Young Zoe

"Search for 'Amazon Fart-Eating Machine,'" my son, Scotty, suggested, bursting into giggles.

"What?"

"Amazon Fart-Eating Machine," he repeated, now bent in half with uproarious laughter.

I was on the one-stop shopping website on a Saturday morning. My eight-year-old son hovered behind me, watching me type searches into my laptop. One of his favorite things to do was to suggest searches and see what came up. This morning, it started with "tornadoes." Somehow the searches devolved from there to "Amazon Fart-Eating Machine"—whatever the hell that might be.

I typed in the string, saying, "Scotty, there's probably some poor guy at Amazon, sitting behind a computer, and he's monitoring searches right now, and he's going to turn to his boss and say, 'Sir, someone's looking for a Fart-Eating Machine. Do we sell anything like that?'"

My son fell to the floor laughing. I admit that I was chuckling, too, at this point.

I showed him what came up—some kid's book about farts. This brought on another bout of giggles.

When we finished, he wheezed, "Hoo! I wish Cora could see this."

"Who's Cora?"

"She was in my class." Then, he asked me if I would invite her over to play.

A playdate between a boy and a girl? I wondered. Does that happen?

I was a divorced father of one—Scotty—and he spent every other weekend with me, as well as Tuesdays through Thursdays during the summer. During the school year, every weekend was with Mom, weekdays were with me because of the better schools. This was the first time he ever asked for a play date with a girl.

I called a neighbor woman who had several children, a few of them older than Scotty, and asked about it.

"Oh, yeah. No big deal. Happens all the time until about fifth grade," she said.

"What happens in fifth grade?"

"End of fourth grade," she corrected. "They watch the puberty video."

"Oh."

So, I tracked down Cora's parents' phone number and called. A woman answered.

After introducing myself, I explained the situation. "My son, Scotty, goes to school with Cora, and he wanted to know if she could come over and play."

"Oh, I've heard of Scotty," she replied. "Cora talks about him all the time."

"Cool. Yeah, he was just talking about Cora. So what do you think? Is today alright?"

"What time?"

"Any time is fine."

"Have to be short. We're going to his grandparents later. Will two hours be okay?"

"That's fine."

"Say a half hour from now?"

"Sounds good."

I gave her our address.

Scotty was thrilled.

A hunk of shit hatchback from somewhere in the 1990s pulled into our driveway about forty minutes later. Scotty ran out the front door, screaming, "Cora's here!"

A little girl with long blond hair flew out of the hatchback. They stopped in front of one another, smiling.

"Come see my room!" Scott suggested.

"Okay!"

The two tore off past me back into the house.

The hatchback shut off, and a young woman stepped out of the car.

There was no way in hell this was Cora's mother.

I strode over and said, "Hi, I'm Scott's dad." I told her my name and extended my hand.

She shook it and said, "I'm Zoe, Cora's sister."

"Nice to meet you, Zoe."

She looked at the house, and with some hesitancy, said, "My Mom said I should make sure everything looks safe."

I wondered, right then, if the Mom was some deadbeat. Why not come herself? Send a kid to make sure a younger kid is safe? Upon second thought, I decided to give Cora's Mom the benefit of the doubt. There could be a number of reasons. Plus, this wasn't Syria; it was South fucking Dakota.

"Oh. Of course. Yeah. Come in," I offered.

I led Cora's sister inside the front door. The muffled, but excited chatter of kids emanated from Scott's room above us.

"So, Zoe, if you don't mind my asking, how old are you?"

"Eighteen," she timidly responded.

"Oh? And what grade are you in—going to be in, I should say?"

She looked around—her eyes crossed over the big staircase, the loft area above us, and the wide entryway that led to the kitchen and great room.

"Um, I'll be a freshman."

"So, you just graduated from...?"

She watched her foot drag back and forth on the floor. "Oh," she said, glancing at my body, "Roosevelt High."

Painfully shy, Zoe hadn't once looked me directly in the eyes, and I continued asking her questions, not so much because I was interested in her life story, but more to just get her to actually look at me for once. "Yeah? Where will you be going next fall?"

"Brookings."

To a South Dakotan, this meant SDSU—SoDak State. "Go Jackrabbits," I said with a hint of humor.

She turned to me with a shy smile. Finally.

A dry lump formed in my throat. Wow, I thought, that's some face. Then, as if I had been seeing this young lady through a hazy sheet of plastic, I took in her anew.

She was extremely cute. Not pretty, not beautiful. Just very, very cute. She had big blue eyes hidden behind rectangular glasses. Her honey-blonde hair was pulled back into a simple ponytail; it's dangling end fell to shoulder blade height. Her skin was the color of beach sand, but she wore very little makeup—a touch of natural-colored lipstick, some eye-liner.

The shimmer of her skin and the shape of her face struck me most. Her circular face glowed, not with perspiration or pubescent oils, but with—what?—baby fat, it seemed. Not chubby by any means, Zoe's face was doll-like. The sensual curvature of her round cheeks had not the slightest hint of sag or droop. The glow I saw in her skin derived from that baby-fat tautness.

I gestured to the kitchen. Zoe went ahead of me. She wore a red tee-shirt over jean shorts. Short in stature, she walked timidly, her eyes on the tile floor. As she passed, I noticed her thick breasts—turgid, jutting masses that did not undulate or even move as Zoe walked.

I thought I smelled candy; I couldn't quite identify what kind.

I glanced up and down her arms and legs. Every part of her, I realized—her whole body seemed to have a layer of smooth, turgid baby fat. In fact, she had the kind of body that the boys her age might actually call fat or chubby only because so many of the other girls were rangy and coltish by comparison.

I followed her into the kitchen, confirming my impression when I glanced at her butt. Tightly packed into those jean shorts, it, too, was a bulbous mass. It, too, was a contradiction, giving the impression of being simultaneously soft and rigid. It completely filled the back of her shorts.

I grew silent. I stared at Zoe and her body. Nervous energy simmered inside me.

There was absolutely no reason for it, but I was getting angry. Something about Zoe irked me. I knew she'd done nothing wrong. I knew she was just a nice kid taking care of her little sister, but a little ball of rage was building in me.

I wanted Zoe out of my fucking house, and I wanted her to never leave it.

"This house is really big," she said softly, taking in the generous space of my wide-open great room and kitchen.

I found my voice after clearing my throat. "Yeah. Doesn't seem that way from the front."

Zoe walked to the back windows, looking out at the enormous screened-in porch that adjoined my kitchen. I walked past her and opened the door to the porch.

"Feel free," I offered.

She passed me, and her arm grazed my stomach. "Excuse me," she muttered.

A thrumming jolt coursed through me.

She scanned the porch, taking in the two circular dining tables and the set of four outdoor slider chairs. Then, she walked to the screen and scanned the back yard. "That's a nice playground," she remarked. Then, she looked down. "You have a pool!"

"Yeah."

She turned to me, her face growing pink again. "I'm supposed to ask what you do."

The feeling of being irritated did not fade, but I found an ability to section it off and be a gracious host. For Scotty, I needed to. "Sure. I'm an attorney for Winterfield."

Her chin turned up, and she looked me in the eyes.

"And what do you want to study at SoDak State?" I asked.

"Pre-law, actually."

"Hey, cool. Well, if you ever have any questions, feel free to ask."

"Thank you," she said, and her head fell as if she wasn't used to men being polite.

I gestured to the kitchen. "Do you want anything? Get you something to drink?"

Her eyes grew alert, but she didn't respond.

"I've got pop, water, and...well, here, come take a look."

She followed me back into the kitchen, and she stopped. "That refrigerator is huge," she remarked.

"It's actually two normal ones, and I just reversed the handle on one so that they could sit side-by-side. See?" I opened the doors of both, showing her. "One's more of a food fridge, and one's kind of the beverage fridge." I opened the latter's door, and Zoe looked in.

The thing was stocked with milk—Scott and I both drank tons of it—and beer. It dawned upon me that I probably looked like an alcoholic.

I said, "Yeah, I—I don't drink that much beer. That's—that's for guests and parties and such."

Her face went pink, and I felt mine turning that way, too.

"But," I pointed out, "there's some Dr. Pepper in there, and some..." I glanced at her and saw a reaction. "A Dr. Pepper?" I pulled a can out of the twelve pack.

She looked at it and nodded.

I cracked it open and handed it to her.

She muttered, "Thank you."

"Do you need to see the rest of the house? It's no problem. I'd want to make sure Scotty was in a safe place, too."

"I guess so if that's okay."

Starting on the first floor, we walked through the dining room to what I called the "Playroom"—a living room that I just turned over to Scotty for his toys and games. Bean bags, game chairs, a little craft table with four small stools, bookshelves lined with board games and stocked with bins full of legos and other toys filled the room. It was very spacious. Zoe's eyes widened as she took it in.

We checked out the upstairs, peeking in on Scotty and Cora while they played with his legos. Zoe peered into the three empty bedrooms, one of which I had turned into an office. Then, I showed her the master bedroom, an expansive place, complete with king-size bed, couch, leather recliner, coffee table, two big walk-in closets, wide vanity area, and a huge bathroom with a jacuzzi tub and a six by six-foot double shower.

My underwear was on the floor, and I kicked it away, shrugging my shoulders.

Zoe said, "Sorry," and her face went pink again.

I waved it off. "My fault for not picking up." I thought these words would put aside the matter, but Zoe's face grew even rosier and shinier. The anger in me flared up, and I took a few deep breaths.

What the fuck was wrong with me? I wondered.

I escorted her down to the walk-out basement. There was a gym, a fireplace and family room, two more bedrooms, a large bath, and a kitchen that looked out onto the pool area.

"Where's your wife?" she asked.

"Divorced," I said.

"Oh, I—I'm sorry."

"Nothing it all. Been four years." I held up my left hand, wiggling my empty ring finger.

Zoe blushed again, turning from me and looking out the window. "You have a hot tub, too?"

"Yep, but the decking is kind of under construction right now."

I led her back upstairs. She told me she should be going, but against my own will—or with it—I encouraged her to stay and finish her pop. We sat at the kitchen table, and I asked her about high school, graduation, and her summer plans.

Her answers were short. Zoe was shy and awkward. Her favorite class, she said, was English.

"Hey, mine, too," I said, "What was your favorite book?"

"Um, Great Gatsby."

"Oh, great choice. I love that book." Then, pausing a beat, I sat up and closed my eyes for a moment to remember the words. Having them, I quoted, "'Tomorrow we will run faster, stretch our arms farther...and one fine morning—So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.'"

Zoe smiled. "I love that part," she said. "How do you remember that?"

"My English teacher made us select a passage to do a dramatic monologue at the end of the year—straight memorization—and I chose the last five paragraphs of Gatsby."

"It's so beautiful when he's talking about the 'fresh green breast of the New World.'"

My eyes darted to her chest when she finished. She saw and began to blush.

The anger hit me again. I fought to suppress it. "See? You know it, too," I quickly said. "Great minds think alike."

A timid grin unfurled on her face before I asked her about her summer plans.

She told me her job was to nanny her little sister and Cora's younger brother.

"Parents both working?"

"It's just my Mom. She works."

"How old is your brother?"

"Six. He and Cora are my half-brother and sister."

"Oh. Is it easy? Easy kids to watch?"

"Not really. Our apartment is so small, and there's not a lot of good places to take them."

"Here," I offered. I don't understand why I said it. Something about this young lady awakened real anger in me. Was I trying to overcompensate for it? Was I trying to punish myself? "You can bring them here sometimes," I finished.

"Gabe, too?"

"Gabe, your brother—half-brother?"

"Uh-huh."

"He's a good kid?"

"He's easy. Cora's the wild one," Zoe responded.

"Well, then, sure. We've got the playroom, the playground, and the pool. Scotty spends every other weekend here, but he's here every Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday in the summer. So, I work from home those days."

"You'd really let us come?"

"Yeah—I mean—I'm working, so I might not be free all the time. I suppose it's kind of a compromise. You get a place for your siblings to play; I get kids to play with Scotty, keep him entertained while I work. I don't know. Is that unfair, what I'm suggesting?"

"No. It's perfect."

"You should make sure your Mom is okay with the plan."

She asked when we might start, and I suggested this coming Tuesday. She, I mentioned, could decide if it was once or three times per week or every other week and, of course, for how long each day.

She liked the plan, and we walked around the yard together to see the pool and the playground. Her eyes assessed the possibilities, and it seemed she liked them.

The two hours elapsed with Zoe and me touring the place, talking about books, and watching Scotty and Cora play and scream with laughter.

When the sisters left, I asked Zoe to have her Mom call me to make sure everything was okay with our plan.

Afterward, I put on a movie for Scotty, but I didn't watch.

I was thinking about Zoe.

She was not my type. I dated tall women—5 feet 7, minimum. It wasn't because I was particularly tall, being right at six feet. It was more because I loved the idea of those long legs wrapped around me.

I also generally dated brunettes and the occasional redhead. I had nothing against blondes, like Zoe, but for whatever reason, the others struck me as less carefree and more professional.

I didn't date younger women, either. Five years difference was about as much as I would allow. In fact, I suppose as a whole I tended to go for women kind of like me—my equals, physically and professionally.

Zoe somehow turned my brain inside out. I scrutinized her in my mind, seeing her faults clearly. I didn't like cute; Zoe was cute. She was short, maybe 5 feet 1. She was blonde, but I allowed her glasses made her seem slightly more studious than carefree. She was timid; I sought out bold women. She was not skinny; she had young, fat breasts and a young, round ass.

I suddenly wondered if the combination of all those things that I tended to avoid in women somehow in her added up to this strange irritation I had when I thought about her.

The voluptuousness of her body was not the richness of figure that one sees in older women—heavy, undulating breasts and an ass and hips that scream sexual maturity. No. Zoe's body, while clearly ready for sex, broadcasted inexperience. The women I had always gone for were the sleek, well-trodden slopes of Vail or Aspen. Zoe was the untouched, powder-coated mountain one sees in the distance and imagines cutting fresh tracks down.

Her face added another twist. With that layer of baby fat, Zoe had the appearance of immaturity. Her face was the sapling tree, just emerging from adolescence, but upon this young tree there perched the massive, ripening fruits of her body.

Maybe it was that contrast—fresh youth upon bounteous sensuality—that remained with me after she had gone.

There was no maybe. There was no what if. I knew in my heart exactly why Zoe stoked the flames of my anger. I wanted to fuck her. I wanted to fuck her hard. I hated it because she was everything I disliked in a woman, and yet I was somehow even more attracted to her because of that difference.

Yes, I thought, I wanted her screams of pleasure to shake the walls of this fucking house.

I ignored Scotty's movie, spending the ninety or so minutes shoving aside images that crept into my thoughts. By the film's ending, I found success, and I was able to convince myself: Zoe was a cute, young lady whom I was happy to help.

***

Zoe's mother called me that evening. She loved the offer but feared her children might be an imposition. I reassured her that the arrangement would help me a great deal in my work. Then, I invited her over.

She politely declined.

I encouraged her to swing by anytime.

The mother, Carol, handed her phone to Zoe. She asked if they might start on Tuesday at 9:00am.

I agreed.

Scotty leaped in the air and pumped his fists.

I smiled to myself, happy that I could help out.

***

I was as nervous as if I were appearing before a federal judge on Tuesday morning.

I cleaned up the place on Monday night; Scotty even helped for a while. I walked around the house, scanning for anything out of place the next morning. Whenever I passed the front windows, I would look out for the crummy old hatchback pulling in.

They arrived at 9:15. Scotty raced out the door and jumped in circles around Zoe's car in our driveway.

Zoe climbed out with a smile for Scotty. Cora and her younger brother, Gabe, unbuckled themselves and flew out. Despite never having met Gabe, Scotty and the two siblings all held hands and jumped in circles together beside the car.

Zoe, in a pair of black shorts and white tee-shirt, thanked me shyly, and I led everyone inside. I took the entire group on a tour of the house, explaining the few rules as I went. Zoe made a game of it, having Cora and Gabe see if they could repeat the rules, word for word back to me. Afterward, we went to the playroom, and I watched Zoe jump into playing with all three.

They started with a bin full of toy cars and trucks, dumping all of them on the floor. Zoe got down on her hands and knees, butt to me. I stared for a moment and felt my jaw fall open. Then, clearing my throat, I went upstairs to my office.

An hour later, I peeked through the blinds at my back yard. Zoe and the kids were playing on our playground. I watched her give the other three a good push on their swings, then she used the last one, stretching her bare legs forward on the rise, then drawing them in and pushing her bulging chest out on the fall.

"Oh, my fuck," I whispered to myself. I let the blinds snap closed.

I cleared my throat and went back to work.

Just before lunch, Zoe and the kids cleaned up the playroom and left, saying they planned on coming back Thursday after lunch.

"If it's nice out, can I take the kids swimming?"

"Sure, Zoe."

In the darkness that night, I began to imagine what Thursday might be like. I couldn't get to sleep for a while.

***

I raced through my work Thursday morning. Scotty kept asking me when Cora and Gabe were coming. He was so persistent that I finally had to say, "No more questions about when they're coming, buddy, or I cancel the visit."