Michael Smith: Siblings

Without having to think about it, I knew I had more access to Alex's body than was ordinarily the case. A guy in gym was bragging one day about having caught a glimpse of his older sister's "snatch" (a word I never cared for) and I remember disapproving of his leering description and of the snickering reaction of his listeners.

I was as perpetually horny as any other adolescent male, and I was both appreciative of and aroused by the large areas of skin Alex casually revealed to me more and more frequently. But I certainly wasn't going to describe my sister's many luscious attributes with these lowlifes. The braggart had actually gone on recon, hanging out around his house at locations where he would have the best opportunity to steal a peek at his sister's naked body.

Alex showed me what she was willing for me to see – which was virtually all of her – and there was no sneaking involved. She was proud of her body and she enjoyed showing it off to an audience she could trust. She never said "Don't tell anyone," nor did she even imply it, because she knew it wasn't necessary. I had the usual doubts about my own developing sexual equipment, but Alex watched with interest when I changed clothes or took a leak – and that never embarrassed me, either. How many penises could she compare with mine at the age of thirteen?

After our walk in the park and our first real kiss, there was a subtle change in our behavior toward each other, especially at home. Previously, if my door was shut, Alex would knock and wait for me to invite her in. I gave her the same courtesy. But now our personal privacy began to disappear, entirely by mutual consent. I'd knock at her door and then go in, without waiting for permission; Alex did the same. If she was in her underwear, she didn't make a big deal of it, so neither did I. Then our doors were only half-closed, not shut. Then only occasionally closed at all.

The same was true of the bathroom: If one of us was on the toilet, the other ignored the fact. We still were pretty private, but now it was a *shared* privacy directed toward the outside world. It was as if that kiss had sealed a pact of trust between us.

We also spent more and more time together, just occupying adjacent space. Instead of each of us studying in our own rooms, Alex took to occupying my bed, sprawled out with books and papers scattered around her, while I studied at my desk (which was actually a large, old oak library table).

We might not say a word for an hour or more, the silence broken only by the rustle of paper and the scratching of pencils, but just being near each other as we worked made the homework easier. And I discovered the pleasures of reading a novel while lying on my back with my head cushioned in a girl's lap. Sometimes I would look up from whatever I was doing to find Alex simply watching me and smiling. Then I discovered I was doing the same thing.

We began going for walks regularly, but almost always outside our own part of town. We knew instinctively that our friends and acquaintances would hassle us, and we didn't want to start any rumors, either. Because when we went window-shopping downtown or climbing in the hills, we frequently held hands. I'm sure strangers, if they noticed us at all, assumed I was Alex's boyfriend, not her brother, even though we looked so much alike.

We also went to the shows at the old-style theaters downtown, the ones with balconies. We would find ourselves surrounded in an upper loge by a dozen scattered couples passionately making out, and we would look around, grin, and squeeze our clasped hands. I could put my arm around my sister in a dark theater, too, and she could snuggle up against me unobserved. I began to long for a driver's license, but that was still two years away.

Oddly enough, after that first experience on the hillside, we seldom kissed, except for a perfunctory "thank you" on the cheek. Perhaps we regarded it as too valuable and special an experience and we wanted to preserve its rarity. Or maybe we were just fearful of the implications. We recognized that out affection for each other was growing with every passing month, but that didn't mean we understood it. There were occasions, however…

Alex played flute in the junior high band for two years; it later became one activity too many, and she dropped band so she could stay on the swim team. And the flute section, as every band-survivor knows, is on the very front row. When the Spring Concert – the biggest musical event of the year – came around, my little sister discovered she had outgrown last year's "special" dress; as slender as she was, she had still added an inch or more around the bust. Had she been a couple of rows back, mostly hidden from view, she might have tried to fake it by letting out a few seams, but for the front row she knew she'd have to have a new dress.

The rule in our family had always been that Mother and Dad kept us respectably clothed – which they certainly did – but that fancy non-necessaries, like jewelry, and party dresses, and leather jackets, either came at the usual gift times or were paid for with money we earned ourselves.

Alex had a conference downstairs with Mother and came away from it with a $20 contribution. She had another $15 stashed away from babysitting and typing term papers, I knew, but from what I heard her say, the perfect dress, the one she really, really wanted, cost $49.95.

Cokes were still a dime then and I could buy a new pair of Hush Puppies for under $10, so what she had in mind was a significant target. And Alex was $15 short. I asked her if she had actually counted up her savings and she replied morosely that she*knew* how much was in the old stationary box in her bottom drawer.

I thought about it for at least thirty minutes. I had my own savings, of course, in a battered tobacco tin wedged up in my bed springs, and I had vague plans for it. But it really made me unhappy to see my sister so unhappy. I dug out the tin and counted nearly $40; I took out fifteen singles and stuck them in my pocket. I could always mow more lawns.

While Alex was out on an errand later that afternoon, I opened her bottom drawer and dug out her money box. She had twelve singles, the four fives Mother had given her, and a double fistful of quarters. The bills were neatly paperclipped together, and I smoothed out my contribution and added it to the clip.

Alex wandered in and plopped down on my bed an hour later. When I asked her if she had come up with any ideas for the dress she wanted, she shook her head slowly and continued to stare at the ceiling.

"Look," I said, "why don't you go and actually count your savings? When was the last time you did that? You probably don't have any idea how much you have!"

"I counted it a month ago and it was less than $20, I know."

"Would you PLEASE just go and count it again?"

She was becoming a bit annoyed. "Okay, okay, I'll count it again! But it's not enough!" And off she went. I heard her dresser drawer open and shut. Her bed squeaked as she dumped the box out on her comforter. I could barely make out her voice.

"…four, five, six,…"

When she finished, there was a pause of several seconds and then she re-counted, a little louder. Another pause, and she went through the bills a third time. Then there was a much longer pause and I grinned to myself as I pictured her bewilderment. Then I heard her bed squeak again and her bare feet slowly crossed the hall. I had to struggle to keep a straight face as she came through the door, bills clutched in both hands, and a look of mixed puzzlement and suspicion on her face.

"I*couldn't* have had this much!"

"I always knew you couldn't count above three," I replied, raising my eyebrows.

"Michael – did*you* put more money in there? From your savings?"