But in the spirit of full disclosure of all my dastardly deeds that occurred during my misspent youth, I chose the following:
A time you covered your tracks and avoided punishment
Disclaimers: The following story may or may not be true. Thank you, literary license. No names were changed to protect the innocent. Kids, don't try this at home. Always wear safety goggles when working with glass. Please unplug all electrical appliances before performing repairs. Be sure to read the entire manual before using your new product. All rights reserved. The management is not responsible for lost articles or dents from shopping carts. Your mileage may vary.
Let me preface this story by telling you that if there was a real Mommie Dearest School of Parenting, my mother would have been the valedictorian. That said, suffice it to say that even minor infractions were dealt with severely. The misdeed I am about to describe would have (at least in my thirteen-year old mind) resulted in my death and dismemberment, with my remains subsequently scattered over acres of dormant farmland.
In other words, my mother meant business.
Imagine, if you will, a pleasant Spring day. I distinctly remember that it was sunny.
I also distinctly remember that I had to pee.
After I got off the school bus, I walked down our street to our home. I had forgotten my key, and was dependent upon the kindness of my brother Greg (already home from the elementary school) to let me in.
The door was locked. I knocked. I yelled. I threatened. You know, the typical interaction between siblings who adored each other.
He would NOT let me in.
Have I mentioned that I had to PEE?
Since I was unsuccessful at the front door, I squeezed my thighs together and nonchalantly walked to the back yard. Surely I'd be able to get in through the sliding glass door into the basement (called the 'game room' in the olden days).
Greg, being particularly nimble (and not trying to hold 200 ccs of urine in his bladder as he moved), tore down the basement stairs and arrived at the sliding glass door first.
I winced as I heard the lock click into place.
I yelled. I pleaded.
He laughed, safe behind the double panes of glass.
Or was he?
In a fit of desperation and rage, I kicked the glass door.
The result? An unsatisfactory thud...and further laughter from Greg, the traitor.
Enraged, and ready to spurt urine, I kicked again - harder the second time.
That double paned door wasn't impervious after all. The result? A gaping hole in the door. Shards of glass littered the tile floor.
I'm sure Greg and I had a similar expression at that point; shock and fear of imminent death was all over his face.
He resignedly unlocked the door...sure, now he lets me in. Thanks heaps.
I ran upstairs to the bathroom and relieved my tortured bladder. Perched on the toilet, I wondered how I was going to smooth over just what the hell happened.
Any words I thought of were inadequate to explain my stupid actions, and I could only imagine the physical and verbal abuse that I would suffer when my mom got home from work in the next hour.
I walked back downstairs, and told Greg it was all his fault that I kicked in the stupid door. All he had to do was let me in to pee. He was an idiot, and I was going to make sure that he shared in the responsibility of this domestic disaster.
I told you we were loving like that.
I began to clean up the glass as I cried in frustration and fear. Greg even helped clean up the larger pieces. The pile of swept up glass sparkled, well, like glass.
As I worked, inspiration hit me! I knew how to get out of this mess, blame-free!
I explained the plan to Greg, and he thought it would work. We cleaned up the glass from the tile floor...and threw it through the hole in the door. Glass now littered the patio. Think thermal pane blood splatter analysis.
I ran and got my baton from my bedroom. I was a majorette back then.
Our genius cover story? I was practicing my baton twirls in the game room. I walked toward the door and tripped over (select one of Greg's toys, so he could get some blame).
I was notoriously clumsy.
OMG, the baton WENT THROUGH THE DOOR!
When my mom got home, I told her the awful news as soon as she walked in the front door. I was crying (real tears, I was scared shitless), and oh so very apologetic (and I was sorry that I had broken the door).
She stormed down the stairs to see the destruction firsthand. I
reenacted simulated the chain of events through my tears.
No punches were thrown. No cheeks were slapped. No hair was pulled. Inanimate objects were not hurled at my being. I'm sure a few curse words were uttered, but it would have been a LOT worse had she known the truth of what took place that day. For a second time that afternoon, I swept up that same glass. This time, I heard a satisfactory thud when the largest chunks of broken glass hit the bottom of the metal trash can.
When my dad got home, he used some leftover paneling from the game room renovation and boarded up the hole. A new door was purchased and installed, removing any reminder of the lies I told that day.
I never told either of them what really happened. For 40 years, I have kept this secret.
Just think of the trouble I'd be in if I held my bladder that long.