Don’t My friend Tony
and I were doing slam-dunks. Sort of. Except that it was raining and we were inside my house. We didn’t have a basketball, so we were using this little foam rubber ball. And we didn’t have a hoop, so we were using the long, straight curtain rod that ran along the sliding glass door by the patio. Plus, we were really short.
H I G H E R T H I N G S __ 18
My parents were gone because they’d decided that Tony and I were just old enough to be responsible on our own. After a few warm-ups, it was time for a raw display of power. I grabbed the ball, arced through the air and threw it home with both hands. Just to be cool, I decided to hang on the rim. The rim made out of that thin aluminum curtain rod, the kind that bends when some idiot kid hangs on it with both hands. We stared up at the mangled “Z” that had once been a curtain rod. My parents would not be happy when they got home. Big trouble was coming. But Tony was there; and if Tony was there, my parents wouldn’t yell at me near as much as if Tony wasn’t there. I was real glad that Tony was there. “I gotta go,” said Tony; and he did, leaving me all alone with the curtain rod and a serious dread working through my stomach. Big, big trouble was coming. And that little voice of self-preservation inside said,“Don’t tell Dad, because this will cost you big-time. You want him to think you’re a good kid, and good kids don’t tear the house apart when their parents leave. Deny. Hide. Pretend nothing happened. But don’t tell Dad.” This advice was so natural that it sounded good for a minute. But what was I supposed to do? Hope that my folks just wouldn’t notice the twisted scrap metal on the window? Hide it somewhere? How long until they tried to close the drapes—maybe a couple of hours? The front door opened and time was up, so I told them. They were disappointed, but they forgave me. There was some punishment, but it ended: they let me out of my room
