If Dad hadn’t died falling from a roof when I was a baby, Mom wouldn’t have kept me chained to my room so much. She expected me to be as careless. So, I had forbidden plans to go to the reopening of Arrowhead Lake, home of the beast.
She just didn’t get me.
“Quit riding your bike fast. You'll fall and bust your skull open on a rock,” she said, as if we had boulders in our yard.
“I’m twelve.” I hit the brakes, sliding to an intentional halt.
“You getting smart with me?” Mom stood on the porch with her hands pressed against her hips. “Look what you did to my yard.”
Grass had lifted away from the dirt. Awesome! I smirked.
“Think it’s funny? Well, you can put your bike up for the day. How’s that Mr. Knievel.” She walked to the driveway, glaring at me with narrowed brows.
“Just do as I say.” She pointed to my bike’s prison.
“Whatever.” Mom always ruined my fun. Don’t run. Don’t jump. Don’t, don’t, don’t. She believed everything we did in life had dire consequences. But the only results I ever saw from my “reckless behavior” was her grounding me.
“I’ll be home late,” Mom said as she got into her silver beater-with-a-heater. “I’d better not hear talk about you running around town. Hear me?”
“Yep,” I answered while putting my bike up. She waited for me to lock the shed before backing out of the drive.