I first heard the word a week before the incident. I was six years old and they were sitting on a park bench. An older boy, who was so cool with his spiky hair, was talking to the girl, the prettiest I’d ever seen with her cotton candy blue eyes. And then, looking straight into her eyes, the boy did something impossible, he made her even prettier. He did it with words. He told her that he couldn’t think of anything in the world he would rather do then give her a good fuck. Her cheeks turned red the way mommy’s did when daddy brought her flowers.

When I got home from the park I locked myself in my room and practiced how to say fuck. I said it repeatedly in my head.

“You’re such a pretty fuck.”

“I’d like to give you a fuck for your birthday.”

“You look so sweet. Would you like a fuck?”

I stored my favorite fuck phrases in my head so I could practice them later. All week I kept searching for a good time to say my super special secret phrase, but it never came.

I wasn’t happy when Sunday morning rolled around and mom took me to church. We’d been going to a new church every Sunday and I didn’t like it, but this church was different. My teacher was sixteen and pretty. She had the sweetest face and sweetest freckles in the entire universe. She was even prettier than the girl at the park. I knew this was the right girl to hear my phrase. I couldn’t wait to see what she’d look like after I made her freckles glow.

Still, the moment had to be perfect. Near the end of class, after she asked how many days Jesus was in the tomb before he was resurrected, and after I answered three, she smiled and gave me a gold sticker. I was pleased and knew the moment had come. Without raising my hand, I blurted, “I would like nothing better than to give you the biggest fuck you ever had.”

She did not look prettier. Her cheeks turned red the way mine do when I spill milk on my shirt in the school cafeteria. Her freckles burned as she dragged me to the corner of the room, and she asked me if I knew what I did wrong. I thought for a moment and realized I still had a chance to make her prettier again. I smiled and excitedly said, “Yes, I forgot to raise my hand.” 

Andrew J. Stone was a planned miscarriage. Unfortunately, the plan didn't work out. His work has appeared in Hobart, Gutter Eloquence, The Molotov Cocktail, Electric Windmill Press, Red Fez, and DOGZPLOT, among other places. He's currently a student at Seattle Pacific University and will begin working towards his MFA at CalArts this fall.