Twelve
Until recently, Dune Finnegan had had no qualms about spying on the Larkin sisters.
Both houses had a family bathroom on the second floor, facing front, right onto Cambridge Road, with windows perfectly aligned.
The Larkins’ bathroom window, for reasons he could only thank a higher power for, was equipped with a flimsy, oft-broken shade that was rarely lowered except at night because the Larkin girls might have been unsuspecting, but they weren’t dumb.
One morning in eighth grade, while going through the ancient toy chest in the basement, Dune had found a tiny pair of collapsible binoculars and possibilities presented themselves.
His father had real binoculars on the fireplace mantel, but one of his parents would have noticed if those went missing.
He hid the toy binoculars in the vanity behind some ancient bottles of calamine lotion and Mercurochrome and a nearly empty box of Mr. Bubble.
The only other person who knew was his best friend Christopher, and sometimes they’d stake out the Larkin bathroom together.
The peeping was mostly innocent. The bathroom was large, and the girls only passed by the small window briefly and they almost always wore robes.
When someone ran hot water, the window fogged.
But on the occasional sacred morning, Clara would stand in front of the bathroom mirror in her underwear—back to the window, alas—and put her long hair up into a high ponytail.
On some blessed evenings, Bridie would lower the shade while wearing her nightgown and if she turned just so, they could almost make out her backlit breasts.
In what Dune considered an act of ultimate friendship, one morning after a sleepover, Christopher raced into his bedroom, handed him the binoculars, and said, “Hurry.” Dune scrambled to the bathroom, locked the door behind him, brought the glasses to his eyes, and there was Clara.
Clara in the nude. Clara applying some kind of lotion to her arms, her legs, her breasts.
It only happened once, but the image carried Dune through many nights and many mornings.
The only downside was seeing Clara in person because it was hard for him to look his old playmate in the eye.
Until it wasn’t. Until looking into Clara’s eyes was all he wanted to do.
Now that she was his girlfriend (was she his girlfriend?
Unclear), he was confused about the bathroom binoculars.
On the one hand, he kind of had access to Clara’s actual body right now, so what was the point in engaging in admittedly creepy behavior?
On the other hand, wasn’t it okay—because he kind of had access to Clara’s actual body—to watch her sometimes? Admire her? Desire her?
He’d agreed with her plan to keep their burgeoning relationship secret until the New Year’s formal not because their families would object, but because they’d completely overreact, watching and chuckling and in general being totally annoying.
The formal was only eight weeks away and in some ways he would miss the subterfuge, the sneaking winks and smiles, how Clara would link her pinkie with his when they were in the car and nobody could see, the glorious late-night make-out sessions when they’d sneak into one of their respective backyards after dark.
She’d made him wait for those, and though he supposed they could continue, they probably wouldn’t.
He was eager to publicly declare Clara as his.
They could sit together at basketball games and rehearsals for the play and hold hands.
He could pick her up in the parking lot after school and watch her burst through the doors and rush toward his car and they wouldn’t have to play it cool, just a couple of neighbors riding home together because it was convenient.
How could any amount of sneaking around feel better than that?
He decided to ditch the binoculars. Someday it would be a funny story to tell Clara, but only if he did the right thing now.
He brought his backpack into the bathroom, and before he put the binoculars into a side pocket to carry down to the garbage, he took one last look for auld lang syne.
He squinted and turned the tiny knob with its minimal focusing ability, but the Larkin bathroom was empty.
The front door beneath him slammed shut, and he saw his father, dressed in jogging clothes, trot across the street with a book in his hand.
Before his father put whatever book he was carrying into the Larkins’ box, he reached into his windbreaker and pulled out a thick manila envelope.
He looked around almost as if he knew he was being watched.
Dune stepped back from the window but kept his father in his sights.
His father wedged the envelope into the middle of the book.
Put the book in the mailbox. Secured the latch.
Bent to touch his toes a few times and took off down the street.
The scene he’d witnessed wasn’t particularly odd; his father and Mrs. Larkin exchanged books all the time, so why did Dune feel queasy?
He was sure it was nothing, but the only way to know was for him to take a look at what was inside the envelope.
While he was trying to decide whether to snoop in the mailbox or rid himself of the binoculars first, the Larkins’ front door flew open and out came Clara.
Clara! She was heading for his house to practice.
She stopped halfway across the street and pulled off her thick sweatshirt and tied it around her waist, revealing a shirt he’d never seen before.
Tight and low-cut. He groaned in pleasure.
Mailboxes, binoculars, they could all wait.