Jamie was on the toilet when the boy down the hall, Brad, barged into the bathroom, his penis already out of his pants. “Oops. Sorry. Don’t mind me,” he said. “I’ll just wait my turn. And would you like a bite of my peach? It’s sure to be sweet and juicy.”

“No thanks,” Jamie replied.

“Okay,” Brad said. “No harm, no foul. Besides, the pit of a peach looks a lot like an asshole.”

Jamie had nothing to say to this.

Brad studied the peach. Jamie studied the penis.

“You know what?” Brad said. “These walls are sinfully bare. They need something.”

“Like what?”

“A picture. Maybe a poster. Or a poem.”

“What kind of poem?”

“Oh, the usual,” he said. “Some kind of soft porn poem. For instance

“Divine glue all but gone,
if the paster is to affix the weighty poster of the savior to the church wall,
bare but scarred by sinfully atrocious ruts,
he will need to fib that he has been washed in the blood of the leprechaun.

“How’s that?”

“That’s...” Jamie snorted. “Peculiar. Did you make that up? Didn’t seem all that porny. And did you say ‘pastor’ or ‘paster’?”

“‘Pastor.’”

“Oh. I thought you said ‘paster.’”

“I didn’t.”

“What would you write it with?”

“Pen and peach juice?”

Jamie shrugged.

“You think that’s a bad choice? Because of the drips? You got a better suggestion?”

Jamie’s eyes went from the unbitten peach to Brad’s substantial penis. “Nothing wrong with drips,” she said. “But if you want the poem to be porny, they have to be the right kind of drips.”

“Such as?”

“Cum.”

“So you expect me to...?”

Jamie nodded.