I said, reluctantly returning the pen.

“Good. Now don’t forget to call me.”

Believe me, I wouldn’t. “I won’t. You doin’ anything today?”

“Well, I do have to run to town in a bit with Aunt Elaine,” she said. “Town,” in this case, meant Glasgow, seventeen miles away. “But I should be back around one or so. Why?”

“Oh, I was just wonderin’. Well, if we go swimmin’ or anything, I’ll give you a call, okay?” I asked, knowing “we” just meant “I.”

“Sure.”

“Okay,” I said, rising from the steps and hopping back on my bike. “See ya later.”

“Bye, Ronny.” She rose to her feet and went into the house.

The minute I got home I grabbed the phone. My aunt Martha lived on a ranch a few miles out of town. She had lived alone since Uncle Herby was sent to prison the previous year, not that it hurt Aunt Martha’s feelings at all. If his cattle rustling wouldn’t have done him in, I’m sure Aunt Martha would have. She still lived on the ranch, but was now assisted by Virgil, an ornery old ranch hand who pretty much ran the show.

One o’clock rolled around and I hopped on my bike and rode up near Mary Ellen’s house—close enough to see if she was home, but not so close as to look conspicuous. I could see Elaine’s car parked in the driveway, so I pedaled back home, grabbed the phone, and looked at my hand. I dialed her number.

“Hello?” It was a female’s voice for sure, but I couldn’t tell whose.

“Is Mary Ellen there?”

“May I ask who is calling?”

“Ronny.” She put down the phone. I could hear her calling for Mary Ellen in the background.

“Hello?”

“Hi, Mary Ellen. It’s Ronny. Guess what?” Before she could guess anything, I blurted out, “I found a horse you can ride!”

“You did?” she said, excitement ringing in her voice. “Are you kidding?”

“No, my Aunt Martha’s. She said we could come out. Wanna go?”

“For real?” She still didn’t believe me.

“Yes!”

“I’d love to! You sure it’s no problem?”

“Not at all. She said we could come out whenever we wanted.”

“Give me about ten minutes, okay?”

“Okay, I’ll swing by then. See ya.” I hung up the phone. This is gonna be almost like a real date.

I picked Mary Ellen up in no later than ten minutes and we headed out to Aunt Martha’s. Mary Ellen had changed into a western blouse and jeans and had surprised me with a pair of cowboy boots.

“Hey, where’d ya get those?” I had never seen a girl in cowboy boots before.

“They’re my riding boots. Everyone wears ‘em when they ride. How far is it to your aunt’s house?” Mary Ellen asked as we made our way out of town.

“Only a few miles. It won’t take very long.”

“Promise?”

“I promise.”

We arrived to find Aunt Martha collecting eggs from the chicken coop. She wore a checkered blue and white milkmaid uniform. Aunt Martha set her basket down and gave me a big hug and kiss on the cheek.

“How ya been, Ronny boy?” She always called me that.

“Good,” I said, realizing I was now about four inches taller than the last time I saw her—either that or she had shrunk a few, which may have been the case.

“My goodness, you’re growin’ like a weed. What are those folks of yours feedin’ ya?”

“I don’t know,” I confessed. “Just food, I guess.”

“How are your folks?” She had an energetic aura about her, especially since Uncle Herby was gone.

“Good.”

“And that brother of yours?”

“Oh, he’s okay,” I said. Like all little brothers, he could be a pain in the ass. “Aunt Martha, this is Mary Ellen. She’s stayin’ up in town with her aunt and uncle this summer, but she rides horses, and we thought this would be fun.”

Aunt Martha put her arm around Mary Ellen as if she were an old friend. “Hi, Mary Ellen. I’m Aunt Martha. Glad to meet you.”

“Hi,” Mary Ellen replied.

“So, you’re the one who wants to ride ol’ Buck, huh?”

“I guess so.”

“Well, Virgil is over there with him now,” she said, pointing to a corral in the distance. “He’ll get you all set up.” She turned and picked up her basket of eggs. “I gotta get back to these chickens now.”

“Thanks, Aunt Martha,” I said, giving her a peck on the forehead. She has shrunk, I thought.

“Oh, Ronny!” she shouted as we were about halfway to the corral. “You two take as much time as you want. Ol’ Buck needs the exercise. It’ll be good for him.”

Mary Ellen and I made our way over to the corral where Virgil was feeding a herd of cows. He looked up when we arrived.

“You the ones come fer Buck?” he asked, spitting a wad of chew from his mouth. He was a thin, unkempt man, dressed in a long-sleeved shirt that was a stranger to a washing machine. A stubble field of salt and pepper covered his leathered face. The front of his shirt was tucked into his jeans—the same couldn’t be said for the back. In one knee of his Levis was a hole, and dried cow shit decorated the other. To top off his ensemble, he sported a straw cowboy hat that was missing a few lines of weave and boots that had stepped in more than one cow pie.

“Yeah,” I said cautiously. “You must be Virgil.”

“Got that right.”

“Nice to meet you,” I lied. “This is Mary Ellen. She’s from Texas. Aunt Martha said she could take Buck for a ride.”

Virgil eyed Mary Ellen suspiciously, as if a purdy girl had never set foot on this land—ever. “From Texas, huh?” he asked. “Been there once. Too damn hot for me.” He hocked a loogie from the back of his throat, turned his head, and shot it toward his beat-up pickup, where it stuck to the tire and hung there, clinging for dear life. I was beginning to think this wasn’t such a good idea. Virgil looked at me. “So yer lookin’ to ride ol’ Buck, are ya?”

“Well, not me. Mary Ellen is.”

“You ever ride before, girl?” he asked.

“I have an Arabian back home that I ride all the time,” Mary Ellen told him.

Virgil harrumphed. “Well, ol’ Buck here, he ain’t no ‘rabian,” he said, pointing to a tan horse with a black mane and tail. “But he’s a durn good horse. Little old though. Pert near twenty he is, so take it easy on him.”

Virgil ambled over to Buck while Mary Ellen and I followed, careful not to get any cow shit on our shoes. Mary Ellen spoke to the old cowboy as he did something to the saddle.

“Are you sure it’s okay if I ride him?”

“Yep, you can take him out in that there field,” he said, pointing to what actually was a meadow. I had always thought a field had crops in it. “You just brang him back when yer done with him. If I ain’t here, just lock him in the corral.”

Mary Ellen expertly climbed aboard. Virgil led Buck out the corral door, or “gate” as he called it, and Mary Ellen was on her way. The old ranch hand refilled his lip with a dip of Beech-Nut and propped a boot up on the corral. I watched with him as Mary Ellen and Buck traipsed through the countryside for the next several minutes.

“That ol’ girl is a purdy damn fine rider,” Virgil said, spitting another stream of tobacco—this time between his teeth—at least eight to ten feet.

“Yeah, she is, ain’t she?” I replied as if I could tell a fine rider from a hole in the ground. Satisfied that Mary Ellen wouldn’t somehow damage Buck, the old ranch hand climbed into the pickup and drove away without another word.

As Mary Ellen and Buck disappeared over a hill, I stood by the corral and waited.

After what seemed like a half hour of analyzing a cow pie and trying to figure out why flies found them so attractive, I bent down and absentmindedly pulled a handful of wheatgrass from the ground. To pass the time, I began to weave it together until I had a braid about six-inches long. After a short spell, Mary Ellen returned.

“Come on. Get on,” she said, smiling down at me.

“Oh, I don’t know about that.” My days of falling off the cow came rushing back to me.

“Come on. It’ll be fun.” She noticed the braid. “What do ya have there?”

“Oh, nothin’ really,” I said. “It’s a bracelet I made ya.”

“A bracelet? You made a bracelet for me?”

“Sure,” I said, walking toward Buck. I handed the bracelet to Mary Ellen, trying not to get too close to the horse. “Here.”

Mary Ellen set the bracelet on the saddle and laid her wrist across it. “Can you help me fasten it?”

“Yeah, sure.” Leery of Buck, I inched closer to Mary Ellen and tied the bracelet around her wrist. “There, that should do it.”

“Well, thank you so much, Ronny. You didn’t have to do that, you know?”

“Oh, I don’t mind.”

“Well, that was really sweet of you. Come on now. Hop up here.”

“You sure he can hold us both?”

“Sure he can. He’s a strong horse.”

I was really starting to sweat, but didn’t want Mary Ellen to notice. I know if I get on, I’ll fall off. If I fall off, I’ll look like a doofus. If I don’t get on, I’ll look like a chicken shit. Doofus. Chicken shit. Doofus. Chicken shit. I chose doofus.

“Okay, I’ll go with ya. What do I do?” I asked, already feeling like a doofus.

“Come here. I’ll help you up.” I shuffled next to old Buck, and Mary Ellen reached down for me. “Put your foot in there,” she said, pointing at that stirrup thing. I did as I was told and, before I knew it, was being pulled onto Buck’s back. “There. That wasn’t so bad now, was it?”

“No, not bad,” I said. Okay, where do I put my hands? I had a flashback to Butch and the cardboard slide.

“Just grab onto my waist,” she said, reading my mind.

“Where do I put my feet?”

“Just hang ‘em. They’ll be fine.”

With a slight squeeze from her legs and a click from her tongue, Mary Ellen got Buck to move beneath her, and with that, we took off. My grip tightened on Mary Ellen’s waist, not because I was trying to garner a cheap feel but because I was holding on for dear life. We began galloping across the Northeastern Montana prairie.

“Isn’t this wonderful?” she asked, her hair blowing in my face.

“Yeah,” I muttered while my nuts bounced up and down on Buck’s backbone. “This is great.”

Having no sense of foresight on this fine afternoon, I had worn my jean cutoffs and was now quickly developing some chafing of the inner thigh. We rode over the hill where she had disappeared to earlier and into a large meadow freckled with cottonwood.

“This is so fun, Ronny! I can’t believe you did this for me.”

My nerves had calmed down a bit, and now I was ready to think of copping a cheap feel. I imagined Butch’s arms around her, just like I had mine, and how easy it would be to reach up and touch her breasts—just once. She’ll probably notice even if I do it just once, I thought. That would royally blow my chances though. Maybe I can make it look like it was an accident, like if we hit a bump or something. As hard as it was for me to restrain myself, I somehow managed.

“I wanna show you something, ” Mary Ellen said. She steered us down to a ring of cottonwood trees half the size of a football field. Inside the ring was a crisp, blue pond.

“Cool,” I said. I had seen ponds before and wasn’t that impressed, but being out here alone with Mary Ellen, well, that impressed me.

She put the horse in park and we sat there surveying the pond. “You wanna go for a swim?” she asked. For some reason, her question seemed like it took centuries to travel from my ears to my brain. Another century later, the response hit my tongue.

“H-huh?”

“You wanna go for a swim?” she repeated.

“W-well, you didn’t bring anything to swim in,” I replied.

“Oh, silly, I’ll be okay. Come on!” Mary Ellen eagerly helped me down from the horse then climbed down herself. She must have her swimsuit beneath her clothing, I thought, like she did the other day.

I stood like an idiot and watched as Mary Ellen tied Buck’s ropes to a nearby tree.

“Come on!” she said again. Mary Ellen bounced down to the water’s edge like a girl with way too much energy.

She looks like I feel on the last day of school. “W-well, what are you gonna wear?” I asked, starting to get nervous. Here I was, all alone, out in the middle of the boondocks with a pretty girl. This was unchartered territory for me.

“Nothing.” My jaw dropped and heart stopped. “If you promise not to look,” she added as she kicked off her boots.

“W-well, what do ya mean, nothing?” This wasn’t making sense. She wasn’t going to wear nothing.

“Nothing. I’m just gonna go in my birthday suit.” She was unfastening her buttons as she spoke. “Don’t tell me you’ve never done that before. But you gotta promise not to look though, okay?”

“Y-yeah, sure.” My knees were shaking, and I was wishing I was in about a thousand other places. I’m not ready for this.

“Turn around. You’re looking,” Mary Ellen teased. I turned my back to her as she climbed out of her jeans and panties and unsnapped her bra, letting it drop onto the pile of clothes below. I heard her enter the water with a quiet splash. “Okay, you can turn around now.” And turn around I did. My senses were heightened and my mind spinning. Mary Ellen was buck naked and treading water, but her head was the only part I could see. “You comin?” she shouted.

“Y-yeah, just a sec.” I walked over to the water’s edge and stripped off my shirt, shoes, and socks. I dropped them in a pile by Mary Ellen’s clothing. “How’s the water?” I asked, trying to think of what you say to a naked girl—this being my first one and all.

“It’s nice,” she said, beckoning me. “Come on in.”

I poked my foot into the pond and found that Mary Ellen’s assessment of the water temperature was spot on. “Boy, you’re right. It is nice.” It was much warmer than the water at the bridge.

I waded out a few more feet until the fringes of my cutoffs were wet. How far do I go? How close can I get before she calls me on it? I inched my way closer, taking my chances. Closer. Closer. And then she was gone. I glanced to the left and then to the right. Where in the hell did she go? I searched again, but to no avail. Then I saw a stream of bubbles rising to the surface. She resurfaced with a smile a few feet away.

“Whew! That felt good.”

Now I was really feeling awkward. I wasn’t sure if I was supposed to swim out to her and embrace her in a romantic hug like in the movies or just stand there and look stupid.

She sensed my anxiety. “Come on out,” she said.

Gathering as much composure as I could muster, I dove underwater and frog-stroked toward Mary Ellen. I resurfaced for a breath only to notice she had moved to deeper water. What in the world?

“Come on, try to catch me,” she teased.

Shit! I don’t wanna try and catch you. I just want you to wait there for me. Naked. Now, I was a pretty damn good swimmer when I could touch bottom, but in deep water, I got a little paranoid. I was no Mark Spitz.

“Come on, Ronny,” she egged on again. “Catch me.”

I can tell you right now what any fifteen-year-old boy in his right mind is going to do when a naked girl calls for him.

“Okay, here I come.” I dove underwater and kicked my way once more to Mary Ellen. Like before, she had moved on me.

“Come on. Come and get me,” she said and laughed.

I dove. She moved. I dove. She moved. This went on for way too long. Suddenly, on dive number five, I had an idea.

“Cramp!” I yelled, grabbing my right hamstring and feigning as if I was about to go under. Mary Ellen began to swim my way. Using only three limbs, I managed to pull myself to shallower water. Mary Ellen was now less than ten feet away. My eyes strained to see the top of her breasts just below the water’s surface.

“Are you okay?” Mary Ellen asked, a genuine look of fright and concern in her eyes.

“Yeah, I’ll be all right, just got a cramp out there. Musta ate somethin’ less than an hour ago.”

Mary Ellen stood on the bottom, still just exposing her pretty face. “Well, Ronny, I suppose we should get going, don’t ya think?”

Get going? That’s the last thing I wanted to do. I wanted to swim over to her and…just touch her or something.

“You sure you’re ready to go?” I asked, trying to conceal my disappointment.

“Yeah, I think so. We should probably get Buck back. Your Aunt Martha will be looking for us.”

“Okay,” I said, resigned to the fact I wasn’t going to get much more of a peek than I already had gotten. I trudged toward the shore, grabbed my clothes, and put them back on. I stood on the bank and turned to face her. “Okay, you can come out now,” I said, grinning at her.

Her smile turned to a playful frown. “Turn your back.”

“And what if I don’t?”

“Ronny…” she scolded, cocking her head to the side as if to say, “Come on now, do as you’re told.”

“What if I just wanna stand here and look at you for a while?” I was being brave, pushing my luck.

“Please?” she said with a sweet whine. Her voice made me melt, made me nervous. “All right.” I turned my back, and she walked out of the water.

“Oh, no. I suppose you don’t happen to have a towel, do you?” she asked, already knowing the answer.

“No, but you can use my shirt if you’d like.”

“You would do that for me?” Hell, I would have done just about anything for her right then.

“Sure.” I removed my shirt and, without looking back, tossed it over my shoulder. “Here ya go. See if you can catch it.”

Mary Ellen came ashore, wiped herself dry, and got dressed behind my back. Moments later, I felt a finger tapping on my shoulder. “Would you snap this for me?” she asked. Mary Ellen had donned her jeans and boots, but was totally topless—that was if you didn’t count the bra she wanted me to help her with. I turned around, pleased to be given the chore.

“What do I have to do?” I asked, taking the two sides of the bra in my hands.

“Just fasten the hooks together.”

You can bet your bottom dollar I was going to take my time with this one. This was the closest I had come to Mary Ellen, to physically touching her—well, other than her hand. The skin of her neck looked mouthwatering, her hips inviting. Reluctantly, I pulled the two straps together and, with deep regret, latched them to each other.

“There, how’s that?”

“Thank you.” And before I knew it, Mary Ellen had spun around and given me a quick peck on the cheek. “And thanks for not peekin’.”

Stunned that Mary Ellen had just kissed me, I pulled my shirt on and staggered over to join her on Buck’s back. We galloped away toward Aunt Martha’s house.

When we arrived back in town, it was dinnertime.

“Thanks again, Ronny,” she said as she walked away from my car and into her house. “That was so sweet of you.”

“No problem. See ya tomorrow, okay?”

She smiled and gave a wave. “You know it.”

I fell asleep that night, realizing I was in deep, deeper than I could have ever imagined.