The day we were to go out on the motorboat, the girl began to bleed. The mother took her into a rest-stop bathroom and stood outside the stall while the girl attempted to insert what her mother had given her. The girl cried. She said she could not do it. This went on.

The phenomenon had recently been explained to us in the music room at school, where many of the female teachers, as well as most of the mothers, had assembled one afternoon. On a table at the front of the room sat a large human torso—gruesomely separated from the rest of its body—vivisected to reveal the organs, which were brightly colored and removable.

The lights were dimmed and a movie was projected onto a screen. In the movie, some girls had a sleepover at a friend’s house. The friend’s mother poured pancake batter into a hot frying pan in the morning. She made a large pancake in the shape of the female reproductive system to illustrate what had happened to one of the girls in the night. Then, together, they ate the pancakes.

The lights were turned on again. Blood, sanitary napkins, and the importance of personal hygiene were discussed.

Otherwise, I said loudly, you might start attracting flies.

The teachers and mothers—my mother—all turned to look at me then. It was a look I have come to recognize.

My companion emerged at last—triumphant but shaken. Mother and daughter washed their hands in happy communion, talking to each other’s reflection in the mirror. Then they turned and saw that I was still leaning on the wall, cramped between two dryers. There came a change in posture like a sigh.

Come along, clipped the mother. The boys have waited long enough.

We were late getting out on the water. It was crowded with other boats and ours burned your arm if you leaned on it. The father popped a beer and revved the motor. We bounced along.

At last the father found us some solitude. One by one, they dove gracefully into the water and surfaced laughing. They floated and flipped their bodies around. The father did it one-handed, his beer held aloft.

I stood at the edge of the boat. The steps dissolved into thick green water. I wore a man’s heavy T-shirt over my bathing suit. I said it was because I burned quickly, which was also true.

Come on! shouted the father.

Do it! shouted his boy.

Little baby! shouted the second boy.

The dog barked and drank the water in huge gulps.

The girl and her mother swam quietly around each other. The girl disappeared first. When they emerged, they were far away—a pair of slicked, shining heads moving quickly out of the picture.

Now the mother is dead. The dog is dead. The girl has a little boy. The boy has two wives and three girls. The father has a new dog and a new wife and a new house. The second boy has all of these—and more. Like so many things in my head, this information arrived uninvited, and insists on hanging around.