Saturday’s Child by JT Hume 09 - POOL HOUSE I’m thirteen years old and standing beside our pool in Alexandria. I should say today is my thirteenth birthday, a significant milestone. I’m leaving my childhood and am almost an adult. I don’t know that in ten minutes I will be pushed toward maturity quicker than anyone anticipated. This is a “big event.” All birthdays are important, especially the first teenage one, and this party rested on dozens of social calendars for months. My father is Congressman Richard Parks, Floor Whip and Chairman of the House Ways and Means Committee. It sounds important, I suppose. Daddy is spending more hours on the Hill than before, and we’re always entertaining guests and visitors when he is home. My mother is the consummate spouse and organizer, as were her mother and grandmother before her. Social entertaining is in their blood, and the Heston women wrote the book. They can juggle the thousand details when we have a dinner or social engagement at our house, and the chaos and setup works out each time, at least in public. An event involving one of the three daughters has a million details. I’m not worried. My oldest sister, Sissy, had the big 1-6 party a couple of months ago, and it was a gala, from a live band to a multi-layered cake with sparklers. She even got a new car out of the deal. Her party was grist for the Beltway gossip circle for weeks. My party is in full swing. I don’t get the live band or the car, but we’ve got other things going on. I’m way mature for the humongous bounce house on the front lawn (though I’m considering it). The pool is full of kids and adults playing water games like tug-of-war and handstands, and Daddy is burning meat on the barbeque. He’ll take the well-deserved jokes in stride, and we will eat his food with the crispy outsides and raw centers without serious complaint. The dress code can be described as “varied.” The young kids are the smartest and understand you wear swimming clothes to a pool party. The older teenagers are too cool for the
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Saturday’s Child by JT Hume pool in their expensive shirts and designer jeans. They’re waiting for people to go home. They’ll be in the pool after dark, clothing optional. The adults are a mix of summer styles and business casual, with dozens of suits with loosened ties. If you have anything to do with Congress, an invitation to a Parks social event is a mandatory performance. Some of the Elected Ones came straight from the office and are holding ad hoc policy discussions while sipping beers perched on patio tables. One table is set aside for Mom’s Orphans, as her daughters call them. I think they’re nice guys in good suits looking for a free meal. What I don’t learn until I’m older is many firstterm congressmen cannot afford to bring their families to Washington. They are penniless from their expensive campaigns, and setting up a second home in the area is out of their reach. They’ll put on a brave face when lamenting the drudgery of flying back to their districts on weekends to constituent meetings. In reality, it’s the only way they’ll see their families during their first year in Congress (and maybe their second). The taxpayers pay for the round-trip tickets. We never had this challenge, because my mother was born into money from her parents and grandparents (again). She’s a good judge of the up-and-comers, and she opens her home to a select number of her husband’s colleagues rooming together in a Georgetown loft to save costs. Mom’s Orphans have a standing invitation to attend all events at the Parks house. I work my way around the pool, imitating my mother as the perfect hostess. I thank people for showing up, laugh at their weak jokes, and realize the boys without exception (and a couple of envious girls) are fixated on my chest. The three of us call it the Parks Curse. Puberty hit the sisters early, and we developed much faster than our peers, beginning in our chests. I’m five feet tall and will be growing upward for a few more years (I hope), but my boobs could belong to a Playboy bunny. It’s worse for my sisters. Tall and svelte Sissy could pass for a college senior in looks and worldliness. She’s sixteen years old.
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Saturday’s Child by JT Hume Mommy is on the other side of the pool, and she’s in a one-piece cut to accentuate her legs. She could wear a two-piece if she wanted. Sissy was a C-section, and Mommy said the doctors made her have one with Lacey and me. Her tummy is flat, her legs are long, and she’s a natural blonde. I could be her in twenty-five years. She picks up a towel and points me to the pool house. I get the hint. We have a stack of towels set aside for emergencies and parties. It’s not really a pool house. It’s a small mother-in-law’s studio apartment with a bedroom, kitchenette, and bathroom with a shower. Daddy uses it when he works on legislation and when he wants a private meeting with someone. I can see it from my second-floor bedroom, and Mommy and Daddy use it at night when they want to make noise. I’m thirteen and am a total expert on the subject of sex. No one tried the “stork” or “doctor’s bag” lies on me, because I would tell the liars the truth if they tried. My sisters are worse with their brazenness, the consummate flirts, and when they’re off teasing boys, the Internet videos answer all my questions. I wasn’t prepared, forewarned, or given a hint on what happens next. The pool house door is closed, and I’m holding onto childish ideas, you know, looking for an excuse to go to the bounce house or cannonball into the pool. I turn the knob, and my life changes. I see them from the side. Sissy is on the kitchen counter, one arm behind her, holding herself up as he pushes into her. His face is on her far collarbone, so I can’t see who is doing this to my beautiful sister, her bikini top pushed up to expose her breast. His pants are bunched at his knees, her legs are in his arms, holding her knees up, and one hand is somehow covering her mouth. She’s squealing with each thrust, and I think he is raping her. No. She’s pushing her hips into his, meeting him hard, holding his ass with her other hand. This is consensual and visceral. They stop thrusting as their muscles spasm. They grab each other tighter, hands everywhere, her nails drawing blood from the back of his neck. She’s throwing her head from
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Saturday’s Child by JT Hume side to side, and her hair is whipping his body. He throws his head back, moaning, and I recognize Congressman Edgar Hart for the first time. They’re in their own world and don’t see me stepping backwards and closing the door. I turn and stumble forward onto my hands and knees. My vomit seems to fill the pool as people scream and splash away. My birthday party is over. So is my childhood. I was thirteen years old.
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Saturday’s Child by JT Hume
This serial and book are solely owned by its creator, JT Hume (a pseudonym). Copyright © 2016. All rights reserved in all countries and languages. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. Third-party vendors providing electronic means to create, edit, and/or publish/post this serial and book have no literary and/or financial claim (including wi-fi network owners and operators). For more information and permission requests, the author may be contacted via email only: jthumebooks at gmail dot com. Twitter: @JT_Hume Website: http://www.jthumebooks.com
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