She only looked at me, in that way, once. She was met with desire for the first time, and she wanted it— but what? Did she want me? She was also shy for the first time, and it was because she was self-aware. She was aware of her own body, but unaware of how gorgeous it really was. To herself she was awkwardly tall, but to me, looking through an artist's eyes, she had that appealing androgynous figure of a very athletic fourteen-year-old late bloomer. I longed to remove her baggy clothes and sketch every smooth line of her slender legs, relaxed arms, and graceful torso. I would color it too. I would color it honey and milk chocolate and sun and sand.
        I should back up. This story really begins at a place in time that I cannot remember, but what I do remember is what happened ten years ago, at a gathering in a log cabin in the snow at Christmas time with old family friends.
        "Stop it," I say helplessly, my eyes brimming with tears. This monstrosity of a child has climbed on top of my back and is sitting on my neck and yanking my hair with her chubby fists, making my scalp burn. And me, only nine years old, supposed to be babysitting. They told me that she liked me, and that I was good with children, but they're lying.
        "Katie, what did I say about pulling hair..." comes a warning voice from the kitchen. It is her mother, Carrie Mulns. You can see from the downstairs kitchen and living room area upstairs through the wooden "fence" railing into the loft. Of course, she doesn't stop. I decide the time has come to use force. I sit up and roll over, throwing her off me onto the bed. She laughs, rolling around amongst the pillows. I seize the opportunity for my escape and dash downstairs. She follows, giggling, continuing to tell me a story that she made up through garbled noises and slurred words.

        She only looked at me, in that way, once. She was met with desire for the first time, and she wanted it— but what? Did she want me? She was also shy for the first time, and it was because she was self-aware. She was aware of her own body, but unaware of how gorgeous it really was. To herself she was awkwardly tall, but to me, looking through an artist's eyes, she had that appealing androgynous figure of a very athletic fourteen-year-old late bloomer. I longed to remove her baggy clothes and sketch every smooth line of her slender legs, relaxed arms, and graceful torso. I would color it too. I would color it honey and milk chocolate and sun and sand.
        I should back up. This story really begins at a place in time that I cannot remember, but what I do remember is what happened ten years ago, at a gathering in a log cabin in the snow at Christmas time with old family friends.
        "Stop it," I say helplessly, my eyes brimming with tears. This monstrosity of a child has climbed on top of my back and is sitting on my neck and yanking my hair with her chubby fists, making my scalp burn. And me, only nine years old, supposed to be babysitting. They told me that she liked me, and that I was good with children, but they're lying.
        "Katie, what did I say about pulling hair..." comes a warning voice from the kitchen. It is her mother, Carrie Mulns. You can see from the downstairs kitchen and living room area upstairs through the wooden "fence" railing into the loft. Of course, she doesn't stop. I decide the time has come to use force. I sit up and roll over, throwing her off me onto the bed. She laughs, rolling around amongst the pillows. I seize the opportunity for my escape and dash downstairs. She follows, giggling, continuing to tell me a story that she made up through garbled noises and slurred words.
        "Is she telling you one of her stories?" Carrie Mulns asks, grinning as if her four-year-old were even remotely adorable.
        "Yes," I mumble, trying to muster a smile. "She always loves telling people her stories!" I decide to talk to my mother about it later that night. She tells me that I can hang around the other two girls more; Amy, who is seven, my brother's age, and Jessica, the old one, who is fifteen.
        Five years later, it was time for another visit to the Mulns-Jones's house. We were stopping en route from our house in Kansas to our Log Cabin in Northern Michigan for a summer vacation trip. The town of Ayuxba. Walking. The universal backup plan for when nobody has anything entertaining to do. We were walking at night, around the block. The only members of the family in town were Mark, the dad, and Katie. The family undoubtedly took many vacations during the summer. I sensed a thick canopy of trees above me and around me, hearing a steady chirping of cicadas and sweating in the humidity of the July night. I kept my eyes on the skinny sidewalk full of cracks and uneven cement slabs, trying not to trip. It was illuminated a little bit by yellow streetlights, but when I looked up, all I could see was blackness. Katie chattered the whole time, about soccer, about her cat, about ice cream, disturbing the peace of the quiet night. She ran up and down the sidewalk, trying to show off how fast she was, and as she ran up from behind me she stuck out her foot and tripped me, and already being disoriented in the dark, I fell down and skinned both my knees. I tried not to cry, not because it hurt that badly, but because I was so angry.
        "Sorry!" she squealed, as Mark and my father helped me up, "I didn't see you!"
        I didn't believe her.