Mel Gibson's Love Child

by Mat Twassel

Note: The following story is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously.

for Lorrin Murray

First of all, it wasn't my idea to take the bottom bunk. My mom and I got to the dorm room early, and she just made up the bed for me. "Oh, good, Erin," she'd said, "you get the bottom. Here, help me with the corners." Then she rearranged the clothes I'd hung in my closet, tidied up my desk to be more efficient, and adjusted the position of the throw rug she'd gotten me as a going away present so that it was two inches closer to the bed. "Your bare footsies will thank me on those icy winter mornings," she said. I knew better than to make a fuss. The quicker it was done the sooner she'd be out of here, on her way home, and I'd be on my own at last. College! My real life about to begin.

But first we had to have lunch. Mom drove us to an Olive Garden that we'd passed on the way in, and she even debated ordering us glasses of wine. In the end we had Diet Cokes, and then she drove me back to campus and dropped me off in front of Keller Hall. We hugged, and I promised to write her on the new dancing bear stationery she'd given me. "Be good," she said, and then she was gone without once mentioning condoms or safe sex, although I knew that had been preying on her mind the whole time.

I went up to my room, and my new roommate was unpacking stuff from a new suitcase. "Hi, I'm Molly," she said, "Molly Wren." She was pretty in a waif-like way, thin, with dark, medium length hair and big brown eyes. We shook hands, and I felt so grown up.

"I'm sorry about the bottom bunk," I told her. "We can switch sometime if you want."

"That's okay," Molly said. She was arranging a couple of photographs on her desk, small photos in plain metal frames. One was of a young woman holding a little boy on her lap, the other of a man helping a little girl up onto a big white horse.

"Your family?" I asked.

"Uh-huh," she said, and she smoothed her finger across the top of one of the frames.

"Is that you getting on the horse?" I asked.

"Yes," she said. "I think I was about nine then."

"Nice horse," I said. "Big. Do you ride much?"

"That was the only time."

"Oh," I said.

Molly began hanging skirts and blouses in her closet. There weren't many. I got my laptop out of its case and plugged it in to charge up the battery.

"I think we're about the same size," I told Molly. "We can switch off stuff if you want."

"Sure," she said.

"And if you want to borrow my laptop or anything ..."

"I'm not real good with computers."

"I could show you," I offered.

Molly nodded.

I played mine-sweeper on my computer. Molly sat at her desk and began to write a letter.

"You know your dad's kind of cute," I said. "He looks a little like Mel Gibson."

"Yeah," Molly said.

"I suppose you get told that all the time."

"The thing is ..." She turned to look at me. "The thing is my dad is Mel Gibson."

She'd said it so simply and seriously that for a moment I thought she wasn't kidding. "He is?" I said. "Your joking, right?" When I stood up and moved behind her to take a closer look at the little photograph, Molly covered up her letter with her arm. "Wow, so your dad is really the real Mel Gibson?" I still couldn't tell if she was joking. "Did he just drop you off here?"

"No, I took a bus. A bus and then a taxi cab."

"Oh," I said. "Long trip?"

"Pretty long. My butt is sore from sitting."

I sat back at my desk, and Molly smiled at me. I didn't know what to say. I thought it was a sad, lonely smile. "Do you want to get something to eat?" I asked, even though I wasn't a bit hungry. "I don't think the cafeteria opens until tomorrow, but I noticed a little sandwich shop a few blocks from here, if you don't mind the walk."

"That would be okay," Molly said.

"At least it'll get you up off your butt." I laughed, feeling quite grown up to be saying "butt" so casually. Molly's smile made me happy. She put the letter into her top desk drawer, and out we went.

It was on the walk back that I asked the question. "How come your name's not Gibson?"

"I'm a love child," Molly said.

"Oh," I said. We were passing the vacant lot just east of our dorm. I was trying to think of the right question to ask next when suddenly Molly stopped. She bent down and started gathering up a tangled strand of cassette tape that was snagged on some weeds.

"What are you going to do with that?" I asked.

"I don't know," Molly said.

"It's not as if it's good for anything. You can't salvage it."

"I know," Molly said.

She left the tape, and the rest of the walk back to the dorms we were quiet.

That evening I studied the maps and orientation schedules for the next day while Molly worked on her letter. I wanted to ask her who she was writing to, but I didn't.

"If you need some stamps, I have some," I said. "I mean some extra stamps."

"That's okay," Molly said. "I have stamps."

"It looks like you're going to need quite a lot of them--with all those pages."

Molly smiled at me but didn't say anything. A short time later she put her letter into an envelope, affixed the stamps, and left the room. I thought she would be back soon, but she wasn't. I played around on the computer for a while, and then I decided to go to bed. The bathroom was down the hall, and I wasn't sure whether to lock the door of our room. I was pretty sure Molly had her key, but what if she didn't? Should I leave the door unlocked? I decided to lock the door, but in the bathroom I brushed my teeth extra quickly just in case. When I got back to the room Molly still wasn't there. I changed into my pajamas and put my clothes away and played on the computer some more and thought about calling my mom. Finally I got under the covers. Then I remembered that I hadn't locked the door. Maybe I should. If Molly didn't have her key she could knock. And if the door were locked I'd be more likely to hear her when she got back even if she did have a key. And I could touch myself--this might be the time to do it. Lately I'd been touching myself before falling asleep. Not every night but almost every night. If I were going to do that maybe I should lock the door. But maybe if I locked the door Molly would think I was touching myself. I lay there in the dark. I didn't touch myself. I wondered whether Molly ever did it, and I couldn't fall asleep for a long time, but finally I did fall asleep, and I didn't hear Molly come in, whenever that was.

When I awoke the next morning the sun was shining in the window and Molly was up, pulling on a pair of jeans. I couldn't help notice that she wasn't wearing any underwear and her soft triangle of hair was small and dark and wild before it disappeared. "Breakfast?" she said, and she pulled a jersey over the bobble of her breasts, shook her hair, and looked at me.

"Oh. I'm not ready yet," I said.

"Okay," she said. "I'll just go pee."

"I'd need to take a shower and stuff."

"Okay. I guess I'll see you later then. Bye." And she left.

I looked at the clock. It wasn't even seven yet. I had to pee, too, but I didn't want to pass Molly in the hall, so I curled back up under the covers, and for some reason I thought of her sitting on the toilet, and I thought of her soft dark triangle, of a boy touching her there, his fingers probing, and my hand slipped beneath the waistband of my pajama bottoms. I thought of a boy's fingers moving into Molly, and I thought what if she comes back while I'm doing this, but my fingers kept moving, and it didn't take long for the shivers to come.

I took a long slow shower. When I got back to the room Molly was sitting at her desk writing another letter.

"How was breakfast?" I asked.

"Breakfast, you know," she said and offered an apologetic shrug.

"Ah-ha," I answered, as if we had exchanged profound wisdom. "Writing to your dad again, I see." I hadn't meant to say that. It just came out.

Molly turned to face me. Her face was red. "What makes you think I'm writing to my dad?" she said. She sounded hurt and a little angry.

"I don't know," I said, flustered. "I mean are you? I mean who are you writing to?" I could feel the blush shooting along my skin, not just my face but my whole body.

Molly didn't answer. Instead she bit her bottom lip and slipped the pages into the top drawer of her desk.

"I'm sorry," I said.

"That's okay."

"It's just that ... I don't have a dad, either. I mean, I don't have a dad."

Molly shook her head. "Hey," she said, "maybe you could share mine sometime. In exchange for computer lessons or something."

"Okay," I said, having no idea what she meant.

"If you want breakfast you'd better hurry," Molly said. "The fresh fruit was going real fast."

"Right," I said. "Like racy bananas?"

Molly smiled and I wondered what was in her mind. I got my purse and went down to breakfast. When I got back to the room Molly wasn't there. I picked up an empty notebook and was about to set off for the orientation meetings, but at the last second I sat at Molly's desk, tore a blank page from my notebook, and wrote:

You were right--the fruit was really yummy yum yum.

The photos on Molly's desk stared at me. I wondered if Molly's brother was older or younger than Molly. I wondered if Mel Gibson was his dad, too. I wondered if the man lifting the little girl onto the horse was really Mel Gibson. Even if it was Mel Gibson, that didn't mean he was her father. I eased Molly's top drawer open, just enough to see if that letter she'd been writing was still there. It was, covered partly by a small soft tangle of cassette tape. Gently I brushed the tape to the side. I could read part of what Molly had written:

shoulders like snowshovels, a cinderblock head and balls like baby birds and when he

I didn't get back to the room until nearly dinner time. Molly was sitting at my desk working at my computer. "Oh, hi," she said. "I just thought I'd try a few things. I don't think I messed anything up too bad."

"No problem," I said.

Molly closed the lid. "Ooh, is it supposed to beep like that?"

"It's just a warning," I said.

"I should probably get my own computer," Molly said.

"It might be more convenient," I said. "Then we could send each other e-mail."

"Why would we want to do that?"

"I was thinking of over the summer."

"Oh. Right. Over the summer."

"Anyway, you can use my computer. It's fine."

"Or they have a bunch at the library. I could use those."

"Right."

"You were right about our sizes, too," Molly said. "As you can see, this is your blouse."

"Hey, it looks good on you."

"It feels good, too."

But even as she was saying these words she was unbuttoning the shirt, taking it off, handing it to me.

"Don't you want to wear it?" I asked.

"Not really," Molly said. "I just wanted to feel what it felt like." She handed me the blouse and smiled at me and I couldn't help but lower my eyes.

Small and bare and free, her breasts had tiny pink nipples much like mine but pointing up more. I didn't want to stare, but I couldn't help it, and the blush shot through me again.

"Boobies," Molly said, and her grin grew wider. Then she turned and tugged her jersey from her top bunk and pulled it on. "You know what's seriously good for boobies?"

"What?" I said.

"Come on," Molly said. "I'll show you."

She led me down the stairs, flight after flight all the way to the basement, and then along the bright yellow corridor past one doorway which opened to a laundry room and another which contained a dilapidated ping pong table until we finally we reached the end of the hall. "Ta da!" she said, gesturing through the last doorway. "Work out room. Weight machines galore."

The small room contained two treadmills in the center. Four weight machines sat against a mirrored wall at the rear. Otherwise the room was empty, no one but us. We stepped in. The air seemed heavy. Molly strode over to one of the machines. "This is the one I wanted to show you," she said. "Lat pulldowns. They're great." Molly patted the padded bench seat, and I sat. Overhead a bar connected to a cable which connected to some weights in front of me. "I usually do fifty pounds," Molly said, and she pushed a metal locking pin into a hole in the weight marked "50." "Twenty reps, ten sets--and then some tummy stuff."

"What do I do?" I asked.

"Just grab the bar with your hands forward and sit down," Molly said.

I stood up and grabbed the bar. Sitting down wasn't so easy. "It's heavy," I complained. I could feel the strain. "Real heavy."

"You don't work out much, do you?" Molly said.

"I guess not."

"Okay, pull it down. Smooth and slow."

I tried to but I couldn't. "It's too heavy." My arms were quivering.

"Not even one?" Molly said.

"I'm trying," I said.

"Here, let me help." I could feel Molly behind me, her body against my back. She helped me lower the bar. The pull was so strong.

"Now let it up," Molly said. "But slow. Don't let it ... "

But I couldn't hold it. The bar snapped upwards. I let go. The weights clanked.

"... jerk," Molly said.

"I'm sorry."

"I don't mean you," Molly said. "The motion should be slow and smooth, not quick and jerky."

"I didn't mean to," I said.

"You'll get there," Molly said. "Let's try twenty." She pushed the locking pin into the twenty pound weight. I stood up and grabbed the bar and sat down. The bar came down much more easily.

"Yes, this is nicer," I said, holding it at the bottom.

"Right," Molly said. "Now let it up, smooth and easy. Controlled."

I let it up. I pulled it down again.

"Good," Molly said. Our eyes met in the mirror. "Very good. Keeping doing it. As slow as you can without stopping. Slow and smooth is best."

I moved the weight up and down. At first the pull was pleasant. Soon I was starting to feel the strain.

"You should feel it a little here," Molly said. She touched her hands lightly to my sides. "Do you feel it?"

"Yes," I said.

She kept her hands there while I pulled. I could feel her fingers firmer now just below the sidebands of my bra. I wasn't sure I could do too many more times, but I didn't want her to move her hands.

"Mm, you're doing it good now," Molly said. "I can feel the muscles work." She was grinning in the mirror. "Your boobie muscles." When she let go her hands brushed the sides of my breasts. Her touch sent shivers through my nipples straight to my center. The weight clanked down when I let go.

"Whew," I said.

"You've got to keep doing it," Molly said. "Every other day. Six sets of twenty. Switch your hands between each set."

"Right," I said. I got off the seat, and Molly adjusted the weight back to fifty. Then she sat and started pulling down. It looked so easy when she did it. I stood behind her and watched her work. "The key is to do low weights with lots of repetitions," she said. "Do it every other day-- alternate with running."

I wanted to feel her while she worked, to touch her like she had touched me, but I didn't know how to suggest it, and I didn't dare to just do it.

"Did your dad teach you this stuff?" I asked.

"Mm," Molly grunted. I wasn't sure if that meant yes or no.

"I bet your dad's really strong," I said. "Like in that movie the Sixth Sense in the basement with his kid where he lifts like three hundred million pounds. I really liked that."

Molly stopped pulling. Her eyes in the mirror locked on mine.

"What?" I said.

"That was Bruce Willis. In the scene you're talking about."

"Oh," I said.

"And it's not from The Sixth Sense it's from Unbreakable."

"Oh, yeah," I said. "Sorry. Sometimes I get them confused. Bruce Willis and Mel Gibson. I mean your dad."

"Right," she said.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean anything by it."

"It's okay," Molly said, getting off the seat. "But you're right about one thing. My dad really is strong. He can lift me easily. Like I'm totally weightless. Next to sex, it's the closest thing to flying."

"Sex?" I started to say. The word caught in my throat. "But you hardly weigh anything."

"I wish," Molly said. "I bet you can't lift me."

"I'm sure I can't."

"Go ahead and try."

"I can't lift you, Molly."

"Try."

I put my hands on her sides a little below her armpits and tried to lift her. Sure enough, I couldn't. Not even an inch.

"See?" I said.

"If you keep working out, I bet by the end of the semester you'd be able to." And then Molly put her hands under my arms. I froze. The next thing I knew I was over her shoulder.

"How much do you weigh, one-ten, one-fifteen?"

Before I could answer, Molly hoisted me all the way up. I was over her head, way way up there, resting on her hands, one hand on my chest just below my breasts, one hand on my mound. I was in the air, gliding around, but it was the press of her hands that made me shiver. And then I was on the ground sprawled on top of Molly, and she was laughing.

"Ready for a shower?" Molly said. We were back in our room. Did she mean that we'd take a shower together? Molly grabbed her towel and left the room. I wasn't sure what to do. I wasn't sure what I wanted to do. Eventually I took my towel and my shower bucket and went down the hall and into the bathroom. I could hear the water running. The gentle splash and spatter. Steam billowed out from the opening of the nearest shower stall and drifted across the room. The long mirror was beginning to fog. I wanted to go into Molly's stall, I really did, but I wasn't brave enough. I undressed and slipped past her stall, taking care not to look, and stepped into the adjoining stall and turned on the spray. Soon the water was warm and comforting. I soaped myself and thought about Molly doing the same. I thought about Molly soaping me, about her fingers moving over my skin. I made the water hotter and harder and lathered more and more and then I made the water as hot as it would go but it wouldn't go hot enough. When I turned it off the room was quiet. I dried myself and scampered back to the room. Molly wasn't there.

Maybe she went to dinner, I thought. I waited a while, and then I went to the cafeteria. No sign of Molly. I got in line and scooped out a plate of salad and a slice of broiled fish. I sat by myself nibbling slowly and not tasting anything. After dinner I went for a walk. Shirtless boys were playing Frisbee on the quad, their shoulders glistening in the last of the light. Balls like baby birds, I thought, and I thought of Molly's soft dark nest.

When I got back to the room she had my computer on her lap. "Hey," she said, "I think I'm getting the hang of this."

"You don't have to stop," I said.

"That's okay, I was just fooling around. Unless you want to show me how e-mail works."

"You've never sent e-mail?"

"I guess I'm a virgin that way."

"It's really easy," I said. "You just plug this cable in here; that's to connect to the Internet. Then you just click here to open up the mail program and here to open up a blank letter. Then you just type your letter in the box. Easy, huh? Of course you need to get your own e-mail address. You probably already have one through the college. Didn't you get a letter about it over the summer?"

"I came here kind of last minute."

"Oh. Well, I'm sure you can get an address."

"So how does the letter know where to go?"

"You just type the person's address up in the little box on top. Like if I want to send an e- mail to my mom I just type 'Mom.' Of course my mom prefers real mail. She claims she doesn't really trust e-mail. But she has a computer for her work. Anyway, there's an address book that automatically converts to my mom's real e-mail address. Then I just click on the send button."

"Neat," Molly said. "What kind of work does your mom do?"

"She runs a gift shop. Actually three of them. She's a part owner. During the summer and after school I had to work there, too. I am so sick of the smell of candles. If I never set foot in a gift shop again it will be too soon."

Molly laughed. "I kind of like candles," she said. "Did you have dinner yet?"

"Yes, didn't you?"

"I guess I missed it," Molly said. "Cafeteria's probably closed now, huh?"

"We could go to that place down the road," I said.

"I thought you already ate?"

"If you wanted company or something."

"That's okay," Molly said. "I'll just find a granola bar or something."

I thought she was just going to the vending machines in the basement, but twenty minutes later Molly still wasn't back. Probably she just went for a walk. Or maybe she went to that diner after all. I imagined her sitting there all alone waiting for her food to come. I imagined her sitting there with someone, laughing and talking. Or maybe she was in the workout room again. I decided to check it out.

Several people were doing laundry. A guy and a girl were playing ping pong. Two people were in the workout room, a girl with really long hair striding on the treadmill, her hair swaying back and forth, and another girl on a machine I didn't know the name of. The lat pulldown machine was empty. The locking pin was still in the 50 pound weight. I pulled it out, pleased with myself for somehow knowing to push the release button on the end. The metal rod was heavier than I thought it would be. Probably I could get a good workout just lifting it. I plugged it into the twenty pound weight, and it seemed to catch there. That was nice. Something competent about the sound of it catching and locking. I stood up and pulled down the bar. I pulled until my arms quivered and my muscles burned, not even counting, just breathing and pulling and thinking of Molly's hands on my breasts. Beads of sweat flew off my arms, so I closed my eyes and kept pulling, and at last I couldn't pull anymore and the weight clanked down hard. Maybe it was only two or three minutes, but it had seemed like hours. I caught my breath and walked back up to the room.

The lights were on and Molly was in bed. She was turned away facing the wall and she didn't say anything. Maybe she was asleep. I turned off the light and took off my clothes and hurried under my covers, not bothering with my pajamas, not bothering to brush my teeth. A wild and dissolute college kid after just one day, I said to myself. I was still a little sweaty, and the sheets felt good on my bare skin. I moved my hands between my legs. I shouldn't do this, I thought. I'm a big girl now so I shouldn't do this. Besides, Molly might hear. I listened for her breathing, for the rustle of her body turning in sleep, but I couldn't hear anything. I turned to my back, keeping my hands trapped between my legs, staring up at the bottom of Molly's bunk. Part of me wanted to hear Molly touching herself. I willed her to do it. What would it sound like, the rub, the squeak, the soft sigh of her release? Do it. Do it. I heard some laughter from down the hall, a door closing in the distance, but inside our room all was quiet.

When I awoke the room was full of morning light, but Molly was gone. I showered and dressed and went down to breakfast. No sign of her. Not back at the room, either. I got my backpack and walked to campus, to the bookstore. It was jammed with kids buying their books and supplies. Half an hour later I'd located all the books for my classes. So heavy. So expensive. There were six cashiers, but the lines were long and slow.

"They really rip you off when you sell them back," the boy in front of me said.

"Right," I said, as if I knew all about it.

"Who've you got for Psych? Gardner?"

"I don't know," I said.

"I had Gardner. He's a wild man. But pretty good."

"I might have him," I said.

"Yeah, he's wild," the boy said. "I might still have my notes. Let me know if you want to borrow them or something."

I nodded.

"Where're you living?"

"Keller Hall," I said.

"Yeah, Keller," he said. "If you need some help, like carrying your books back, I could ..."

"That's okay," I said.

"Right," he said, and he turned away.

Our line seemed to be stuck. I noticed a section of sundries off in the corner past the racks of sweatshirts. I was thinking about deodorant. The line wasn't moving at all. I went over to check out the sweatshirts. Maybe one with a hood. Maybe I'd take up jogging to go along with the lat pulldowns. Molly would be so proud of the shape I was going to get in. We could go for long runs before class. On frosty mornings our breath would plume. A shelf next to the sweatshirts contained a selection of scented candles. Ugh, was my first reaction, but then I remembered that Molly said she liked candles. Okay. Maybe a little one. The cappuccino candle smelled pretty good. Five or six inches tall, a couple of inches in diameter, a mild brown. Maybe Molly would like cappuccino. I put the candle in my backpack.

I was about to get back in line when I noticed the posters, a small row of them on a hanging display. I flipped through. Pacific surf and North Sea waves, Casablanca's kiss, Van Gogh's sunflowers, Albert Einstein, Julia Roberts, Groucho Marx, Mel Gibson. I stopped at Mel Gibson. A somber Braveheart pose, blue eyes under a gray sky. One cellophane wrapped tube was all they had left. I bought it.

Back at the room I stashed the poster and candle in my closet, arranged my new books on the shelf over my desk, and began a letter to my mom.

"So far so good," I started. "But classes start tomorrow. I bought all my books and stuff. My roommate's name is Molly, and she seems really nice. So far ..."

So far what? "So far we've gotten along." There. That ought to do it. I knew my mom would be disappointed, but at least it was something. I'd write more later. I addressed an envelope, stuck on a stamp, and set off for the mailbox.

On the stairway I met Molly coming up. "Hey," she said.

"Just mailing a letter," I said, waving it. "To my mom."

"Not risking the evils of e-mail?" Molly said.

"Right," I said, and we both laughed.

"Oh, there's something I should tell you," Molly said.

I waited. "Not right now. When you get back to the room. It's no big deal."

"Okay," I said, and then she continued up the stairs and I continued down.

The mailbox was just outside Keller. I opened the lid and slipped the letter through the slot. The lid clanking shut reminded me of the weight machines. Molly would be so pleased when I told her about working out. I shrugged my shoulders against the slight soreness. By now Molly's letter was already on its way to her dad. Or whoever it was she'd sent it to. Maybe a boyfriend back home. Or at some other school. But if she'd had a boyfriend wouldn't she have a picture of him? Next to sex, she'd said. A virgin that way, she'd said. I shivered and hurried inside.

Molly was sitting on her bunk wearing only underwear and a loose top. Her legs dangled over the side. No toenail paint, I noticed. We were alike that way, at least. No pierced ears, either. That probably means she isn't pierced anywhere else. Probably.

I sat at my desk and swung my chair around and looked up at her. She had her legs up now, her arms around her knees, and her panties were pulled tight enough at her center that I could see the shape of her dent. She was biting her lower lip.

"You said you had something to tell me?"

"Oh, yeah," Molly said. "Um, don't take this personal, okay?"

"Personal?"

"It's not about you. It's just ... well, I think you should know that I've asked to change rooms."

"Change rooms?"

"Actually it'll probably be a different hall."

"How come?"

"Keller's all filled, I guess."

"I mean how come you want to change?"

"I just think we're sort of incompatible, you know?"

"Incompatible?"

"Like were not really made for each other."

Molly was swinging her legs again.

"That sounds pretty personal to me," I said. It was hard making the words come out.

"Yeah, but it's me, not you. That's what I meant. I'm the one who's not compatible."

"I think it takes two to be compatible," I said. I could feel the tears wanting to start. It wouldn't be long.

"That's what I mean," Molly said. "It takes two."

"But I thought we were getting along fine," I said. My tummy felt so strange. So empty. The tears were close. I tried not to blink. "And I like you." I blinked. "I like you a lot."

"Yeah," said Molly. "I know. Maybe that's the problem."

"How is it a problem?" I tried to keep my voice from quivering. I tried not to blink again. If I blinked again the tears would come. I could feel them in my shoulders.

"I like you, too," Molly whispered. "Maybe we like each other too much. Maybe we'd never get anything done, you know? Maybe we'd be ..." She paused. "It's better this way. This way you'll be alone." Her words were brighter now. Chirpy. Like bright little birds. "You'll probably have the room to yourself. Think of it that way."

"Why?" I said.

"You know why."

"I don't ... I don't want to be alone," I said. "I don't want to have a room to myself. I've had a room to myself my whole life." I turned away. I turned away just in time. The tears streamed down. I shook. I tried to stop but I couldn't.

I heard Molly hop down. She was standing behind me. I was shaking and the tears were streaming and my tummy felt strange and empty. Molly put her hands on my shoulders. "It'll be fine," she said. "You'll see. You'll find someone." She moved to my side and pulled my head against her. "Anyone would be better than me."

"I want you," I sobbed. "Please stay. Okay? Please, please stay. Please say you will."

"There, there," Molly said. She was stroking my head, stroking my hair. "I can't stay. The thing is, the thing is I've already asked. It's already underway."

"When will you leave?" I wiped my eyes and looked up at her. "I even got you a little present. A candle. You can't go before I give you the candle."

"That's sweet," Molly said. "Thank you. I don't know when I'll go. Not tonight. Maybe tomorrow or the next day. I don't know. I just thought you should know is all." She stepped over to her desk.

"I don't understand," I said. I tried not to sniffle but I couldn't help it. "When did you decide this? When did you ..."

"There's something else," Molly said. "Something else I think you should know."

"What?"

"I think maybe I did something bad. Not on purpose. An accident."

"What?" I said.

"I was playing around with your computer," Molly said. "With your e-mail." She was biting her lower lip again. "I was just trying some stuff, just playing around, and I think I might have ..." She was looking right at me.

"Might have what?" I said.

"Might have accidentally sent a letter to your mother."

"My mother?" I said. "A letter?"

"An e-mail letter. Or maybe I didn't. I'm not sure. I was just fooling around and it sort of just happened."

I opened up the computer. I opened up the mail-sent folder.

Dear Mom,

So far college is great. I've met this really neat guy. He's got shoulders like snowshovels and a cinderblock head and balls like baby birds and when he comes it's like cute little sneezes, k'choo, k'choo, k'choo, and ropes of yummy cum climb my greedy, quivering cunt. After I calm down he slides me up, moves me so I'm stradling his mouth, and he licks me neat and clean. "Such a bad girl," he scolds me, and he licks me to oblivion and back, again and again until I'm fully wilted. "Such a bad bad girl," he says, swatting my bottom. "After your nap I'm going to spank you good and proper. I'm going to spank you so hard on your sweet little bottom that you'll almost come from it, and when your ass is all red and hot and drippy I'm going to fuck you there, right in your tight and hot little asshole. I'm going to fuck your ass so deep and hard and sweet and slow, and then you're going to suck me clean and stiff again, and I'm going to fuck you and fuck you until you can't come anymore, until you're just a little puddle of molten exstasy." He's napping now, my neat mister snowshovel shoulder guy, and I can't wait for him to wake up so we can start, so we can start the fucking.

Love,
Erin

"Was it sent?" Molly said.

"Yes," I answered. "It was sent."

"Is there any way you can, like, stop it?"

"No," I said, my voice small. "I don't think so."

"I'm sorry," Molly said. "I'm really, really sorry. It was a mistake. A horrible mistake. I was just kind of ..."

"I know. You said. A mistake. It's okay."

"It's okay? Won't your mother ...?"

"She'll know it's not from me," I said. "My mom knows I know how to spell 'straddle' and 'ecstasy.' If she asks, I'll just tell her it must be a prank someone played. It'll confirm in her mind how insidious the Internet is."

"You think?"

"Probably. Probably she won't say anything. Don't worry about it." I took a deep breath.

"You're sure? I could write your mom another letter. A real letter. Telling her I did it. That you had nothing to do with it."

"No," I said. "I think everything's going to be fine." I closed the laptop's lid.

"Warning bing," Molly said, and she smiled.

"Right. Warning bing."

"Then you're not mad at me?" Molly said. "Are you still going to give me the candle?"

"Sure," I said. "I told you I hated candles."

Molly laughed.

"And what about you?" I said. "Are you still going to go?"

"I have to," she said.

"Why? Could you just tell them that you changed your mind?"

"I told you, I just can't. But we'll probably still see each other sometimes. We can even send e-mail over the summer, if I get a computer."

"I guess," I said. "I guess I'd better go wash my face. Want to go to dinner?"

"Oh, yeah, I would," Molly said. "Except I kind of promised to meet someone."

"Oh," I said.

"Just someone," she said. "No big deal."

I turned away so Molly wouldn't see me cry.

After dinner, I read a few pages in some of my new books. I played some mine-sweeper. I went for a walk and took a long shower and sat at my desk in my pajamas playing more mine-sweeper.

Molly came in near midnight.

"How was your dinner?" I asked.

"Pretty good," she said.

"Was it yummy yum yum?" I said.

"Okay," she said.

"Good," I said. "I'm going to bed."

"Look," she said.

"What?"

"I don't know. I think you're a nice girl. It's just that ... I don't know. Maybe you could give me that candle now? I think I'd like that. Okay?"

"Sure," I said. I went to the closet and got the candle. "Sorry it's not wrapped or anything."

"That's okay," Molly said. "It smells good. Should we light it?"

"If you want," I said. "It's your candle."

"Let's light it." She set the candle on the center of her desk. "Do you have any matches?"

"No," I said.

"I'll get some from next door," Molly said. "Be right back."

She was only gone a moment, but by the time she got back I was under the covers.

"Okay, here goes," she said. I could hear the strike of the match.

"Make a wish," Molly said. "Wait, first let me turn off the light."

A few minutes later Molly was up in her bunk. The candle was burning. Just a small amber glow.

"Molly," I whispered. "Molly, remember when you said we should take a shower?"

Molly didn't answer me. Maybe my words were too soft.

Two hours later I was still awake and the candle was still burning. I crept out of bed and made my preparations. By the dim cappuccino candle light I climbed up to the edge of Molly's upper bunk. I had the roll of poster in one hand, cellophane wrapping removed, and I had four snug circles of scotch tape stuck lightly on my forearm.

It was dark almost beyond shadowy up there--just the faintest glow from the candle light--but I could tell that Molly was turned away; she was facing the wall, curled up on her side, covers kicked off, her bottom bare. I dared not breathe, so beautiful her bottom was. I simply stared. Get to work, girl, I told myself, and starting at the far corner of the foot end, I taped the poster up so that Mel Gibson would be looking down at her--at least that was my plan. I stuck the first circle of tape to the bottom edge of the poster, stretched my sore arms out over the bed, and with a bit of pressing managed to affix the far corner. Another circle and the bottom edge was finished. The tube remained scrolled. Keeping most of my weight on the edge of the frame, just my knees lightly on the mattress for balance, I reached up and rolled Mel Gibson along the ceiling, slowly, slowly, stretching him towards Molly's head, creeping along myself to keep pace with it, until at last the poster was out all the way. Reaching across Molly's body, I tried to fasten the far end. It was not easy pressing the poster in place. The angle was wrong; my arms were so sore; my balance so iffy; but the corner seemed to stick. The near side was easier. I stuck the tape on near the corner and pressed the poster firmly against the ceiling. Done. Too dark to tell if it was crooked or straight, but done. I could breathe again.

As if in synchrony, Molly sighed. I clenched myself still. A shiver of worry shot through me. My nipples tingled. My center itched. Maybe Molly was only feigning sleep. It was too dark to tell. Maybe it didn't really matter. I watched her. I watched her sleep, and when an automobile passed along the road, a square of slow yellow light roamed the wall, glided upward, covered the curve of Molly's bottom and the long slow slope of her back, and then disappeared into a wedge of darkness. I waited a little longer, perched there on the edge of Molly's bed, just about to go down, when a second car came along. Its square of light went slower, touching Molly's bottom, scraping it the way a lover's hand might. My breath stopped. The light lingered, then it stopped, too. Everything stopped. I could hear the car idling, a boy and a girl saying goodnight, I could hear my heart, and I kept my eyes fastened to Molly's bottom, until something, some little motion, made me look up. The corner of the poster-- it was coming loose. Shifting my weight the tiniest bit, I reached over Molly to fix it. Slow and steady I reached. I risked putting a knee onto the mattress. I reached more. Nearly there. So near. I leaned. I leaned further. Then Molly rolled over, and somehow I was straddling her.

"Daddy?" she said.

Everything froze. "Molly," I whispered, "Molly, wait. I just need ..." But it was too late. Molly thrashed. Her hands pushed up and out. My breasts caught the brunt of her push. I went flying.

The fall was like coming, the first instant of going over, the shock and swoop, ecstasy and oblivion swallowing each other. Less than a second it lasted, and then I hit. I hit hard and sudden and all at once, my back, my head, my bottom all landing on my mother's little rug. I heard the thud, but I didn't feel it. I didn't feel anything. "Oh," was all I could think. "Oh." Then nothing.

Later. I don't know how much later, I woke up. I was still on my back, unable to move, unable to open my eyes, and my whole body felt sore and achy, fuzzy, tingling, like pins and needles everywhere from forehead to feet. In the far distance a dog was barking. You can't be dead if you hear a dog barking, can you? If you hear a dog barking you can't be dreaming. I tried to take stock. But how come I couldn't move? I lay still listening to the barking until at last it subsided, but the pins and needles wouldn't go away. Tiny waves of air nibbled at my skin, tasting me everywhere. I wanted to move but I couldn't. I wanted to scream but my mouth wouldn't work. Slowly, ever so slowly, my eyes flickered open, and smooth gray dawn seeped in. I remembered the fall. I shivered. Plumes of sky folded over me, gentle blue stars trying to twinkle through one last time before disappearing into daylight. I shivered again, but still I couldn't move. I looked down at the fuzzy shape of a sheet covering me. It seemed to be tucked up under my chin. I couldn't quite focus. I closed my eyes and opened them again. Now I could see, I could see Mel Gibson's sad smile and his stern tenderness. I tried to lift my arms, to reach out to him, but I couldn't. The sheet was too heavy. Something was pinning me down. Something besides the sheet. Molly's leg. Molly's arm. Molly's body. Molly. I wiggled against her weight and warmth, my middle nestling and nuzzling without actually moving. Molly, my mind whispered. My Molly, sleeping and breathing and stretching as she woke, and her leg moved over mine as she turned into me. "Good morning, love," she said, and under Father's benevolent gaze, she opened her mouth to mine. It was heaven.

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