Besides, Maud was all wound up—she was the one with a lot to say. While Molly painted over the bloodstains on Maud’s cast, Maud gave us the Jane Eyre version of her sexual awakening—a first-person narrative of intense psychological consciousness. “I actually like sex, more than I thought I would—more than I thought I would with a boy, anyway,” Maud began. “As I told Adam, I was dreading doing it the first time, but I really, really liked it!” Maud exclaimed. I nodded, but this interfered with my mom’s iodine applications—or whatever antiseptic she was using on my ears and face.

“Hold still, sweetie,” my mother said.

“But, at the same time,” Maud went on in her intimate, stream-of-consciousness fashion, “I had very contradictory feelings—at the same time I was liking it, you know?”

“I know,” I said, trying not to move my head, but I must have nodded a little.

“We know,” Molly said, more softly.

“You’re moving, sweetie,” my mom told me.

“I don’t really like to lose control—I really, really don’t like it!” Maud declared.

“That’s a potential contradiction, all right,” Molly told her.

“Losing control kind of goes with the territory of liking sex,” my mother said as nicely as possible.

“That’s exactly what I mean!” Maud shouted, both her long arms flying up from the table. With her good arm, Maud almost spilled the can of white paint; she hit Molly in the chin with her bloodstained cast. “Sorry!” Maud said to Molly. “You won’t tell anyone what happened, will you?” Maud asked me. Naturally, I shook my head.

“Hold still!” my mom shouted. There was a moment of industrious silence, while my mother was bandaging my wounds and Molly was painting over the blood on Maud’s cast.

“Now it itches like crazy where I can’t scratch it!” Maud suddenly cried out. A look of uncomprehending horror must have crossed my unmoving face. Little Ray and Molly exchanged an inquiring glance. “I mean my arm, under the cast—where I can’t get to it,” Maud explained. “Maybe if I had a long knife—or one of those skewers you use to put shrimp on the barbecue, you know,” Maud said distractedly.

“No, no, no!” my mom cried. “Don’t you dare stick anything sharp under your cast—just don’t!” my mother said. Now that I understood what itched, I must have violently shaken my head. “Hold still!” my mom cried.

“I’ve had casts, you know, Maud—they itch,” Molly told her. “You just wait till they take them off. Then you can go nuts scratching yourself,” Molly said. We all sat at the kitchen table, considering that to go nuts scratching herself might never be a safe activity for Maud.

“On second thought, Maud,” my mom said, “start out scratching yourself slowly.”