David Sedaris

Even our ancient Greek grandmother was arriving at the breakfast table with suspicious-looking circles beneath her eyes.

Gretchen took the book and hid it under the carpet of her bedroom, where it was discovered by our housekeeper, Lena, who eventually handed it over to our mother.

I'll make sure this is properly disposed of, my mother said, hurrying down the hallway to her bedroom.

Penetration, she laughed, reading out loud from a randomly selected page.

Oh, this ought to be good.

Weeks later, Gretchen and I found the book hidden between the mattress and box springs of my parents' bed, the pages stained with coffee rings and cigarette ash.

The discovery seemed to validate all of Gretchen's suspicions.

They'll be coming for us any day now, she warned.

Be prepared, my friend, because this time they'll be playing for keeps.

We waited.

I'd always made it a point to kiss my mother before going to bed, but not anymore.

The feel of her hand on my shoulder now made my flesh crawl.

She was hemming a pair of my pants one afternoon when, standing before her on a kitchen chair, I felt her hands graze my butt

I just want to be friends, I stammered.

Nothing more, nothing less.

She took the pins out of her mouth and studied me for a moment before sighing.

Damn, and here you've been leading me on all this time.

I read the book once more, hoping to recapture my earlier pleasure, but it was too late now.

I couldn't read the phrase, he punched his daughter's rock-hard knopples, without thinking of Gretchen barricading herself in the bedroom.

I thought I might throw the book away or maybe even burn it, but like a perfectly good outgrown sweater, it seemed a shame to destroy it when the world was full of people who might get some use out of it.