Rod Stewart’s Maggie May spilled out of the transistor radio dangling from my Montgomery Ward’s Stingray. Samantha Honeycutt straddled its banana seat backwards smoking the filtered half of one of my dad’s Winstons while I smoked the other half spitting little bits of tobacco into the water. We were at cane pole pond and Sam was telling me how “immature” boys her age were (I was her age). “Maturity” was all of a sudden a major issue with all of the girls in the neighborhood and at school I’d noticed. Samantha informed me that she no longer had time to hang out with “immature” boys and now only liked older, “mature” boys. At least teenagers! she emphasized. Samantha was wearing one of those braless shirts that were popular in the 70s; basically a pillow case with holes for the arms and a draw string around the neck. It was an orange one I’d seen her wear plenty of times climbing trees or fishing for bream. There was something different about it on that day. When she twirled around on the seat of my bike and grabbed the high rise handlebars, I knew just what it was. I was still only 12 ½ , my birthday wasn’t until December, but I turned thirteen that summer.
From the Thinking 10 prompt: I turned thirteen that summer.