This is The Writer's Voice, new fiction from The New Yorker.

I'm Deborah Treesman, fiction editor at The New Yorker.

On this week's episode of The Writer's Voice, we'll hear Adam Levin read his story,

Jenny, Annie, Fanny, Addie from the April 21st, 2025 issue of the writer's voice will hear Adam Levin read his story, Jenny, Annie, Fanny,

Addie from the April 21st, 2025 issue of the magazine. Levin, a winner of the New York

Public Library's Young Lions Award, is the author of four books of fiction, including the

novel's Bubblegum from 2020 and Mount Chicago from 2022. Now here's Adam Levin.

Jenny Annie Fanny Addy.

One morning at Potawatomi Day Camp,

the summer before I became a bat mitzvah,

I thought I needed to use the bathroom right in the

middle of swimming lessons. But as soon as I was out of the pool, I realized I didn't have to go anymore.

That was new for me and weird. I stopped to think for a second, just stood there by the

lifeguard platform thinking. If I went back in the water and the need returned, I'd have to get out

again, and that would draw attention. But then again, the need might not return. And using the bathroom

meant lowering my swimsuit, then pulling it back up my body all wet. And I was trying to decide

which one of those options would be less unpleasant. I guess my nipples woke up in the breeze while I

stood there. A few steps away, some of the boys in line for the highboard pointed and shouted,

It's nipply out here. That wasn't the best, but it was no big deal. Every camper that summer

shouted that phrase when they spotted hard nipples. It came from that movie Christmas vacation.

By then it had gotten shouted so often, the people barely looked up to see whose chest was being shouted about.

This one older boy, Horel, though, who something was wrong with, his voice was too loud,

...