When my cousin and I were eleven, we were also at a dangerous age that is constantly curious about sex and thinks everything is hilarious. On a seemingly innocent walk around the block, we decided to explain to each other exactly how sex is performed, using only our hands.
Remember, we were eleven. One pointer finger goes into the circle the other pointer finger and thumb make.
In my excitement, I stabbed the pointer finger into the air. A truck that had been driving by slammed on his brakes. We froze, watching as he maneuvered to the nearest side street and started an awkward U-turn.
We ran.
We hid behind a house two away from where we had apparently offended the truck driver. Thank goodness there was no fence keeping us out, no dog to chase us away, no angry homeowner shouting at us from the back porch. We crouched behind the corner of the house and peeked out at the street.
The truck drove by, then came by again. We waited and waited but it didn't drive by again.
We walked home without laughing. We never talked about the incident again.
Sometimes I think it must have looked like I was flipping off the driver. Then a white-hot rage washes over my body as I think, We were eleven. We looked eleven. What was he going to do to us? What business of it was his?
As an adult now, I can't imagine getting so angry at a child flipping me off that I have to turn around and drive by twice, searching for them.
As an adult now, my blood runs cold when I wonder what he would have done if he found those two eleven-year-old girls walking down the block. Would he have "taught us a lesson"? Or worse?
Sometimes I want to talk to my cousin about it, but in my mind, she doesn't even remember. It's a relief, in my imagination, to think it just wasn't a big thing, so it didn't register for her. I don't want to bring it up and make her think about it. I don't want to worry her. I also don't really want to know if she also thinks about it, if she also wonders what different outcomes there might have been for that afternoon walk.
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