6: I Pantsed Myself and Other Observations

In which shirts are wet and ice cream is everywhere.

I was sitting in something warm and wet and sticky. And quite possibly biological. Nope, just ice cream. Cow biological, better, but it still came from something’s breast, or udder rather. Mom and Dad waited for me to haul myself out before they tried to stop laughing. Meanies.

 

I didn’t dare to look back into the garbage can to get an idea of what I had fallen into. I hazarded a glance down at my leg and I figured I had probably landed in an unfinished ice cream cone. It was dripping down my leg, leaving a big, sticky trail of white down my thigh and all over my shorts. I didn’t even want to know what the splotch of red on my elbow was. My hair fell in my face and I noticed a goobery M&M was dangling in front of my nose. With a groan I whipped it out of my hair.

 

Walking like I was a penguin with a pickle up its butt. I motored my way home.

 

“Ava,” said Dad. I was unwilling to hear anything else that came out of his mouth. Unless, of course, it involved a couple million dollars and a hot guy being deposited in my bank account. “You have a condom stuck to your a*s.” That was not what I wanted to hear.

 

I couldn’t help it, I screamed. “Get it off, get it off, get it off!”

 

“Hold still.” Oh my God he was going to use his bare hand. He probably didn’t know what a condom was for. He obviously never used them; Aaron and I were proof of that. Using a light standard for support he leaned forward from about a metre and a half away like some kind of fat retired (and quite possibly retarded…wait, that’s not nice or politically correct…stupid-looking) ballerina and nudged the prophylactic so it fell off. He promptly wind milled his arms as he attempted to stand back up and toppled over into Mom. It was embarrassing. His face was right in her b***s and he didn’t look as though he was interested in moving. She just laughed. Stupid fornicators.

 

“I’m going home,” I announced, my voice strained. Apparently it goes against some sort of parental code to let your teenage daughter walk herself home so my parents followed me.

 

When I walked in the door I could hear Aaron talking loudly on the phone. “Right, see you in a bit.” He came to the top of the stairs. “What’s the matter with you?” he said, apparently seeing the look on my face. Or my shorts. Or maybe Dad’s malevolent smirk. “What’s all over your shorts?” The shorts apparently, why look at my face when you can check out my a*s?

 

“Sperm,” Dad cut in before I could say anything.

 

“I thought you were just going for a walk?” he asked, horrified.

 

I hit him.

 

“Ava, we don’t hit,” scolded Dad ten minutes later. Aaron glowered at me. The one good thing I got out of being grounded for a week was determining that Aaron still had eyes and wasn’t walking around like some kind of furry worm-thingy. Ew. That came out wrong. Anyways, I learned this because one of them (his eye, not whatever else you may be thinking!) was swelling so Mom made him push his bangs back so he could ice it. Well, serves him right for mocking me about things he didn’t understand. And know about at all. He should keep his mouth shut before I decided to sew it shut like the talking heads in bizillions of different movies that always come undone and harass people. Not paying attention, I discovered I was thinking aloud. Make that being grounded for two weeks and having to give Sheba a bath. Great, chuck the deadweight in the tub and hope to whatever deity is up in the sky decides that she doesn’t need to wake up and soak me.

 

Apparently the deities weren’t listening. I was drenched. And in a white t-shirt. Fortunately none of Aaron’s friends were over.

 

“Did you see the look on Carter’s face when the girl’s cross country team went running by?” Scratch that.

 

I poked my head out of the bathroom. Sheba trotted around me and headed into the rec room, I could hear her collar rattling as she shook herself and the indignant protests of presumably four teenage boys. I took a quick head count. Yep, four. Or maybe five. Victor was certainly big enough to be counted as two people or maybe even three �" who knows how many people could be trapped in the shag carpet covering his legs. Perhaps that’s why girls seem to flock to him; it’s like flies to a spider web.

 

I drew back into the bathroom, locking the door the door behind me. I was trapped in a next to see through shirt with my brother and his friends sitting outside. His pervy, smoking hot friends. Shoot me now. I took a breath and was about to open the door before I chickened out.

 

“Ava,” bellowed Dad. Oh, crap. “Ava, upstairs, please.”

 

Trying to hide my blush, I rushed out the door but Aaron stopped me with a surprised, “Oh, what are you doing here?” He then noticed my shirt and blushed. I wanted to slap him. I was wearing a bra. You could just see it. I mean it wasn’t even that bad. “Ava, you’re flying low.” I then noticed my magenta underwear was very noticeable through gaping hole left by my zipper. Now they all knew that I didn’t match my bra with my underwear.

 

“Oh, haha,” I said, turning to do it up. It came off in my hand. As in ripped right off from the legs. I stood there, staring in disbelief at the hunk of fabric in my hand when my pants fell down.