You circled back to the carwash after seeing the signs and parked your truck and gnawed on beef jerky and struck up a conversation with Sarah who came over to ask how much you’d like to donate for the wash.  Sarah was fifteen and the only kid in the whole operation wearing enough clothes to step inside a church.  Sarah was the chubby one which maybe explained her clothedness and the fact that she was collecting donations instead of standing in the street waving a sign like the three girls on the thin strip of median in the middle of the road which was the least practical place to advertise a carwash because drivers could not see the girls in time to easily access the wash without having to abruptly change a few lanes and make at least one U-turn and disrupt the whole flow of traffic but there was a surprisingly steady stream of cars choosing to endure that hassle which created more honking which caused the nubiles to bounce more and laugh more which prompted more honking and lane-changing until there was a swirl of chaos the way a hurricane happens when the heat waves of sexy teens collide with the cold fronts of horny older men and so much devastation ensues in the Pizza Hut parking lot.  Sarah assured you the girls in the road were all at least 16 years old when you mentioned the potential dangers of their advertising scheme.  They look both ways before they cross she said. 

You felt halfway cruel for noticing Sarah was the only chubby one, the only one covered up and not getting involved in the sudsing and maybe she sensed your pity because when you dropped the tailgate of your truck and sat waiting for a mini-van to get washed, Sarah followed you and planted herself in front of you and lifted up her shirt (like an overcoat, flung open) and said I have on a bikini, too.  And she had, indeed, stuffed herself into a bikini top beneath her baggy t-shirt, a child’s bikini it seemed because of the rolls of fat that spilled out from it and the cartoon mermaid pattern that covered it.  You sat there on the tailgate staring at this young girl with her shirt lifted and the straining bikini top and you were sure this was illegal, that the SWAT team would swoop in and handcuff you and rough up the guy with the minivan who was at that moment supervising a teen bent over in her cutoffs scrubbing on the hubcaps of his tires and he was actually pointing to the hubcaps and making comments about where to scrub and with what intensity in an attempt to appear like he was not, because his whole family was in the minivan, filling his spankbank to the brim with grimy images of young carwash girls. But the SWAT team never arrived and the wife stayed seated in the minivan and Sarah put her shirt down and sat next to you on the tailgate and said she was going out for soccer in the Fall to get into better shape.  You don’t seem so out of shape you said to her because you are, if nothing else, polite to strangers.