I left home at 13.  Less a choice than a necessity, I moved in with a family who ran a boarding house. From there, I walked to my new school and back everyday. This was my life. Was it unusual? Perhaps. It’s also real; it happened to be my life.

Fancying myself a bit of a spy/sleuth, I would wander around the house looking for clues. Nothing had happened in this house that warranted a search. The family gathered us around for dinner: me, and possibly two other boarders. These two boarders, both much older than me, were rarely home. One man,I liked and respected. The other I knew was trouble. Anywhere there is trouble, there is also something interesting. Where did I pick that up? Who knows. I knew I was right, and this finally warranted me sneaking into the room of the bad boy. The other was a student. I would not sneak into his room.

What did I expect to find in the room? A bed (not made), a desk, guitar, clothes all over, and stacks and stacks of magazines. This is the man who introduced me to the song “Just the Two of Us” which I sang repeatedly. On loop. I found a magazine about Grover Washington, Jr. and Bill Withers. I skimmed that. The song was more interesting than the articles.

I sat down on the edge of the bed and started flipping through magazines. Page after page of American leather products, then American blue jeans, then cars and beef and boots. Boring. I picked up another. Photos of Eastern European countries—my guess—stark yet graceful fields with low-hanging clouds highlighting the dark dirt and the grey sky. Flowers I’d not seen before. Food I couldn’t identify.

Then I saw them. Girls. Caucasian. Naked. My heart raced. What is this? I assumed they were Eastern European. Who were these girls? They weren’t developed yet—no body hair, no breasts trying to grow. How old were they? Seven? Eight? Younger than that? I wanted out of the room. I didn’t want to see this. Quickly gathering up the magazines while completely forgetting which came from what pile, I rushed towards the door, took one look back and slowly crept back to my own room. I would not go into hisroom again. Ever. The bad boy, the man whom I thought interesting was into young white prepubescent girls. Naked.

I knew I shouldn’t have gone into the room. I wouldn’t again. Here was his secret, this man’s sexual preference laid out in magazines for the world to see. I was older than these girls. That meant he didn’t think of me in the same way, right? I was right, yes?

The adventure I embarked on backfired and left me covered in metaphorical soot and grime and dust. Nothing tasted right for a week. He’s a jerk for looking at tiny white naked girls. I’m a jerk for breaking into his room for a laugh. I may have seen him once or twice after that day. I don’t remember. I try not to remind myself of him. Today is an exception.

Bad move, sweetheart. I wish I’d never seen those photos.