I squatted down to take a piss when a strong draft pushed through, lifting my skirt. Meanwhile, a team of boaters passed by, directing their metal flashlight at me. The man holding it quickly shoved it into his friend’s chest, trying not to drop it out of laughter.

“Who wears a skirt to go camping?” the man yelled.

I wondered if they were lake patrollers, but the boat was unmarked, so I figured they were only drifters. I quickly pulled up my underwear and tried to massage my skirt out, but, in
my hurry, I’d pissed myself. A single stream trickled down my thigh, descending towards my red bobby sock.

“Hey, it’s okay!” The man without the flashlight pulled down his pants and began slapping his butt cheeks. “Show me yours and we’ll be even.”

“It’s that easy, I guess?” I replied.

I didn’t think they’d heard me.

“Stop talking and turn around!”

•

I don’t know why I did it exactly. Maybe because I was young, only fourteen. Any older and I might’ve had the sense to walk off. But I had none. I remember looking up into the trees: their leaves hung like elephant ears, fanning against the sturdy oaks. Everything appeared brighter and sharper, even in the darkness.

I stood with my back turned to the drifters, clutching the hem of my skirt. The beam of their flashlight moved in and out of the triangle of my legs. They’d started their taunting again, hooting and laughing from the bank of the lake.

“So, you gonna lift up that pretty little skirt or what?”

I considered their proposition and thought about my mother back at our campsite. She’d sewn the skirt. She wanted me to look pretty. For her, for the boys.
For the men.