The Mystery Panties

I was nine years old, spending the summer in Missouri with my father, stepmother, and young sister. As I did every summer, until I was 16.
It all happened so fast. I was playing outside and all of a sudden, I had to poop. Badly. But I wasn’t allowed in the house because my sister was napping.
Being nine meant a hot pink bike with a banana seat, an ice cream truck to chase after, and a good friend who let me lounge around on her gingham canopy bed while we listened to the Grease soundtrack.
But my friend wasn’t home that day and I was in dire straights. So, I pooped my underwear.
I was embarrassed and knew that I would be in trouble.
Empowerment and resourcefulness kicked in. There was only one thing to do: bury the panties.
Quick! Find a shovel! Dig a hole! Bury the panties!
It was never brought up again, until the next summer. My stepmother was planting marigolds along the driveway and she dug up: The. Mystery. Panties.
“Do you know anything about these?”
I shrugged. No way.
I mean, who would ever admit that??
