Free The Kingdom of Childhood by Rebecca Coleman Page A

spitting crumbs. “You came through after all.”
    “So let’s see what you’ve got.”
    I followed him through the door, past the tables scattered with tools and the hulking shapes of metal saws. The air smelled of clean, fresh wood, and motes of sawdust danced in beams of light near the windows. In the very back it sat, at the very midpoint of the back wall, Lilliputian but still so large it amazed me that Zach had built it on his own. Gingerbread trim scalloped the roof’s edges and the flowerbox below the front window. All around its base was fiberglass stone, rolling so naturally that it appeared stacked by hand. The artificial tree that he had attached to its back, arching above the acorn-covered roof to shade it with leafy branches, made it look even more impressive. I flipped open the topmost Dutch door and peeked inside at the tightly joined corners, the fairy-sized wooden box attached beneath a window to hold secret treasures.
    “It looks perfect, Zach,” I told him. “You did a top-notch job.”
    “Thanks.”
    “The school should get a lot of money for it. You ought to be proud.” I walked around the sides, admiring his work. “It’s actually worth all the grief and misery I put up with.”
    He shot me a cheesy, achingly innocent grin. In a singsong voice he said, “Thank you, Mrs. McFarland.”
    “Yeah, yeah.”
    “Aren’t you going to look inside?”
    I regarded the small space with amusement. “I’m a little big for it, don’t you think?”
    “Naw. You’re pretty little for an adult. And it’s bigger on the inside. You’ll see.” He crouched down and crawled inside. Squatting on one side, he stuck his head out the door and said, “See, I fit. And I’m about a foot taller than you.”
    “Not even close, shorty.”
    “Whatever. Come on in.”
    I got onto my hands and knees and squeezed into the doorway. He was right—once inside, the height of the roof afforded a bit more room, and I could kneel comfortably. Still, it was sized for five-year-olds. I felt a bit claustrophobic.
    “Fee fi fo fum,” said Zach.
    “This must be what Snow White felt like among the dwarves,” I said.
    “Are you calling me short?”
    “Not in here. In here, you’re huge.”
    “Why, thank you. My reputation precedes me.”
    I giggled. He grinned at his own joke. I shifted my weight forward, accommodating my aching knees, and suddenly Zach’s hands were on my upper arms, and his face was moving very close to mine, his lips parted, eyes half-closed.
    I did not resist. What I felt was not surprise, notrepugnance, but a sense of déjà vu: conjured to life was the image of him in my dream, kissing my child-self as if I were a woman. Even the first touch of his lips felt familiar; but then the kiss deepened, and his tongue touched mine, and everything changed. The warmth in my hips was liquid and instant and I welcomed it like an old friend. I twisted my fingers in his belt loops and pulled him to me. His groan of approval set my mind afire with a singular thought: follow this through, as far as it takes you. What I had mistaken for idle attraction now revealed its face: I wanted all of him, and monstrously so.
    His mouth moved down my neck, and as I tipped my face upward to allow him, he slid his hands under my shirt and lowered his face to my breasts. Sawdust speckled his black hair, dusting my hands as they meandered to his shoulders and arms. When he rose to meet my mouth again his eyes were hazy and unfocused. The taste of his mouth, the smoothness of his taut wiry body beneath my hands, the scent of his skin—all thrilled me with their unfamiliarity, their sudden intimacy. I circled my thumbs into the waistband of his jeans and cursed the playhouse for being too small to afford space to lie down.
    And then the door rattled. A woman’s voice called, “Zach?”
    He tore away from me and in an instant was standing beside the worktable, hands folded over his face, rubbing as if to force himself awake. I