barefoot. Feeling kind of shivery, dizzy. Picked out the swimsuit myself at Sears, so can’t blame Momma. It’s like a kid’s sunsuit, too young for
me: bright yellow puckered material, a halter top that ties around my neck and a matching bottom and both of them kind of tight and itchy and damp-smelling from the lake. Croke is clowning with the
T-shirt wrapped around his head like a turban, saying that li’l babe owes him one more thing: “This is strip poker, honey. You raised that bet, din’t you? There’s two damn
bets here. My T-shirt, and now something else.”
Croke is teasing, isn’t he? All the guys are teasing? The way they are looking at me, at my halter top, I’m starting to giggle, can’t stop giggling, like being examined by the
doctor, icy-cold stethoscope against my chest, and I’m half naked, trembling on the edge of an examination table, so scared my teeth start chattering and the doctor gives up, disgusted, calls
for Momma to come in. Jax is saying, “She’s drunk. We better sober her up and get her out of here.”
Right away I mumble I am not drunk! which makes the guys laugh.
Deek says, leaning over me, brushing my arm with his to make the hairs stir, “Thass a cute li’l swimsuit, Ann’slee. You’re a hot li’l babe, eh?”
Jax says, disgusted, “She’s just a kid. Ain’t even in high school, I bet.”
Deek says, “Shit she ain’t. How old’re you, Ann’slee?”
Eighteen, I tell him. Can’t stop laughing, wanting to hide my face in my hands. Thirty-eight! (Thirty-eight is Momma’s age, so old.)
Jax says, “I told you, she’s wasted. No way she’s more’n fifteen.”
Deek says, “Fifteen is hot. This is a hot li’l babe.”
Heins says, “Want the cops to bust us? Asshole.”
Deek says, “How’s that gonna happen? This li’l honey is my girl.”
My girl is such a warm thing to say. My girl my girl. Nobody has ever said that to me except my daddy till now.
“Strip, li’l dude! C’mon.”
“Got to be a good sport, Ann’slee. That’s poker.”
Deek is teasing me, but he’s serious too. And Croke.
“I’ll strip. Lookit me.”
Deek yanks off his T-shirt that’s grimy at the neck, suddenly he’s bare-chested, coarse black hairs like a pelt over his chest which is hard-muscled, but at the waistband of his swim
trunks his flesh is bunchy and flabby. “Shi-it,” Croke says, loud like a cross between yawning and yodeling, with a flourish yanking off his T-shirt, baring his heavy, beefy,
pimple-pocked chest like a TV wrestler; Croke’s chest is covered with hairs like slick seaweed, and oily with sweat. There’s a strong smell of underarms. Jax and Heins make crude
comments. I’m saying that I don’t want to play poker anymore, I guess, I want to go home now, need to get home where my mother is waiting for me, and Croke says, bringing his fist down
hard on the table like he’s drunk, “Not a chance, babe. Ain’t goin’ anywhere till you pay up.”
Deek says, “When you won the pot, we paid up, din’t we? Now you got to pay, Ann’slee. That’s poker.”
In just my swimsuit, what can I do? Can’t take off the halter top, but for sure can’t take off the bottom.
My sandals! Maybe the guys would let me substitute my sandals.
Except I don’t see my sandals on the messy floor.
Maybe I lost them in the other room? Climbing through the window?
The guys are pounding the table: “Strip! Ann’slee’s got to strip! Top or bottom, you owe us. That’s poker.”
Deek is practically on top of me. Not just his underarms smell, but his oily spiky hair that’s cut mini-hawk-style. Big yellow crooked teeth, breath in my face like fumes. Deek is saying,
like you’d talk to a young child, or some animal like a dog that needs to be cajoled, “Take off your top, li’l dude, thass all, thass a damn cute li’l top, show us your cute
li’l boobies, you ain’t got nothin’ we ain’t seem already, wanta bet?” All this while I’m
me: bright yellow puckered material, a halter top that ties around my neck and a matching bottom and both of them kind of tight and itchy and damp-smelling from the lake. Croke is clowning with the
T-shirt wrapped around his head like a turban, saying that li’l babe owes him one more thing: “This is strip poker, honey. You raised that bet, din’t you? There’s two damn
bets here. My T-shirt, and now something else.”
Croke is teasing, isn’t he? All the guys are teasing? The way they are looking at me, at my halter top, I’m starting to giggle, can’t stop giggling, like being examined by the
doctor, icy-cold stethoscope against my chest, and I’m half naked, trembling on the edge of an examination table, so scared my teeth start chattering and the doctor gives up, disgusted, calls
for Momma to come in. Jax is saying, “She’s drunk. We better sober her up and get her out of here.”
Right away I mumble I am not drunk! which makes the guys laugh.
Deek says, leaning over me, brushing my arm with his to make the hairs stir, “Thass a cute li’l swimsuit, Ann’slee. You’re a hot li’l babe, eh?”
Jax says, disgusted, “She’s just a kid. Ain’t even in high school, I bet.”
Deek says, “Shit she ain’t. How old’re you, Ann’slee?”
Eighteen, I tell him. Can’t stop laughing, wanting to hide my face in my hands. Thirty-eight! (Thirty-eight is Momma’s age, so old.)
Jax says, “I told you, she’s wasted. No way she’s more’n fifteen.”
Deek says, “Fifteen is hot. This is a hot li’l babe.”
Heins says, “Want the cops to bust us? Asshole.”
Deek says, “How’s that gonna happen? This li’l honey is my girl.”
My girl is such a warm thing to say. My girl my girl. Nobody has ever said that to me except my daddy till now.
“Strip, li’l dude! C’mon.”
“Got to be a good sport, Ann’slee. That’s poker.”
Deek is teasing me, but he’s serious too. And Croke.
“I’ll strip. Lookit me.”
Deek yanks off his T-shirt that’s grimy at the neck, suddenly he’s bare-chested, coarse black hairs like a pelt over his chest which is hard-muscled, but at the waistband of his swim
trunks his flesh is bunchy and flabby. “Shi-it,” Croke says, loud like a cross between yawning and yodeling, with a flourish yanking off his T-shirt, baring his heavy, beefy,
pimple-pocked chest like a TV wrestler; Croke’s chest is covered with hairs like slick seaweed, and oily with sweat. There’s a strong smell of underarms. Jax and Heins make crude
comments. I’m saying that I don’t want to play poker anymore, I guess, I want to go home now, need to get home where my mother is waiting for me, and Croke says, bringing his fist down
hard on the table like he’s drunk, “Not a chance, babe. Ain’t goin’ anywhere till you pay up.”
Deek says, “When you won the pot, we paid up, din’t we? Now you got to pay, Ann’slee. That’s poker.”
In just my swimsuit, what can I do? Can’t take off the halter top, but for sure can’t take off the bottom.
My sandals! Maybe the guys would let me substitute my sandals.
Except I don’t see my sandals on the messy floor.
Maybe I lost them in the other room? Climbing through the window?
The guys are pounding the table: “Strip! Ann’slee’s got to strip! Top or bottom, you owe us. That’s poker.”
Deek is practically on top of me. Not just his underarms smell, but his oily spiky hair that’s cut mini-hawk-style. Big yellow crooked teeth, breath in my face like fumes. Deek is saying,
like you’d talk to a young child, or some animal like a dog that needs to be cajoled, “Take off your top, li’l dude, thass all, thass a damn cute li’l top, show us your cute
li’l boobies, you ain’t got nothin’ we ain’t seem already, wanta bet?” All this while I’m
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