Richard Mueller was only allowed to come to my house if he passed the spelling test on words ending in “st”. Mr. Mueller, a very tall man who was also named Richard but whose name I wouldn’t dare speak, didn’t allow us to watch TV or wear tennis shoes past the laundry room. At my house, Richard and I went into the guest bathroom near the back door to play doctor. We undressed. I had seen naked men before—my brother, my dad—but none looked as bare as Richard, who had his mother’s shoulders. We stood perfectly still, like two tiny waves frozen mid-ripple, and then, almost as quickly as we took them off, we put our clothes back on and left the memory there. When I try to recall it now, what stands out to me most is the image of Miss Beach standing over Richard’s desk, enunciating the “st” sound slowly and nodding at him encouragingly when he looked up at her with naked doubt.

Bio: Rachel Weinhaus