Raising Scootaloo

 

Inspiration: https://twibooru.org/2656053

 

1:

 

(You) stand at the window, drinking a cup of coffee and watching her. That girl is out there again. This is the third morning in a row she's used your wading pool like a birdbath.

 

You haven't even lived a full two weeks in this house. You were tired of the city, and you wanted to live somewhere out of the way, where you could have some privacy. You found a nice little place in the middle of nowhere, about five miles out from a tiny little nondescript town. The real estate agent told you that this whole area used to be a giant apple orchard owned by one family, but some of the land got sold off and parceled into smaller lots. The plan was to make a subdivision here, but they only ended up building a few scattered houses. Other than your house and the place next door, it's pretty much just fields and woods as far as the eye can see.

 

By the look of it, you'd assumed your neighbor's house was abandoned. The yard is overgrown, and there are never any lights on inside. The exterior has weathered paint, cracked shutters, missing shingles, all those little telltale signs of a house in disrepair.

 

However, it's clear enough that a family lives there. Or a little girl at least. Now that you think about it you've never actually seen anyone else, but it stands to reason that a kid would have parents. From her short, mussy hair and the baggy clothes she's always wearing you'd thought she was a boy the first time you saw her. There isn't much question about her femininity now, though.

 

She is kneeling inside the wading pool on her hands and knees, her bare feet resting against the rim of the little inflatable pool. The soles of her feet are caked with dirt, like she's been running around barefoot her whole life. She's wearing nothing but a thin white t-shirt and a pair of lavender panties that are riding up on her, exposing most of her ass and leaving little to the imagination in the crotch department. The shirt is soaked through and is clinging to her skin, accentuating the ever so slight bumps where her breasts will eventually develop.

 

Not that you're looking at any of this, of course. It's not like you're some weird lolicon who is into kids or anything. But you are getting a little concerned that she keeps doing this every day.

 

She repeatedly splashes water over herself, rubbing it into her hair and scrubbing her arms and legs with it. Even though it's well into spring the mornings out here are still chilly. That water has to be practically freezing. Why would she want to go swimming?

 

As you watch her, though, you don't think she's doing this for fun. It almost looks like she's trying to bathe herself. If that's the case, though, she's probably just making the situation worse. The same water has been sitting in that pool since the day you moved in. Who knows what kind of gross stuff is growing in there now?

 

If she ends up with some weird fungal infection or something from splashing around in there, it could be trouble. From the look of the girl and the house she lives in, you'd say it's a fair bet her father owns a gun, and probably drinks. And in any case, you've decided it's time to put a stop to this. You set your coffee down on the nearby counter and step outside.

 

You have no intention of trying to frighten her; you just want to talk to her and explain why she shouldn't be bathing in your pool. However, the screen door on your back porch has a squeaky hinge, and as you open it the girl's head shoots up in alarm. The two of you make eye contact for a second, and then she springs to her feet and takes off like a frightened gazelle, snatching up some clothes she'd discarded along the way.

 

"Wait!" you call out, but before you even make it to the end of the porch, she's already squeezed through the missing plank in the fence and back into her own yard.

 

 

 

 

2:

 

Later that afternoon, you step out onto the back porch. It's now quite warm outside. There is no sign of the girl, but it's a weekday so she's probably at school. You're not sure if she'll be coming back after getting caught like that, but in any case you ought to do something about that pool.

 

Your house is old, and has a detached garage. After moving in, you discovered that the previous owner left a ton of junk in there. One of the things you found was an inflatable children's wading pool, still in the box. The box had a thick layer of dust on it, but when you pulled out the pool itself it looked brand new. It seemed like kind of a waste, so on a whim you decided to inflate it and fill it up.

 

After about ten minutes of lying awkwardly in a child-size pool sipping a beer, you decided you were uncomfortable and felt rather silly, so you gave up and went back inside. You'd planned on going out later to empty the pool and put it away, but you got caught up watching TV, and after that you had some work to do, and... well, you know how it goes. Two weeks later, and it's still sitting here.

 

You stand over the pool. Up close, you can see that the water is indeed pretty disgusting. You can't imagine actually crawling into that and splashing around, let alone trying to take a bath in it. If this thing sits out here any longer it will be labeled a biohazard. You grab one end of the pool and heave, and dump the water into the grass.

 

The responsible thing to do would be to simply deflate it and put it back in the garage. However, you're still a bit curious about that girl. It might be none of your business, but... you're still curious. On a whim, you grab the hose, spray out the excess dirt, and fill the pool up with fresh clean water. Then, you go back inside.

 

The next day, you get up just before sunrise and go out to the yard. There are some tall bushes at the end, not far from the hole in the fence that the kid has been using to sneak in. Once you're certain you have a good hiding place where you can't be seen, you settle down to wait.

 

Sure enough, not long after the sun starts poking up over the horizon, you hear grass rustling near the fence. The little girl, crouching low, pokes her head cautiously through the hole and looks around. You sit perfectly still, doing your best not to make a sound. She does the same, sitting still and watching the house intently. When she appears satisfied that no one inside can see her, she slips through the hole and makes her way cautiously towards the pool.

 

She clearly notices that the water has been changed, and looks around suspiciously, scrutinizing the windows of your house, no doubt looking for any sign of movement inside. However, when she appears satisfied, she begins to undress.

 

You do your best to peer through the bushes without making any noise. This is the first time you've ever gotten a good look at her. She looks to be ten, maybe eleven years old, with short, messy purple hair that even from here you can tell hasn't been properly washed in a long time. She has a deep tan and clearly spends a lot of time outside. She's pretty scrawny for her age, and it doesn't look like she's been eating well.

 

She has her usual outfit on: a pair of baggy green cargo shorts and a black zip up hoodie. Come to think of it, you're not actually sure you've ever seen her wear anything else. She strips down quickly, unzipping the hoodie and tossing it aside, and then wriggling out of her cargo shorts. Underneath, she's wearing the same white t-shirt and lavender panties that she normally bathes in.

 

She doesn't waste any more time. She crawls into the pool and immediately dunks her head under the water, scrubbing her hair vigorously. Since she is distracted and conveniently has her back to you, you take advantage of the situation and move slowly around the bushes until you are between her and the hole in the fence.

 

When she turns her head a little she suddenly notices you, and jumps out of the pool. She looks poised to run, but freezes when she sees that you are blocking her escape route.

 

"Calm down," you tell her. "I'm not going to hurt you. I just want to talk."

 

She still looks tense, but she doesn't try to run. You take a cautious step towards her.

 

"What are you doing out here?" you ask.

 

She hesitates, blushing slightly.

 

"Taking a bath," she mutters.

 

"What's wrong with the bathtub at your house?"

 

Her blush deepens.

 

"The faucet stopped working."

 

That's usually what happens when you don't pay the water bill, you think. You keep the comment to yourself, but it's kind of a red flag. Before you were just curious, now you're really starting to wonder about this kid's situation.

 

The girl wraps her arms around her shoulders. Her wet t-shirt is clinging to her body, and you can see just about everything through the fabric. The panties aren't concealing much, either. She's shivering, and she won't look you in the eye.

 

"Hey," you tell her. "That water looks pretty cold, and I don't think you'll get very clean this way. You can come inside and use my shower if you want."

 

She looks at you suspiciously, but the promise of a hot shower proves to be too tempting for her to pass up. After a moment she nods reluctantly, and bends down to pick up her clothes. Together, the two of you walk back towards your house.

 

 

 

 

3:

 

You let her into the house and show her the upstairs bathroom. She's dripping water all over the place, and her dirty feet are leaving footprints on your carpet, but you decide to let that go for now.

 

"What's your name?" you ask her.

 

"Scootaloo."

 

"How old are you, Scootaloo?"

 

"Eleven."

 

"You live next door, right?"

 

"Yeah."

 

"Do your parents know you've been taking your baths in my yard?"

 

"..."

 

She answers every question you ask her in monosyllables, and whenever you ask anything about her family, she clams up.

 

"Here's the bathroom," you say, pushing open the door.

 

Your house has one of those old claw-foot tubs, with shower piping attached to the wall. As soon as Scootaloo sees it, her face lights up like it's Christmas morning. You're beginning to wonder how long it's been since she last took a proper bath.

 

"Here, let me have your clothes." You reach for the hoodie and cargo shorts she has cradled in her arms, but she pulls away from you. "I'm just going to wash them," you explain. "In fact, why don't you toss your shirt and your underwear outside the door, and I'll wash those too."

 

She's turning red again, but she gives you a reluctant nod.

 

"...okay."

 

"Towels are over there," you say, pointing to the linen cabinet.

 

As soon as you leave the bathroom, the door slams shut. A few seconds later, it opens slightly, and a skinny little tanned arm pokes out and drops a soaking wet t-shirt and pair of panties, which hit the floor with a loud plop. The door instantly slams shut again, and you hear the lock turn.

 

You smirk as you pick up her wet clothes. Where was that modesty earlier?

 

You head down to the basement where the washer and dryer are. Both machines came with the house, one of those ancient sets from the 1970s that are designed to last forever. There used to be an old commercial about this brand of machine, you remember hearing. Something about the repairman never having anything to do because the machines rarely broke down. In any event, it seemed like the ad was right. These machines look like something you'd find in a junkyard, but they run perfectly.

 

You toss in her shorts, the hoodie and the shirt. Before you toss the panties in, you hesitate, feeling the fabric between your fingers. On a sudden weird impulse, you lift them to your nose and inhale. The water dampens it a bit, but even so it's clear that she's been wearing these for a long time. The sour, acrid scent of little girl musk is almost overpowering. You immediately feel ashamed of yourself, and toss the panties into the machine. Then, you pour in some detergent and start it running.

 

About thirty minutes later, you're watching TV on the couch in your living room, when you hear footsteps at the top of the stairs. You look over your shoulder and see Scootaloo with a towel wrapped around her body, her hair still damp.

 

"Are my clothes done yet?" she shouts.

 

"Sorry," you call up to her. "I just put them in the dryer. It's probably going to be another hour or so."

 

"What am I supposed to do until then?"

 

You shrug.

 

"Sorry, I guess I didn't really think that part through. You'll just have to use the towel for now."

 

"I have to go to school soon!"

 

"Sorry," you tell her again. "Unless you want to go to school in wet clothes, you're just going to have to wait."

 

She stands at the top of the stairs, fidgeting and looking uncomfortable.

 

"Why don't you come down here and watch some TV?"

 

She hesitates, clutching the towel to her chest as if it were about to fall off.

 

"That cartoon about talking ponies is on," you add.

 

Once again, the temptation proves to be too much for her. She tramps down the stairs and stands in the doorway, watching the screen.

 

"You can come sit on the couch, you know."

 

"I-I'm all wet still..." she protests.

 

"It's not that big a deal. It's just water."

 

She stands there, shifting her weight from one foot to the other, looking nervous and indecisive. You watch her for a second, then shrug and turn your attention back to the TV. Those wacky cartoon ponies are being wacky as usual. To be honest this show is pretty good, you would probably still be watching it even if Scootaloo weren't here.

 

Eventually she decides to join you. She sits down at the opposite end of the sofa, as far away from where you're sitting as she can get. She's perched on the edge of the cushion, her entire body tense, staring at the TV screen like a horse with blinkers on. Her lips are pressed tightly together. She's holding the towel in place with both hands, as if she's worried a sudden gust of wind might carry it away. She reddens considerably under your gaze, so you politely turn your attention back to the TV.

 

Together, the two of you sit and watch. As she becomes more and more absorbed in the events on screen, her posture relaxes a little. Still, she keeps both hands on the towel until the dryer bell goes off.

 

 

 

 

4:

 

It's been a few weeks now. Scootaloo comes over just about every morning to use your shower. You don't really mind; you actually kind of look forward to it. You've started waking up a bit earlier so you can have breakfast ready for her. You even made an extra key and gave it to her so if you ever oversleep or something she can still get in.

 

Sometimes she brings laundry for you to do. She was embarrassed about it at first, but you insisted. To be honest, you were a little surprised to learn that she even owns any clothes apart from that one shorts and hoodie combination. Most of what she wears is just variations on the same theme, though. Everything she has is worn out, and a lot of her clothes don't fit very well, like she's been wearing them for a couple of years. It's probably lucky for her that she's so skinny.

 

Today, she seems to be in kind of a rush. She came in later than usual; must have missed her alarm or something. You can hear her scrambling around upstairs, running the sink and fumbling around as she gets herself ready.

 

The bathroom door suddenly bursts open and Scootaloo, fully dressed, flies out like a runaway train, descending the stairs two at a time.

 

"You want something to eat?" you ask her. "I made plenty of pancakes--"

 

"No thanks!" she yells as she runs by.

 

She snatches up her school bag from where she dumped it when she came in, heads into the kitchen and begins tugging her grungy old tennis shoes onto her feet.

 

"I'm soooooooo late, Miss Cheerilee's gonna kill me..." she mutters as she struggles with the laces. You watch her with an amused expression on your face.

 

"Your clothes are still in the dryer--"

 

"That's okay, I'll get them later!" Scootaloo yells over her shoulder. "Thank you, Mr. Anon!"

 

At the last second, she changes her mind about the pancakes. She darts past you, grabs three of them off the plate, and then sprints out the back way, stuffing them into her mouth as she goes. The screen door screeches and slams shut behind her.

 

You follow her out onto the back porch, sipping your coffee and watching as she slips through the hole in the fence. She still insists on going in and out that way, even though you've told her repeatedly that she can use the front door if she wants.

 

You hear the sound of an engine rumbling from somewhere further down the road. That would be the school bus; it usually gets here around this time. You hope Scoot will be able to make it; she's cutting it pretty close today.

 

You set your coffee cup down on a side table and walk across the yard. You stand at the fence and peer through the missing planks at the house on the other side. The paint is scuffed, the roof needs to be re-shingled, the lawn looks like it hasn't been mowed in a year. Since you've lived here, you can't recall ever seeing a light on inside, or anyone except Scootaloo going in or coming out. There's never been a car in the driveway, and the detached garage has weeds growing in front of the door.

 

You're about to call out to Scoot and see if she wants a ride to school, but you can see that she's already tearing off down the road towards the bus stop. The engine rumbling is still a little ways off, so she'll probably be okay.

 

You walk back to your porch and sit down on a folding chair and finish your coffee, enjoying the cool stillness of a spring morning in the country. You stare idly at the upper portion of the ramshackle house visible over the fence. As ever, the windows are dark, and there is no sign of life inside. You haven't wanted to pry, but you've also been wondering about Scootaloo's circumstances for some time now. You decide that today is as good a day as any to follow up on your suspicions.

 

When you're finished with your coffee, you head back inside and climb the stairs and enter the bathroom. The air inside is thick with humidity and the mirror is fogged up. You can still smell bubblegum shampoo. You bought that stuff especially for Scoot; you're glad she's been using it. You're also glad she left the fan running like you asked her to.

 

For as much of a hurry as she was in this morning, it looks like she still took a few seconds to tidy up the bathroom. Everything is put away more or less where it's supposed to be, and her wet towel is hanging on the rack, albeit a little sloppily. Scoot is tomboyish and a bit of a scatterbrain, but she seems responsible enough for her age, and she's always polite and respectful to you when she comes over. All things considered she's a pretty good kid. You turn on the faucet and take a shower yourself.

 

When you're finished, you go into the bedroom and get dressed. Even though it's a warm day, you go with thick jeans instead of shorts. You lace up your work boots. Even though Scootaloo is brave enough to run around in that grass barefoot sometimes, you don't have the luxury of being eleven years old, and you're pretty certain you've seen copperheads around here.

 

You head out through the front door, walk up the road a short distance and step onto the neighbor's property. Even if you're wrong about this, it won't be a wasted trip. After all, if the kid is going to use your shower every morning, you probably ought to at least introduce yourself to her parents.

 

You wade through a knee-high ocean of grass and weeds to the front porch of the old house. The place looks even more dilapidated up close. It's a little bit spooky, like a haunted house or something. The porch creaks as you walk across it. Some of the boards sag alarmingly and clearly need to be replaced.

 

At the same time, though, you see strange little signs of life here and there. Some flower pots by the door have fresh soil and little flowers growing in them. The flowers don't look healthy, but the soil is wet, so someone has clearly been watering them. The porch also looks like it was swept recently, albeit rather clumsily.

 

You rap on the front door, and wait. There's no answer, so you rap again, louder this time. Still no answer. You can't honestly say you were expecting one. Just to be on the safe side, you ball your hand into a fist and pound on the door, long enough and loud enough to wake anyone inside out of a drunken stupor. Still no answer. You try the handle, but the door is locked.

 

The house has an old-fashioned porch that wraps around two sides of the building. You walk around to the other side, peering in through a couple of the windows as you go. You can't really see anything; it looks like the drapes are pulled down. You walk down a set of steps at the end of the porch, and go around to the back door. This door is unlocked, and you step into the kitchen.

 

The inside of the house is in much better condition than you were expecting, but it still stinks in here. The floors have that same clumsily-swept look as the porch. There are some patches of grime that look like old spills. It looks as though someone tried to mop them up at some point but didn't do a very good job of it.

 

There is a stack of dirty dishes in the sink. Everything caked on them looks old. You try the faucet and it's as you suspected, no water comes out. An old-fashioned refrigerator stands in the corner. You have a feeling you will seriously regret this, but you bravely grab the handle and pull it open.

 

It's like opening Dracula's tomb. A nauseating odor hits you in the face like a physical force, and you slam the door shut as quickly as you can. It was enough to confirm your suspicions, though. No light came on when you opened the door, and the air inside was warm, humid and--alright, best to stop thinking about it.

 

You step through the kitchen into the living room. The room is dark and musty and claustrophobic; all of the blinds are pulled down. You try a couple of light switches, and as you were expecting, nothing happens. Like everything else in the house you've seen, it looks like someone has at least made an attempt at keeping this room clean. The shelves and tables have all been more or less dusted, although higher shelves are hit-or-miss. The best-cleaned surfaces are the ones that a scrawny eleven year old would be able to reach.

 

You go upstairs and poke around. The bathroom is clean but clearly hasn't been used for anything in some time. There's no water in the toilet bowl, and none of the faucets do anything. You're a little curious where Scootaloo has been doing her personal business, but you decide you're happier not knowing the details.

 

Apart from the bathroom, there are only two other rooms on this floor. The first one you enter clearly belongs, or at least belonged, to her parents. The large double bed has been neatly made, but the closets and dresser are empty except for a few old sweaters and coats.

 

You enter the second room, and immediately your nose wrinkles. It stinks in here, but not the way the rest of the house stinks. This room smells lived-in. It smells like sweat and piss and old socks. There is a child sized bed in one corner, covered with grungy-looking sheets and a worn blanket. It has an arched wooden headboard, painted pink and purple with a heart shape carved out of the center of it. There's a matching wooden nightstand next to the bed, which has several half-melted candles fused to its surface. A stack of Daring Do novels and a half-eaten apple are on the floor nearby, next to an old lamp that looks like it used to be on the nightstand but was probably moved to make space for the candles. Various toys and stuffed animals are scattered around the room.

 

You poke around the rest of the house, but it's just more of the same. There's a slender flight of stairs at the back of the upstairs hall that leads to a cluttered attic. It looks like it's probably spider-city up there, so you don't investigate. Downstairs, there's a flight of stairs leading into a dingy cellar, a half-bathroom on the first floor, and a few closets stuffed with assorted junk. You find no serious clues as to where Scootaloo's parents might have gone, but it's obvious enough that they don't live here, and probably haven't for some time. The bills obviously haven't been getting paid, and odds are the mortgage hasn't either. You wonder how long it's been like this and how long it can go on. The more you explore, the more depressed you get.

 

The last place you check is the detached garage. You find nothing inside except a mountain of discarded junk, and an ancient rusty pickup truck. The truck looks like something out of a Steinbeck novel and has a family of mice living in the driver's seat. At this point, you decide you've probably seen enough.

 

You go back upstairs to Scootaloo's room, and peel the sweat-stained sheets off of the bed. At least, you choose to believe that most of it is sweat. You can do little about the grody condition of the mattress underneath, but at the very least you can wash these for her. You take them back to your house and run them through the machine three times just for good measure.

 

When you're finished, you fold up the rest of Scoot's laundry and return to the house with it. You put the sheets back on the bed, and leave the folded clothes in a pile nearby.

 

 

 

 

5:

 

You wake up much earlier than usual the next morning, but you don't make breakfast. You have no idea if you should even expect to see her today, or at all anymore. You realized entirely too late that as soon as she saw the clean sheets and laundry in her room, Scoot would know that you'd been inside her house and had seen how she lives. You have no idea how she'll react to that. Maybe it would have been better to just leave it be, and try to bring up the subject casually. In any case, though, it's too late now. You've been up all night thinking about what you'll say to her if she shows up.

 

You make yourself a pot of extra-strong coffee and pour a bowl of cereal. You're still eating and staring at the wall when you hear a meek little knock at the back door.

 

You open the door, and sure enough little Scoot is standing there on your back porch. She is fidgeting nervously, and refuses to make eye contact.

 

You take a deep breath. You spent all night thinking about what you would say to her, and you had a whole speech prepared. Scoot meanwhile looks up at you with an accusing scowl on her face. It seems like she had something she wanted to say as well. However, neither of you end up saying much of anything. As soon as you lock eyes with her, her face begins to tremble, and suddenly she throws her arms around you and just starts bawling.

 

Ten minutes later the two of you are sitting on the couch in the living room. The TV is not on. Scoot has calmed down, though she is still sniffling. She is lying against your chest with her arms around your neck and her cheek pressed against the collar of your shirt. Her nose is running and you can feel it dribbling a little on your neck, but you tactfully pretend to ignore it. You just hold her close to you and rub her back reassuringly. She sniffs every once in a while, but otherwise makes no sound. Her body is warm, and smells faintly like sweat and laundry soap and bubblegum shampoo.

 

You stay like this for a good long while. Eventually you coax her into talking a little, and bit by bit you get the story out of her. It's a pretty strange story.

 

She claims that her parents are famous adventurers, who travel the world cataloging exotic plants and animals. Her father is apparently some kind of photographer, and her mother is an animal expert, or something. About six months ago, they had to go away on safari, and left her in the care of her two aunts. Their house was just sitting empty.

 

You don't believe a single goddamned word of it, but it seems like Scootaloo honestly does. You don't think she's making any of it up. More likely than not it was just some ridiculous story they fed their daughter before splitting on her; a slightly more elaborate version of "Daddy's going out for cigarettes." You've seen the inside of their house, and it doesn't look like a place where any famous adventurers would live.

 

"What about your aunts?" you ask her.

 

Her arms tighten around your neck and she presses her face into your collar again.

 

"I don't know," she mumbles. "They had me for a while, and then......"

 

"Did they make you leave?"

 

She shakes her head.

 

"You just wanted to go home?"

 

She nods.

 

"Do they know where you are?"

 

She doesn't move, but her whole body tenses up, and she tightens her hold around your neck. She is now clinging to you like you're debris from the Titanic.

 

"Do you want me to call them? They might be worried about you."

 

She looks at you with an expression of absolute terror, and it tells you everything you need to know about that particular relationship. You decide not to bring up her aunts again.

 

Time passes. She seems to be calming down somewhat, but she still wants to cling to you and you let her. You glance at the clock on the wall. Today is technically a school day, but Scootaloo doesn't seem to be in any kind of shape to go. Besides, the bus is long gone by now.

 

You hear her stomach grumbling, and ask if she'd like some breakfast. She nods excitedly. Too late, you realize that all you have on hand is a box of Golden Grahams, which you very nearly finished yourself. You propose going out to eat instead.

 

 

 

 

6:

 

Down the road there is a little old-fashioned diner. You tell Scoot she can order whatever she wants, and she practically orders everything on the menu. The waitress seems amused by how excited she is. You're just happy that she seems to have cheered up. You order some biscuits and gravy and some more coffee.

 

You let her stuff herself silly, but when you've both finished eating, you clear your throat.

 

"So, uh, Scoot, there's something else we should probably talk about..."

 

She's noisily slurping up the last of her orange juice through a straw, but at the tone of your voice she freezes and looks at you.

 

"...you can't keep on living in that house by yourself."

 

She has that panicky look on her face again.

 

"You can't tell anyone!" she blurts out. Several people in the restaurant turn and look at her. She reddens and lowers her voice. "Please! My parents are coming back from their trip soon..."

 

"Yeah, I know they are," you say gently. "But until then, you can't keep living on your own in a house with no electricity or running water."

 

Scoot is staring sullenly at her empty plate.

 

"I'm okay, really," she mutters. "And besides, it's not like it's any of your business anyway."

 

"Yeah, maybe it's not my business. But sooner or later it's going to be somebody's business. If your parents haven't been paying the water or the electricity, they probably haven't been paying the mortgage, either. If the bank shows up to repossess the place and finds you living there, what do you think is going to happen?"

 

She slumps down into the booth.

 

"I don't know..."

 

"Well, I do. They'll probably call social services, there will be a huge investigation, and more likely than not you'll end up in a foster home in another state. Is that what you want?"

 

Scoot slumps further into her seat. She refuses to look at you, and you can see tears welling up in her eyes again. You realize you're speaking a little more harshly than you meant to; probably because you've spent most of the last day fantasizing about beating the shit out of her entire family. Still, you shouldn't be taking that aggression out on her. You soften your tone a bit and try a different approach.

 

"Look," you begin, more gently. "Does anyone else know about this?"

 

She shakes her head.

 

"Have you told any of your friends?"

 

She shakes her head again.

 

"What about your teacher? Does she know?"

 

"Miss Cheerilee? No, she doesn't know anything. At least... I don't think she does. She's never said anything."

 

"The school doesn't have your address?"

 

"...they have my aunts' address. They think I still live there, I guess."

 

You nod slowly.

 

Somewhere, in some alternate parallel universe, a more responsible and level-headed version of (You) has realized that this situation is way out of his depth. That guy is probably at this very moment driving poor Scoot down to the Sheriff's station, so he can report everything he's found to the proper authorities and let them handle it from there. (You), however, are not that guy. You clear your throat.

 

"Alright, well... here's what I'm thinking. You're already using my place to shower and eat breakfast every morning, so it probably wouldn't be that much of a jump for you to just sleep there at night."

 

She glances up at you.

 

"Really?"

 

"Sure. I've got more rooms than I need, honestly, so you can just pick whichever one you want."

 

"For how long?"

 

"For as long as you need to, I guess. It's better than living by yourself."

 

"What about my parents?"

 

You manage to bite your tongue before saying anything that might hurt her feelings.

 

"...when your parents get back, you can move back in with them."

 

She hesitates.

 

"...what about my aunts?"

 

"I don't think they'll give us any trouble."

 

You don't know much about her aunts, but something tells you they'd just as soon let sleeping dogs lie.

 

Scoot suddenly gives you a wary look.

 

"Are you going to molest me?"

 

"Not unless you want me to."

 

That gets a laugh out of her. Meanwhile the waitress has dropped off the check. You fish some bills out of your pocket and lay them down on the table. You glance at your watch; it's almost eleven o'clock.

 

"Come on," you say, standing up. "I think it's safe to say you pretty much missed school today. Let's drive into town instead."

 

"What for?"

 

"I don't have anywhere for you to sleep."

 

"I've got a bed already, we just have to move it..."

 

You shake your head.

 

"Uh-uh. That mattress is practically a biohazard, I don't want it anywhere near my house."

 

Scootaloo blushes and scowls.

 

"It's not THAT bad..."

 

"Nope, sorry. Your old bed stays where it is, that's part of the deal."

 

As you step out of the diner, you reach out and muss her hair. She grunts and ducks out from under your hand.

 

"Come on," you say again. "It's fun to get new stuff. We'll get you a new bed, furniture, whatever you need. You could probably use some new clothes, too."

 

You continue across the gravel parking lot. She hesitates for a second, and then trots up next to you and takes hold of your arm. You give her an affectionate squeeze, and the two of you climb back into your truck.

 

 

 

 

7:

 

The rest of the day is spent at the little mall located in what passes for a downtown. Your first stop is a department store that sells furniture.

 

Whatever sentimental connection Scoot felt to her old bed seems to evaporate the second she sees everything on display. She darts about excitedly, hopping on different beds and trying them out. She seems most excited about the idea of a bunk bed. You tell her she can have it if that's what she wants (her first choice was a waterbed, which you had to put your foot down on; the prospect of that thing springing a leak on the second floor is not something you want to think about).

 

The bunk bed she picks out is made of pink-painted wood with little decorative hearts cut out of it, similar to the one in her room. You're honestly surprised she wanted something that girly-looking, you were half expecting her to pick out a racecar bed. But she seems pretty happy about it. The bed has a set of matching furniture that goes with it, so you buy that for her as well. You also have her pick out a few lamps and other practical objects.

 

The furniture salesman tells you that your stuff will be on the loading dock whenever you're ready. Meanwhile, you decide to take Scootaloo clothes shopping like you promised.

 

For someone who wears essentially the same thing every day, Scoot is surprisingly picky about her clothes. As you expected, she mostly goes for the baggy skater stuff she normally wears, though she gets a couple of skirts and dresses as well. The tab is starting to run a little high; you've probably spent more today than you have in the last six months. However, she's clearly having so much fun that you can't bring yourself to say no to her on anything. By the end of the day, in addition to the clothes and bed you promised, you're walking out with an entire bedroom set and a cart full of all sorts of silly junk, including a Lava Lite and a skateboard.

 

Most of what you bought will fit in the truck, but even when broken down and packaged the bed is too large. You'll have to come back for it. You load up the other stuff and drive back to your house. Scoot helps you carry it upstairs, and get everything set up in the little room she picked out. You tell her to go back to her old house and grab whatever she needs, while you go back and pick up the new bed.

 

You wanted to go grocery shopping that day as well, but by the time you finally get Scootaloo situated, you're completely exhausted. She looks pretty worn-out too. Since you're still out of food, you decide to order pizza for dinner. There is only one place in town that delivers, and it always takes that cross-eyed delivery girl forever to find your address. By the time your food finally arrives, you and Scoot are both starving.

 

You curl up together on the sofa and stuff yourselves full of pizza and cheesy-bread. You throw in an action movie you rented last week and forgot to return. You're a little worried it might be too intense for Scoot, but she seems to really enjoy it. You manage to kill an entire two liter bottle of soda between you.

 

When the movie ends it's completely dark outside. You look at the clock and see that it's almost midnight. Scoot is curled up under your arm; she looks bleary-eyed and looks ready for bed. You could do with a rest yourself. You decide the empty boxes and cups and plates and whatever can be left for tomorrow.

 

You stand up, and begin switching off lights. Scootaloo yawns as she follows you up the stairs.

 

"G'night," she mumbles, and heads into her room and shuts the door.

 

"G'night," you mumble, heading into your own room.

 

 

 

 

8:

 

You are in the middle of a dark, pleasant, dreamless sleep when something stirs you awake. You blink as your vision comes into focus. The digital clock on the nightstand tells you it's past three in the morning.

 

"Anon?"

 

A voice whispers from behind you, and something is tapping you on the shoulder. You roll over and see Scootaloo standing beside your bed.

 

"What's the matter?" you mumble.

 

Scootaloo turns her eyes away from you, looking a little embarrassed. She doesn't say anything.

 

"Did you have a bad dream?" you ask.

 

She nods, still looking away.

 

"Do you want to sleep with the light on?"

 

She shakes her head.

 

"Um... can I sleep with you?"

 

"Sure, that's fine I guess," you mumble.

 

You lift up the covers so she can crawl in. You're about to roll back over, but she wraps her arms around your neck and snuggles up close to you.

 

"G'night," she whispers in your ear.

 

Her body feels warm pressed against you. Her hair smells like bubblegum shampoo. You pull the covers up and drape your arm over her, and she snuggles up even closer.

 

She is wearing nothing but a t-shirt and a pair of panties, just like the first time you ever saw her. You feel your face flush a little. When you went clothes shopping earlier, it never even occurred to you to see if she wanted some pajamas or something. As for you, you usually just sleep in your boxers, so this whole situation is starting to feel like an episode of Dateline waiting to happen.

 

"Oh God damn it boner, not now," you chasten yourself silently.

 

You try to reposition yourself so she won't be able to feel it, but she just clings to you even tighter. Her crotch is now pressing against yours, and you can't stop your reaction. There is no way she doesn't feel that, but she doesn't pull away. Her hot breath on your neck is rhythmic and even.

 

You wonder if she's fallen asleep already, in fact given the circumstances you're rather hoping she has. However, you hear the blankets rustling softly and feel her warm body moving against your hardon. You hold perfectly still, but the motion continues. There is now no denying it: she is awake, and she is deliberately grinding against your hardon.

 

Involuntarily, your hand begins to move slowly down her back. You can now feel the soft, firm curve of her ass through the fabric of her panties. Her arms tighten around your neck as you touch her, and she begins to grind you harder. She is breathing a little faster now.

 

Part of you still wants to believe she's just doing this in her sleep, but then she suddenly turns her head and presses her lips against your ear.

 

"You can do it to me if you want," she whispers.

 

Before this situation can get out of hand, you untangle yourself from this young, impressionable girl. You gently but firmly tell her that she needs to sleep in her own room, and that the two of you will talk about this in the morning. Yes, in some distant alternate universe, you imagine that right now, some more responsible and level-headed version of yourself is doing exactly that.

 

(You), however, have somehow managed to end up with your hand inside Scootaloo's underwear. She moans softly, still hugging your neck as you squeeze and caress her soft young butt. You move your hand downward, until your fingers are touching the plump hairless mounds between her legs. She moans a little louder. There is already a considerable amount of wetness down there, and as you rub up and down the length of her pussy crack your fingers become slick.

 

She pulls herself up suddenly and presses her lips against yours, and you open your mouth without thought. You kiss each other hungrily, your tongues coiling around like mating snakes. Somewhere in the deep recesses of your mind, you're a little concerned that she seems so experienced at this, but you decide that it can be responsible, alternate-universe Anon's problem for now.

 

You roll over onto your back, pulling Scootaloo on top of you. You yank down her underpants with both hands, and she wriggles out of them, kicking them down to the foot of the bed. She straddles you, grinding her bare pussy against your erection through the thin fabric of your boxer shorts.

 

You place your hands on her waist and move slowly upward underneath her shirt. She squirms and shivers as your fingers move over the bony lumps of her ribs.

 

"You ticklish here?"

 

"A little."

 

She squirms and giggles as you brush your fingers lightly up and down her sides.

 

"Stop!" she laughs.

 

You stop tickling her, but you continue to pull her shirt up until it's over her head. You pull it the rest of the way off, and toss it somewhere into the darkness. In the dim moonlight filtering in between the curtains, you can see the puffy mosquito bumps of her nipples pointing enticingly at you. She gasps as you lean in suddenly and begin to suck on them gently, first one and then the other, back and forth.

 

You lie back down, pulling her down on top of you, and she kisses you again. You caress and massage her butt as she grinds against your dick. Your boxers are now damp with her vaginal fluids.

 

You can't stand it anymore. You break off the kiss, seizing her roughly by the waist and flipping her over onto her back. You pull off your own underpants and throw them aside. Scootaloo is now lying on her back, breathing heavily with her legs spread apart, staring apprehensively at your engorged dick as you climb on top of her. You hesitate.

 

"Do you still want this?" you whisper.

 

She swallows, but nods quickly.

 

"Y-yeah. Just... just go kinda slow, okay?"

 

"Okay."

 

You take hold of her waist and position yourself at the entrance to her hole. She winces a little as you push inside, but she doesn't resist you. Her warm, wet pussy swallows you up, you manage to get a little over halfway inside before you feel yourself bumping up against her cervix. You pull back a little, and then push forward again. It takes ungodly amounts of discipline, but you go slowly like she asked, in and out gently, building up a rhythm as her pussy becomes accustomed to the intrusion.

 

You only manage to get a few strokes in before Scoot visibly begins to cum. Her legs are shaking, and you can feel her entire body trembling where you're holding her at the waist. She has her arms spread out, tightly clutching a fistful of your bedsheets in each hand. You begin thrusting a little faster now, and deeper. You reach out with one hand and massage one of her nipples.

 

Scootaloo is convulsing now. Her eyes are shut tight, and she is making little whimpering sounds over and over. You can feel yourself also getting close. Her pussy keeps tugging on you, each spasm coating your dick with another layer of warm, wet fluid that makes it easier to fuck her faster and deeper.

 

You can't hold back anymore. You grab her roughly by the hips and begin to thrust as deep and hard as you can, pounding against her her cervix with each stroke. She cries out, and her body is suddenly wracked with a fresh set of spasms as another, more powerful orgasm overtakes her. Her pussy clamps down on you like a vice and pushes you over the edge. You bellow out something incoherent and profane as you explode inside of her, emptying your balls into her preadolescent womb. The world goes blank for a second.

 

You roll over and collapse on your back, pulling out of Scootaloo with a soft squelch. You both lie there, breathing hard, and then you feel Scoot's arms wrapping around your neck again. She pulls herself weakly on top of you, straddling one of your legs, and you share a long kiss. When it breaks off, she continues to cling to you, resting her head against your chest. You runs your hands up and down her body, from her thighs to her shoulders, savoring every inch of her. Her skin is softer than anything you've ever felt. She giggles and squirms as you give her ribs a light tickle. You gently massage her back, she cradles her head against your chest. You give her a light kiss on the temple, and she giggles again, and places a little kiss on your collarbone.

 

You lie there together for awhile. You feel her hot breath on your neck, panting at first, but gradually becoming slower and more rhythmic. You soon realize that she's fallen asleep. You continue to hold her close to you, gently massaging her back. You're beginning to feel drowsy yourself. Slowly, peacefully, you drift back into that dreamless abyss, breathing in the scent of sex and sweat and bubblegum shampoo. Your warm seed dribbles out of her, gently tickling you as it runs down your leg.

 

 

 

 

 

Epilogue:

 

2 years later:

 

You're sitting in the kitchen, enjoying your morning cup of coffee. Even though it's only ten, it's already shaping up to be a warm June day. Your place has shitty insulation (one of the many joys of owning an old house) and the upstairs will turn quickly into an oven; you didn't even make it through your first summer here before breaking down and buying AC units for both bedrooms, the TV room and your office. For now, though, the outside air is still cool enough to just have the windows open, and you are enjoying the pleasant breeze.

 

You hear a commotion outside. Boisterous young female voices, laughing and chatting carelessly with each other, and the sound of footsteps clomping up the steps of the back porch. A moment later someone starts banging on the screen door. You set your coffee down and climb slowly to your feet, stretching and yawning. Literally no one ever uses the front entrance to your house, and you have no idea why.

 

You unbolt the heavy back door and pull it open. On the other side of the screen door are two young girls.

 

"Hi, Mister Anon!" says the red-haired one cheerfully, in a cute Southern drawl. She's wearing overalls and a loose-fitting yellow t-shirt. Her friend, the one with her pink and purple hair done up in curls, wears a light floral-printed sundress. She smiles shyly at you but doesn't say anything. They're both carrying rucksacks over their backs.

 

"Oh, hi girls," you say, and step back so they can enter. "I don't think Scoot is quite ready yet. You can wait down here, I'll go see what's keeping her."

 

You head out of the kitchen into the front hall.

 

"There are still some pancakes if you want any," you call over your shoulder.

 

"Thank you, Mister Anon, but we ate already." The one in the sundress, whose name is Sweetie Belle, answers you politely. Her friend Apple Bloom, however, is already loading a plate with pancakes.

 

You climb up the stairs. Scootaloo's door is half open, so you knock lightly on it and nudge it the rest of the way.

 

"Your friends are here," you say as you enter the room. Scoot is hastily grabbing odds and ends and stuffing them into a rucksack. Her room is a complete mess as usual; you have no idea how she finds anything in here.

 

You watch her with an amused smile.

 

"I told you to get packed last night before you went to bed," you say.

 

"Yeah, yeah..." mutters Scoot as she crawls around on the floor, looking for clean socks.

 

You go into your own room for a minute and grab something, then you return to hers.

 

"Here, I got you something," you say. You hand Scoot the little battery powered lantern you bought the other day. She snatches it away and stuffs it into the rucksack, blushing slightly.

 

"I don't get scared of the dark anymore," she mutters. You smile.

 

"I know. It's just in case you want to stay up and read or anything."

 

"Okay, thanks," she says.

 

You stand in the doorway, watching as she tries to stuff the contents of the sack down so she can get it zipped up. She's wearing a pair of cutoff shorts and an orange t-shirt that is just slightly too short. The lumps of her breasts push it out a little in the front, exposing a bit of her midriff. She's grown quite a bit in the last year, but she still has the look of that scrawny kid that snuck into your yard to use your pool. She notices you looking at her, and blushes again.

 

"What?" she says.

 

You pull her close to you.

 

"I'm just going to miss you, that's all."

 

"It's just going to be a weekend."

 

"I know. I'll still miss you, though."

 

She hesitates, then returns the embrace.

 

"I'll miss you too, I guess," she mumbles into your chest.

 

"Are you three going to be okay camping by yourselves?"

 

Scoot pulls back, an annoyed look on her face.

 

"Jeez, Anon, I'm thirteen. I'm not a little kid anymore."

 

You grin, and give her waist a squeeze.

 

"I know that. But it'll be easier if you just let me worry."

 

You pull her in close again and kiss the top of her head. She wraps her arms around your waist and squeezes you back.

 

"Got bug spray?" you ask.

 

"Yes."

 

"Fresh water?"

 

"Yes."

 

"Brush your teeth?"

 

She hesitates.

 

"...yes."

 

You tilt her chin up, and give her a long, deep kiss. As you suspected, her mouth tastes like sour orange juice.

 

"Go brush your teeth."

 

She makes a long, exaggerated sigh, and stomps off to the bathroom. While she's gone, you grab a few more odds and ends that you notice she forgot to pack, and stuff them into the side pockets of her rucksack.

 

Scootaloo enters the room again, and wraps her arms around your neck. You pull her close and kiss her again. Her breath tastes like cool spearmint now.

 

"Better?" she asks.

 

"Much."

 

You give her a quick peck on the lips, and let her go.

 

"Alright, you better get going. Your friends are waiting."

 

She shoulders her pack and tromps quickly down the stairs. You follow behind her at an easy pace.

 

The three girls gather up their packs, and head noisily out the back door. They wave goodbye, and you stand on the porch watching them as they head through the back gate, into the wide meadow and the woods beyond.

 

"Your uncle Anon is kinda cute," you hear Apple Bloom say in a low voice as they walk away. Scootaloo grunts and turns red.

 

"You just stay away from him!" she growls.

 

Sweetie Belle laughs and says something you can't hear, which makes Scoot blush even further. She gets visibly more annoyed as they tease her back and forth. Finally, she lunges at Apple Bloom, who dodges and begins to run. Scoot and Sweetie take off after her.

 

Some movement in the corner of your eye catches your attention briefly, and you turn to see a flock of birds alighting on the roof the old house on the other side of your fence.

 

The place is all boarded up now, and the front of the property is blocked off by a new chain-link fence covered with "No Trespassing" signs. As you'd suspected, Scoot's parents, wherever they were, hadn't been paying the mortgage. A representative from the bank had shown up a few months after Scoot moved in.

 

She had been at school that day, which was probably just as well. The bank rep had poked around the grounds of the house, peered in through some windows, gone in and out of the garage, and then knocked on your door to ask you a few questions about the people who lived next door. You'd told her that, as far as you knew, there wasn't anyone living there, and it had been that way since you moved in. That had seemed to satisfy her, and a few days later a crew came by and began hauling stuff out of the house.

 

You remember standing on the porch with Scootaloo, watching as the place was emptied out and boarded up. She never said anything about it, but there had been kind of an undefinable sadness about her that day, and for several days afterward.

 

A short peal of laughter in the distance draws your attention back to the girls. They're about halfway across the meadow now. This will be their first time camping alone, and you can't help being a little worried about them, but deep down you're certain they'll be fine. Apple Bloom's family still owns most of the land around here, so in a sense they'll just be sleeping in her backyard.

 

Still, this weekend will be the longest you've been separated from your daughterwife in two years. She's not even going to be gone that long, but you're already acting like a mopey teenager. You slap your face and try to snap yourself out of it.

 

"Try to look on the bright side, Anon," you tell yourself. After all, when was the last time you'd had the entire house to yourself?

 

You start thinking that you'll drive into town and rent a few of those scary, bloody slasher flicks. You always loved horror movies, but Scoot is such a fraidy-cat you never get to watch that stuff when she's around. Some beers would probably hit the spot, too. And some junk food: Flamin' Hot Cheetos and gas station nachos and all that shit she always chides you for eating. Screw watching your cholesterol! You've cheered yourself up considerably, but at the same time you know perfectly well it won't last; before long you'll be missing her terribly again. By this time tomorrow you'll probably be back out on this porch, pining away like Fry's dog. Oh well, whatever, it's like she said: it's only for the weekend.

 

The three girls are at the opposite edge of the meadow now, walking along the tree line towards the path that leads into the woods. You stand on the porch, watching them until the sound of their laughter fades away on the breeze.