Who will sit Milly down, as my mother did with me, and say, “I want you to know … well, I want to ask you … do you have any questions … about anything?” “Like what?” I asked. “Like,” she said, straightening pens and pencils on her desk, “like … where babies come from.” “Mom, I’m sixteen!” “I’m just asking—” She polished a letter opener on her sweater. “So … nothing at all?” I had noticed something in the Reilly master bathroom the last time I babysat. “Okay …” I hesitated. “Well, yeah, there is one thing.” “Oh?” She looked uneasy. “Yeah. What’s a douche?” “Oh, Kelly!” She shrieked like I’d put
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