Alma ran her hand though Mary's long blonde hair. "You're beautiful."

"Oh stop. No I aint. My nose is too big. I want a look like one a them movie stars."

"You do. Like Barbara Streisand."

"Well I don't want a look like her," Mary pouted.

Alma laughed. "'Least you ain't all freckly."

"Like your freckles."

"No you don't. Don't no one like freckles."

"I like freckles." Mary poked at Alma's shoulder with her finger, as if painting the little red dots on.

Alma didn't know why, but she leaned back a little. Mary's hand kept going, only she wasn't poking any more. She was stroking more like.

"Mmm, feels good," Alma murmured.

"Does it?" Mary was breathing hard.

"We ain't, we shouldn't..."

Mary's hand slipped into Junior's sundress then, and whatever she was about to say was cut off in a whimpered cry.

"Ain't like we're gonna get pregnant," Mary whispered.

Alma remembered giggling before she let Mary lay her back onto the dew-damp grass. It seemed like such a simple choice at the time. Nothing bad could happen. How was she supposed to know nothing would ever be the same after that?