On slow babysitting gigs in high school, I was what you’d call a classic snooper. One long night at Mrs. Battel’s, I went through her whole makeup bag, trying on all her lipsticks, then moving on to eyeliners and shadows. At the Perrys’, I discovered a stack of Playboys under the bathroom sink that made my hands sweat, along with an eye-popping hardback book featuring pencil sketches of people having sex in every conceivable position and location, including on a motorcycle. In my own house, when my parents went out, I opened all the drawers and cabinets in their bedroom, flipping through boxes
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