David Sedaris

She and I often swapped babysitting jobs and considered ourselves fairly well-read in the field of literary pornography.

Look in the parents' bedroom beneath the sweaters in the second drawer of the white dresser, she'd say.

We'd each read the story of O and the collected writings of the Marquis de Sade, with one eye on the front door, fearful that the homeowners might walk in and torture us with barbed whips and hot oils.

We know you, our looks would say as the parents checked on their sleeping children.

We know all about you.

The book went from Lisa to our 11-year-old sister Gretchen, who interpreted it as a startling nonfiction expose on the American middle class.

I'm pretty sure this exact same thing is going on right here in North Hills, she whispered, tucking the book beneath the artificial grass of her Easter basket.

Take the Sherman family, for example.

Just last week, I saw Heidi sticking her hands down Steve Jr.

's pants.

The guy has two broken arms, I said.

She was probably just tucking in his shirt.

Would you ask one of us to tuck in your shirt, she asked.

She had a point.

A careful study suggested that the Shermans were not the people they pretended to be.

The father was often seen tugging at his crotch, and the wife had a disturbing habit of looking you straight in the eye while sniffing her fingers.

A veil had been lifted, especially for Gretchen, who now saw the world as a steaming pit of unbridled sexuality.

Seated on a lounge chair at the country club, she would narrow her eyes, speculating on the children crowding the shallow end of the pool.

I have a sneaking suspicion Christina Youngblood might be our half-sister, she said.

She's got her father's chin, but the eyes and mouth are pure mom.