Hi there.
This story idea has been waiting in the wings for about a year now. Other stories felt more urgent, ideas that were trying to get out of me and onto (virtual) paper, and so this one sat on the back burner. I hope it didn't scorch.
Please, I beseech you. Donate to Nifty. Hosting these hot stories isn't cheap, so let's do our part.
Comments are incredibly welcome, and I intend to answer everyone.
"Dad! Dad! Look!"
I pointed out the bay window in the front room. A big flat-bed truck was slowly backing down the driveway of the vacant house next door, making that meep-meep sound that I usually found annoying but in this case was music to my ears. On the back of the truck was a big steel box with a brightly-painted logo on the side that said You Pack — We Haul.
New neighbors! I could hardly contain myself just imagining the possibilities.
Breathlessly I asked, "Do you think they have kids?"
"How should I know?" my Dad countered in a tone that clearly conveyed how dumb he thought the question was — and by extension the questioner. He stood with his hands on his hips and appraised the situation. "I just hope it's someone who mows his lawn more than once a month."
I turned my eyes back to the truck with a light heart. I was positively thrilled to think that my long lonely exile might finally be coming to an end. Picture this:
I was an only child with no brothers or sisters to play with and here's a good hint why: I once overheard my Dad tell someone that they should have named me Jack because I would never have been born at all if it weren't for Jack Daniels.
We lived in one of only two houses on a small cul-de-sac. The road out front was a 45-mile-per-hour through-street which I was not allowed to go near because there was no crosswalk and no sidewalk. Our property backed up to a state highway that was built up fifteen feet higher than our yard with a ten-foot noise-barrier wall on top of that. To complete the scene our backyard had an 8-foot wooden privacy fence all around.
If you threw in some guard towers the place would be Sing Sing.
Things went from bad to worse when the Harpers moved out of next door. Dennis was six years older and kind of a jerk but sometimes if he had nobody better to hang out with he'd let me play video games with him. That happened less and less often as he got older until finally he was 15 and shooing 9-year-old me away like a house fly. In the last six months before they moved I think I only played with him once because he got a girlfriend and spent every waking moment with her.
And then for a whole year there was nobody.
I had some friends at school whose parents used to come pick me up for play dates and sleepovers but eventually that dried up too. My folks never let me invite anybody in return and I think my friends' parents got tired of being the ones to make the effort. I got to be with kids every day during the school year but over summer vacation I saw no one but my parents for weeks at a time.
I watched the men winch the container off of the flat-bed and position it near the house, shouting back and forth in a mixture of Spanish and English. Shortly they climbed back into their truck and drove away leaving only the sound of constant traffic.
On my knees in the window-seat I stared at the container for a solid hour waiting for the people to show up.
"They might not get here for days you know," my father finally said. "It might not even be new neighbors at all. For all we know that container could be full of tools for a crew to tear the house down."
Good Old Dad never missed a chance to crap in the punch bowl.
"Fin," my Mom called. "Come on now, it's time for dinner."
I didn't move from the bay window, figuring a flash of puppy-dog eyes was worth a try.
"Can I please eat in the front room, Mom? I want to keep lookout."
"Finley!" my Dad shouted, going from zero to pissed off in half a second. That was the point of course; an excuse to be mad at me. He raised his hand as if to swat me. "Get your ass in there like your mother told you!"
I jumped up quickly and scooted into the dining room. It was best to let him think I was afraid of him even though I was pretty sure he wouldn't actually hit me. He never had so far anyway.
Dinner was a quiet affair, like always. Mom and Dad traded minimal small talk but neither was very excited about it. I had learned to just shut up and eat, only answering whatever rare question may be put to me. That night there weren't any and that was fine. Under the radar was definitely the best place for me.
The meal was actually quite tasty, chicken in some kind of white sauce with roasted vegetables. My Mom was a good cook but she didn't even pretend to take joy in domesticity. She provided the basics to keep DCFS from the door — food, clothing, doctor visits and Parent-Teacher conferences — but these were simply chores. The only time her face lit up was when she talked about her job.
"We're trying to acquire a really fabulous new piece for the gallery," she said. This was to Dad of course; no pretense of including me. Even though my Dad didn't actually care he pretended to because that was the unspoken agreement they had. When it was his turn Mom would pretend to care about whatever gripe he had brought home from the office.
"Oh yeah?" he asked around a mouthful. "Have I ever heard of the artist?"
"I doubt it. He's quite an up-and-comer though, working in mixed media."
"Sounds great," Dad said. "We should buy up his stuff and then kill him. You know, drive up the price."
He had made that joke twenty times before but Mom put on a smile and faked amusement.
Looking back it could have been a lot worse. Like I said they didn't hit me. Dad had some big job in the city and money wasn't a problem. Mom worked part-time even though she didn't have to, the two of us quite happy not to be alone together all day every day all summer.
To keep me quiet and sequestered in my room I had more creature-comforts than any of my fellows in the 5th grade, including my own TV with cable, a PlayStation that was only one generation out of date, and a laptop with full Internet access. Either they didn't know about parental controls or they just didn't give a shit what I might come across on the Weird Wide Web.
The one thing I didn't have was a smart phone. Instead I had one of those kiddie phones that can only call 911 and a few numbers my parents programmed in. They got it for me when I was nine and they were buying new phones for themselves. The salesman kind of guilted my Mom into it with a whole pitch about how they could track me if I ever got lost. He didn't come right out and say it but it was obvious that when he said "got lost" he really meant "got kidnapped." My Dad didn't fall for it but he finally gave in to avoid the argument. It didn't matter much since none of my friends had phones either so I had no one to call or text anyway.
I liked the laptop the best. I surfed the Net a lot, finding all sorts of things that wouldn't normally be considered age-appropriate for ten-and-a-half. I don't necessarily mean dirty stuff, though I saw some of that too. I mean things like the Child Psychology blog I followed, which was intended to inform parents about their kids but told me a lot about my parents too, such as:
My Dad resented the hell out of my very existence and if he could go back in time I'm sure he would switch from bourbon to beer before he got too drunk to put on a condom. The rational part of him knew it wasn't my fault but I was still a damn handy excuse for his hopes and dreams turning to shit.
Mom had no interest in me either but she was non-confrontational by nature so she didn't usually mess with me the way Dad did. Passive-aggressive was more her style. The one bit of parenting I got from her was — oddly — to wash behind my ears. Nowhere else. Of all the yucky places on the human body it was the back of the ears that she was worried about. The blog and I figured out a while ago that she must have been parroting something her own mother said; something she associated with being a good parent.
It was a pathetically feeble attempt but I guess it was an effort at least.
The blog was how I knew that all these material things they gave me were bribes, born of guilt in my Mom's case over her zero nurturing of me and for my Dad a practical and effective way to shut me the fuck up and keep me out of his way.
I didn't hate them and I didn't think they hated me either, not even Dad. I thought both of them would simply rather be elsewhere, unencumbered by child or spouse, but they were stuck and so I was too. We just went on living day after excruciating day like three barely-cordial roommates.
After dinner I helped Mom with the dishes while Dad parked his ass in front of the TV with his bourbon. Mom finished washing and wiped her hands on a kitchen towel, leaving without a word for me to finish the drying and putting away while she retired to the den to work on her 1,000-piece jigsaw of Renoir's Two Sisters. I finished my chore in silence then called out "Goodnight!" as I climbed the stairs to my room, receiving no reply from either of them. It was 7:15 pm and family time was over.
Sequestered.
I walked into the Jack 'n Jill bathroom attached to my bedroom and stripped my clothes off into the hamper. There was another door to an identical bedroom but of course no one was there. We called it the guest room but to my memory there had never been a guest in it so it was effectively my private en suite.
I did some business then took a long shower, not because I'd been told to but because I liked it. I liked feeling clean and fresh when I went to bed plus running my own soapy hands over my skin felt very nice, very sensual. I always got a boner in the shower and that night was no exception.
Usually my boner went away shortly after I stopped washing myself but that night it persisted through toweling dry, brushing my teeth and combing my hair. I skipped pajamas and just went naked for the night since I knew with absolute certainty that neither of my parents would lay eyes on me again until breakfast. I lay on my back on the bed and wiggled into a comfortable position.
About a year earlier the boners had started coming hard and fast. I looked it up of course and discovered that the hormones responsible for such things start flowing around age nine and a half, which meant I was exactly on schedule.
The blog had a long article explaining that boys get erections and play with them, that it is called masturbation, and that it's a perfectly normal part of development. Enlightened parents shouldn't overreact if they happen to stumble upon their son goin' at it, the blog said. They should calmly explain that it's a private thing that he needn't be ashamed of and assure him he won't be in trouble providing he keeps it behind closed doors.
I knew Dad would stay outside of my closed door because he hadn't been in my room in two years. And if Mom ever walked in to put laundry away or something I could count on her not to react at all, bless her non-confrontational heart.
And so at nine-and-a-half I made the conscious decision to try it. My little thing was still pretty short at the time so I experimented with grips until I finally settled on just my thumb and forefinger. It seemed the most natural and I must say it worked quite nicely. The heavenly sensations produced by sliding my loose skin up and down were like a revelation and after 10 or so blissful minutes I shook and shuddered and cried out like my soul was erupting.
It was even better than the blog made it sound.
I managed to achieve the wonderful feeling virtually every time after that inaugural attempt and if my parents ever heard or suspected anything they never mentioned it. Sometimes it wasn't so bad being ignored and left alone.
I grew a little in the intervening year and switched my habitual grip to the thumb and first two fingers of my left hand. I'm right-handed but for some reason the left worked better for this. In particularly long sessions I might switch back to the thumb and only the forefinger, perhaps curled around like the "OK" sign to fully encircle my dick. I also switched hands sometimes due to arm fatigue but for the home stretch I was always back in the left-handed three-digit grip.
That night while my left hand flew my right hand was busy with my sharp and sensitive right nipple, which had gotten particularly excited under my soapy fingers in the shower. It added exponentially to my pleasure and very quickly I was jerking in a fast rhythm and pinching and tweaking my nip with unusual vigor. The feeling rose quickly that night and I knew I could make the fireworks happen in a matter of seconds.
I didn't want it to end so soon so I let both hands fall back to the bed to let my body cool off and enjoy the anticipation for awhile. Both my dick and my nip pulsed with excitement and longing.
Delaying the climax was delicious agony.
Unbidden an image came into my mind, one that had come many times lately. It was a memory from the last sleepover I had with my school friend James probably eight months earlier.
James had two brothers, two sisters and friendly, happy parents who welcomed me with a real sense of "the more the merrier." We six kids laughed and played with the kind of noisy abandon my parents would have despised but his parents embraced.
It was quite glorious to me.
James was second in the birth order behind his sister Angela and with the two younger boys sharing a room and the two girls sharing another lucky James was left with a single. Angela didn't like it much but how else could it work?
This particular memory kept coming back: The parents had sent all us kids to change into PJs before starting a movie on the big screen. I figured we'd take turns in the bathroom but instead James began stripping right there in his room in front of me.
"C'mon," he urged when he saw me hesitate. "Don't you wanna see each other naked?"
I had never actually considered the question but as soon as he said it I realized that yes, I did want to see him naked. I really wanted to see him naked! My excitement vaulted and I felt a twitch in my dick.
Which made me hesitate again.
To my relief James didn't pause but stripped off his pants to reveal tiny powder blue briefs bulging outward in unmistakable tumescence. I awkwardly stripped too, trying to both hurry and keep my eyes glued to him.
James' undies came down and a stiff proud boner sprang out. It was significantly bigger than mine with a plump pink head larger than the shaft, which was alabaster white and appeared solid as marble. James was very proud of his boner and grinned at me as he displayed himself.
That's it, my big sexy memory. I looked at his boner and he looked at my semi-stiffy and then we put on our PJs and went to watch the movie. Nothing else remotely sexy happened and James never mentioned it again, but from then on I saw that boner in my mind every time I jerked off.
Which was a lot.
It was weird because I only saw it for 30 seconds or so and I didn't bend down to look at it closely or anything, but in the replay of my memory it loomed in a screen-filling close-up. I saw the contours, the shades of color, the majesty of that rigid icon of boyhood and my blood raced around my body like it was going for a world record.
Both hands came to my nipples and I pinched and tickled and tweaked them until they were razor sharp. My breath heaved and I had no choice: I had to get off. I grabbed my steaming three inches — yes, of course I measured — and feverishly stroked, slamming my fingers up and down in a blur of motion. My breath caught, my hips rose from the bed and I didn't breathe at all for the final 20 seconds until the feeling exploded in my belly and crashed over me like a hot wave. I squeezed and stroked and gasped and moaned until finally my energy was gone and I could strain no more.
"Fin!" my Mom called from the bottom of the stairs. "I'm going to work now, Honey."
The pet name wasn't heartfelt, just habitual. Still it was something I guess. The closest my Dad got to a term of endearment was to very occasionally call me "son."
"I made some tuna salad for your lunch," she continued, "with diced onions and water chestnuts the way you like it."
Actually that's how she liked it, but I guess I liked it fine that way too. One of the few traits we shared was an aversion to celery, preferring to get our crunch from something less stringy.
"OK, Mom," I called down. We played this scene nearly word-for-word every weekday morning at a quarter to ten, varying only the lunch menu. I was still in the PJs I had put on for breakfast, browsing the Internet on my laptop.
"And don't spend all day in your pajamas on that computer," she said. "Go outside. Play in the backyard and get some sun."
Oh, I forgot to mention Mom's other catch phrase: get some sun. Clean ears and a tan are apparently childhood essentials in her book.
"OK, Mom," I said.
Maybe I would and maybe I wouldn't. As long as I was dressed before she got home at four o'clock she wouldn't know the difference.
I watched a couple of mildly amusing YouTube videos. Someone's cat attacked a rolled-up ball of socks at the top of the stairs and tumbled all the way down, emerging unhurt but looking somehow embarrassed. Young twin girls sang an a capella duet of some pop song I was not familiar with and they were really pretty good. A middle-aged man on a step ladder hanging a picture leaned over too far and, trying to catch himself with the hand holding the hammer, punched a hole right through the drywall. I was on the verge of boredom with YouTube when I heard a strange metallic shriek from outside and I said out loud, "What the hell was that?"
When you spend as much time alone as I did you talk to yourself, just so it wasn't so damn silent all the time.
I pulled back the window curtain and my heart practically leaped from my chest. Someone was opening the moving container!
It was a man, tall and very fit, straining a tight t-shirt with his broad shoulders and bulging biceps. He looked about the same age as my Dad but that's where the resemblance ended. My Dad was OK-looking but this guy was like a movie star or something with platinum-blond hair down to his collar and chiseled, Nordic features. He was smiling broadly and saying something I couldn't hear to someone I couldn't see.
The metallic shriek came again as he pushed the container's door the rest of the way open. This revealed the person with him, a very attractive golden-blond woman of similar age and athletic build, no doubt his wife. They were not dressed like they were here to tear the house down and I sighed in relief. I was actually a little mad at myself that I had let Dad put that in my head.
The wife said something and the husband nodded, both of them striding with purpose into the container. Seconds later the husband's rear end appeared as he backed out carrying his end of a king-size mattress, followed quickly by his wife carrying the other. They made it look effortless, unlike my Mom and Dad who had completely exhausted themselves just a month before flipping their mattress over for spring cleaning. My Dad gasped curses for five minutes and swore that henceforth he would hire someone with — and I quote — "a strong back and a weak mind."
They disappeared around the corner of the house where I couldn't see from my bedroom window. It made sense to go in through the front because there were double-doors that opened straight to the staircase leading up to the bedrooms. I'd been in that house enough times to practically count off how long it would take them to carry the mattress upstairs and come back.
My prediction was pretty good and they returned to the container when expected. Instead of bringing out the box spring or some other part of a king-size bed the husband wheeled out a bicycle and parked it off to the side, out of the way. My lungs inflated with joy as I realized that the bike was much too small for either of them.
It was a kid's bike! A 20-inch BMX with mag wheels instead of spokes. I'd seen bikes just like it at school and my heart soared to realize that it almost undoubtedly belonged to a boy. He was probably younger than me judging by how low the seat was adjusted but that was OK.
I'd take damn near anybody at that point.
The wife — mother I guess — brought out another youth bicycle, this one somewhat bigger at probably 24 inches, in metallic pink with no center bar. That meant two kids, an older girl and a younger boy. I said out loud, "Please please let them be nice."
The father turned toward the house and shouted something, three words but not together like a sentence: three separate words, like with exclamation points after each one. I could fairly well hear him through the glass but I was quite sure I'd never heard those words before.
In a few seconds my eyes opened wide and a big grin spread across my face, for around the corner ran three dazzlingly blond children: a girl who was maybe eleven, a boy who I hoped beyond hope was ten like me, and a boy around eight. I simply couldn't contain myself and I whooped at the top of my lungs.
The whole family turned toward the sound but they didn't look directly at me. They probably couldn't see into my window because of the reflection. I couldn't stop gawking at the glorious sight of three perfect playmates right next door!
And they certainly were perfect too, at least by appearances. I was a ten-year-old boy and didn't give a lot of thought to which kids were cute and which weren't, but these kids' looks could not be denied. They were gorgeous, all three of them, just like their Mom and Dad.
The girl and the younger boy walked their bikes up the driveway, disappearing behind our stupid privacy fence on the way to their garage. The older boy stepped into the container and emerged with his bike, another 24-incher but this one with Derailleur gears and hand brakes. He disappeared too and I snapped out of my shock, tearing off my pajamas and scrambling into some clothes.
I dashed down the stairs and out our front door on a dead run, skipping the tying of shoelaces in my hurry, but then skidded to a stop right at the property line. I suddenly feared that they might not welcome me over, having only just got there. Maybe I should have let them get settled a bit first.
The father came out of the container carrying a large box and spotted me immediately. I was very relieved when he smiled and said, "Hello! It seems we are to be neighbors!"
I was slightly taken aback because it was oddly phrased and the word "hello" sounded weird, more like hollow. I composed myself and smiled just as broadly.
"Yes, I guess so! I'm Finley Cooper. I live here with my Mom and Dad."
"It is very nice to meet you, Finley Cooper," the man said in a clipped, somewhat guttural accent, kind of like the German soldiers I'd heard speaking English in old war movies.
But not exactly.
"I am Olaf Arvidsson," he went on, "and from today I live here with my wife and three children."
I noticed the way he said the word "today." Not tuh-DAY like everyone I knew but very distinctly too-DAY. The word "here" came out HEE-yah.
"Would you like to come and meet them?" he asked.
"Oh, yes please!" I said in my most pleasant and polite voice, hurrying over to their yard. Please please, I begged in my head, Please let them all be this friendly!
"Your mother and Dad are not at home then?"
The clues suddenly came together in my mind and I realized that Mr. Arvidsson was not American.
You couldn't put anything past me, could you?
"They're both at work right now," I answered. "My Mom will be home about four and my Dad about six."
"And you are all alone then, Finley Cooper?"
"Yes sir," I said, "but it's OK. I can take care of myself."
He smiled and made contact with his deep blue eyes. "I am sure you can," he said. "You appear as a very independent boy."
I was not entirely sure what that meant but I knew it was meant as a compliment. We were almost to the front door when the mother stepped out of the house and stopped short.
"Ah, my dear," the man said, "may I present Finley Cooper, who lives in the next house with his mother and father. Finley, this is my wife Brigitta."
"I'm happy to meet you, Mrs. Arvidsson," I said so formally I was surprised I didn't bow. I didn't know why I was acting so stiff. I guess I just couldn't take any chance that I might make a bad first impression.
Mr. Arvidsson excused himself and carried the box into the house leaving his wife to deal with me.
"Finley," she said like she was trying it on for size. "That's a very nice name for a boy… or for a girl for that matter."
I was surprised that her English was perfect and without accent. I guess she saw it in my eyes because she smiled and added, "I was born in Sweden but grew up here in the States."
She didn't look angry or upset at all so I guess she was used to people expecting her to speak like her husband.
"Does the name have any special meaning?" she asked and it took me a second to realize she meant Finley.
"Um, yes ma'am," I replied. "It was my Mom's last name before she got married."
"Oh yes," she said brightly, "I've heard of that tradition, naming the first born after the mother's family. It's Irish, isn't it?"
"I don't know, ma'am," I said. "We're Irish though, on both sides."
"But you do not have red hair," Mr. Arvidsson said, returning for another trip. "How can you be an Irish boy with brown hair?"
Mrs. Arvidsson gave him a fake annoyed look then smiled down at me.
"He's teasing you, Finley," she said. "He knows perfectly well that not all Irish people are redheads, just as not all Swedes are blond." She saw me react to that and clarified, "Our family is, for at least three generations on Olaf's side as well as mine, but most people in Sweden have brown hair."
"Brown hair is the most common in all the world," Mr. Arvidsson said, "except in Asia and Africa, where nearly all hair is black."
"He should know," she said. "He's a geneticist."
I smiled like I knew what she was talking about, meanwhile memorizing the word to look up later on my computer.
"Do you go by Finley or some nickname?" she asked.
"Fin ma'am, mostly."
"I see," she said. "I don't go by ma'am though, and 'Mrs. Arvidsson' is rather cumbersome so I think you'd better call me Brigitta."
My eyes went wide. "I don't think I can do that," I said. "I think my Dad would get mad at me if I called a grownup by their first name."
"I see," she said. "How about Mrs. A? Would he get mad at that?"
"Maybe not," I mused, "if you told him that's what you wanted."
"And so I shall," she said happily. "And my husband is to be called Mr. A, all right?"
"Yes ma'am," I said and she looked at me in tiny annoyance until my cheeky smile tipped her that I was joking.
"Well Fin," she said with finality, "you've been very patient being interrogated by us old people. Now I'm sure you'd like to meet the children."
I didn't have to say anything because my instant grin said it all.
"Ronja!," she called. "Vidar! Halvar! Come out here please!"
I immediately recognized the strange words I had heard Mr. A shout earlier. She pronounced them RAWN-yah, VEE-dar and HAWL-var and it sounded like Klingon to me. I was still processing when I heard a bustle of feet on the front foyer tile and the blond-headed trio burst out the door chattering and laughing.
"Children," Mrs. A said, "this is Fin. He lives right next door. Isn't that nice?"
The smaller boy gave me a quizzical look and blurted, "Fin? Like on a fish? What kind of a crazy name is that?"
"Halvar Nils Arvidsson!" Mrs. A scolded. "That was very rude! You apologize to Fin right this second!"
The boy looked genuinely remorseful and embarrassed, his cheeks crimson. It only made him cuter.
"I'm sorry, Fin," he said, making sincere eye contact. "I was just tryin' to be funny."
"Hawley likes to play the clown," the older boy said. "He didn't mean anything by it." He offered me a hand. "I'm Vidar, Veed for short."
"Finley," I said, shaking his hand. "But you can call me Fin..." I glanced at his little brother. "...like a fish."
The boys grinned in matching adorableness. I turned to the girl.
"Call me Ronnie," she said. "I think Fin is a nice name."
"Thanks," I said and we shared a smile. So far it was going great.
"What grade are you in?" Veed asked.
"I just finished fifth."
"Me too!" he said happily. "Will you be going to Harper Middle School in the fall like me and Ronnie? Or do you go to Catholic school or something?"
"Harper," I said. "It'll be cool to have someone to ride the bus with every day."
"Yeah, it sure will!"
Veed looked genuinely happy and I sure as hell was. I had nothing to base it on but somehow I was sure he was going to be a good friend.
"I'm sorry to interrupt," Mrs. A cut in, "but we have work to do right now. I'm afraid you kids will have to get acquainted another time. They'll see you later, Fin."
"Let me help!" I blurted. "Point me to a box and tell me where it goes."
"Oh, that's very nice of you Fin but it isn't necessary," Mrs. A said. "You must have better things to do."
"Not really," I said. "I want to help, honest. It'll give me something to do."
"C'mon Mom," Vidar pleaded. "We won't work him too hard, we promise."
"Well, if you're sure, Fin."
"I'm sure Mrs. A."
"OK then," she said. "Veed will show you what to do."
"We just have to take our own stuff up to our own rooms," Veed said as we followed his Mom to the container.
"Barn, snälla gå åt sidan ett ögonblick," Mr. A said, in Klingon again. Veed pulled me by the elbow a few feet away, making way for the grownups to bring out their huge box spring.
"Did he say something about a barn?"
"Barn means children in Swedish," Ronnie piped in with a big smile for me. "He said, 'Children, please step aside for a moment.'"
I smiled back at her, which I could tell she liked.
"It's really cool that you guys speak such good English, being from Sweden and everything."
"We were all born here," Veed said, stepping into the container. "But we go back a lot to visit our grandparents."
"We stay the whole summer usually," Ronnie added, "but this year we couldn't go because our Dad has a new job and we had to move."
"Can you guys carry your own beds and dressers and things?" I asked as it occured to me. They all looked remarkably strong and healthy but furniture is pretty heavy for such young kids.
"No," Ronnie interjected. "This container only has our clothes and personal things."
"We get to camp out on the floor tonight because we don't have any beds yet!" Hawley excitedly cried, clearly considering it a great adventure. I guess I might have thought so too when I was eight.
When I looked quizzically at the grownups negotiating the box spring through the front doors Veed explained, "My Dad said young bones can sleep on the floor but old bones deserve a bed. There wasn't enough extra room in the container for our beds so they'll come tomorrow when the movers bring the rest of the furniture."
Inside the container were stacks of cardboard boxes with labels I couldn't read. "Sorry, they're in Swedish," Veed said. "Just grab one and we'll tell you where to put it."
"Is this your name?" I asked, pointing to a box that said Vidars troféer.
"Yes, very good," he said with a smile. "Those are my sports trophies. Be careful with them, OK?"
"Sure," I said, gingerly lifting the box to gauge the weight and balance. "What sports do you play?"
"The trophies are for football — what we call soccer in America — and wrestling and swimming."
"Cool," I said with an admiring smile. I might have known from his physique that he was an athlete.
"I have trophies too!" Ronnie interjected, and I got the impression that she was sort of playing up to me, trying to impress me or something. "For swimming and gymnastics."
"She has all kinds of ribbons and things for dancing too," Veed said, shooting a proud look to his big sister. "She's a ballerina!"
I smiled and opened my mouth to tell her how cool I thought it was when Hawley interrupted.
"That's nothing," he said. "I'm going to win a medal in the Olympics like my Papa!"
Now that was impressive. "Your Dad won a medal in the Olympics?"
"Yes," Veed said proudly. "He was on the Equestrian team that won the silver in Athens in 2004."
"Equestrian?" I asked. "What's that?"
"Horse jumping," Veed replied, still grinning.
"Horse jumping! That's an Olympic sport?"
Veed's eyes clouded over and suddenly I was mortified that he might think I was putting it down, calling it something less than track and field or whatever.
"No, no!" I hurried to say. "It's really cool! I just didn't know they had that in the Olympics. It's super cool to be so good at something that you win an Olympic medal! He must be amazing at it!"
"He is," Veed said, some of the ice melting from his eyes. "And for your information he was chosen to run the 1500 meters in the 2000 games in Sydney except he got injured and had to drop out. That's why he had to find a different sport for 2004."
"I'm so sorry you guys," I said, making sheepish eye contact with all three of them in turn. "I swear I didn't mean anything bad. Your Dad must be an amazing athlete. I mean, just look at him!"
"Yeah, and just look at this!" Hawley cried, striking a Hulk pose and tensing his little eight-year-old body until the tendons bulged out in his neck. It had the desired effect and the rest of us burst out laughing. Even so I had never seen such a young boy with such sculpted muscles. This little kid could probably kick my ass!
Veed put his arm around Hawley's neck and gave him a gentle squeeze. "Always the funny man, Little Brother! Thank you for a good laugh but now we have to get to work."
I was the one who should have been grateful for the tension-breaker. There was so much riding on it for me and I almost blew it. The only thing worse than living next to an empty house would be living next to three perfect playmates and having them hate me.
We made trip after trip between the container and the upstairs bedrooms, chatting and comparing their old school to mine and speculating about our upcoming new life in middle school.
"I'm going to miss my old friends," Veed said, then with a fond look added, "but new friends are cool too."
I grinned at the handsome boy. I felt like we were back on a good track, my insult of his father forgiven if not forgotten.
It was a four-bedroom house but they wanted to reserve a guest room for when relatives visited from Sweden so Ronnie had her own room and Veed shared with Hawley.
"Hawley likes sharing," Veed said, "and I honestly don't mind. We're used to it anyway."
I mused for a second, imagining myself sharing a room with a younger brother. I'd always wished I had a sibling and if he was as cool as Hawley and we got along as well as these guys did it would be well worth it, even if it would be harder to find privacy to jerk off. I guessed I'd just have to do it in the bathroom, like I supposed Veed did.
We finished all the boys' boxes so we switched to helping Ronnie carry hers. She indicated one marked Ronjas underkläder and I carried it upstairs, chatting with the smiling girl. She seemed again to be going out of her way to be charming for me and I started to wonder if she might be flirting. I dismissed the idea as nonsense though. We were obviously too young for boyfriend-girlfriend stuff and I was even a year younger than she was. I decided she was just a really friendly girl.
The box was not taped closed like the others; only the four top flaps had been interlocked. Just as I stepped into her room the box came open and because of the sudden balance shift I dropped it. Clothing items spilled onto the floor and as I hurried to pick them up I realized in horror that I was holding a pair of lavender-colored panties and some weird elastic thing with straps. I shot an embarrassed look to Ronnie but she was grinning broadly, not upset in the slightest.
"I'm sorry Ronnie!" I stammered. "I didn't know..."
"It's OK Fin," she said. "What are you so embarrassed about? It's only some underpants and a training bra."
I looked at her open-mouthed, the word bra turning my face deep red. "I don't want to embarrass you," I stammered.
"Why should I be embarrassed?" she asked, still amused at my consternation. "Everybody wears underwear. You do, don't you?"
My eyes popped wider. "Yes of course," I said, defensive in addition to embarrassed.
"If it would make you feel better you could show me your underpants and then we'd be even."
I looked at her absolutely aghast and she laughed riotously. She finally wound down to a giggle and knelt, picking up a pair of panties from the floor and folding them back into the box.
"Aren't you going to help me?" she asked in feigned annoyance. "You're the one who dropped them."
I gave a short chuckle but then I realized from her look that she wasn't kidding. I knelt next to her and tried to fold them the way she liked. I felt kind of stupid getting so freaked out over these silly scraps of cotton. They were only clothes just the same as the socks and those didn't embarrass me a bit.
When we finished we both stood and Ronnie fondly smiled. "Don't be so uptight, Fin," she said, lightly touching my arm. "Don't worry. Just relax and be yourself."
I smiled just as fondly. These kids were great, all three of them, and it was really interesting and cool to have neighbors who speak foreign languages and win Olympic medals! Things were really looking up for a change.
I hung with Veed and Hawley for a little while in their room until I noticed that it was almost four o'clock and I had to go before my Mom got home. I exchanged fond goodbyes with the boys and I was heading to Ronnie's room to say goodbye to her when I had to stop short in astonishment.
There in her doorway was a giggling Ronnie, facing away and bent over with her shorts pulled down showing me her pink underpants.
Thanks for reading Chapter 1 of Seeing More of the Neighbors. Chapter 2 is coming soon.
If you like my stuff had a look at my story archive here on my Prolific Authors page.
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