Wednesday's Three Word Wednesday

The words over at Three Word Wednesday at flirt, ploy and stunning.

Department of Juvenile Delinquency
I’m stealing a swig of milk straight from the carton when I look out the kitchen window and see Mrs. Wilcox sitting on the lawn, coloring our sidewalk with chalk.
I am in love with Mrs. Wilcox’s daughter, Liz.
Like her mother, she’s stunning. Both have been blessed with large hazel eyes, auburn hair, perfect skin that always seemed roasted to perfection. Curves that made grown men weep (at least, that’s what my dad says).
Mrs. Wilcox, however, has this enormous rack.
She liked to water her begonias in tight, white T-shirts and sunny, frilly skirts that danced in the lightest breeze. Neighbor women whispered scornfully; the neighborhood men tended to whistle under their breath – and said absolutely nothing.
And let’s face it, the vision of Mrs. Wilcox entered every neighbor boy’s thoughts and led straight to carnality and eventual confession behind the Gas N Sip on dull Saturday nights.
I walk out the front door and casually amble up to Mrs. Wilcox.
She’s dressed in a Catholic schoolgirl’s outfit, white button-down blouse, pleated skirt, white knee-high socks, black patent-leather shoes.
“Mrs. Wilcox?”
“James, so good to see you. Lovely day for some chalk art, don’t you think? Here, help me fill in the skin tones of the angels there.”
When she bends forward to give me the hunk of peach chalk, I can tell she’s not wearing a bra. Everything goes flush, hot.
“James, please, have a seat. I promise not to bite. Well, not very hard.”
She puts a finger to her lips, flips her hair, gathers a deep breath and giggles.
“Can’t a woman have a little fun, flirt with one of the most handsome boys in the whole neighborhood?”
I fall hard onto the grass, clutching the chalk like a knife.
Mrs. Wilcox is sitting Indian-style and as she skitters a piece of blue chalk across the concrete, I get glimpses of her white panties. Her sheer, white panties.
I readjust to a kneeling position, which at once eases the pain of my erection – and gives me a way better view up Mrs. Wilcox’s red-checked skirt. She says something, and all I can do is stare into that triangular patch of sheer fabric, mesmerized.
“I knew it,” she says, clamping her thighs shut. “Just like all the rest.”
And she sticks two fingers between her lips and whistles.
Up the block, a white panel truck squeals, and lurches to a stop in front of my house. Out hop two men, dressed in black jumpsuits, black boots, black ball caps. They’re both swinging nunchucks, haphazardly. They stare me down through creepy-black aviator sunglasses.
Painted on the side the truck, in black letters highlighted in goldleaf, is:
“Department of Juvenile Delinquency.”
And I realize it’s all a ploy, some sick test. I’m 17 and I’m about to become a convicted juvenile delinquent. Forget Liz, forget senior prom – forget going to the college of my choice and a decent, high-paying career. I’d be rolling hardpack of smokes into the sleeve of my white T-shirt and boosting cars in no time flat.
“I had such high hopes for this one,” she says, drawing a finger across my now-dry lips. “Take him away, boys.”