I stepped inside, and gradually, I dawdled up the steps, still deciding on what I was going to tell her. But before I knew it, I was at the top. I opened up the doors to the playroom, looked at her, while shying away from eye contact, and murmured, “Michelle, I need to tell you something…”

First, here’s what happened twenty minutes earlier.

The summer day was reaching its heat peak; the sky was clear, except for a couple birds that were chasing each other around, and the wind was gentle and swift. So my neighbor Zach and I decided to take advantage of this gorgeous day by playing catch with a baseball in my front yard.

We threw each other ground balls, pop flies, diving catches, and tested our arms by backing up further and further away from each other, and launching the ball as far as we could. And every time the ball landed precisely in one of our gloves, it made a sweet sweet popping sound. A sound that never got old.

Back and forth the ball flew. Time seeming to move as slowly as the clouds. Then, the tide turned.

I threw a fly ball to Zach, trying to put a little extra oomph on this one, throwing it a little higher. As soon as I let it go, I felt my stomach drop. I clenched my jaw, not able to blink. All I could do now was watch. I could only helplessly watch the ball soar through the air, and closer and closer towards my babysitter Michelle’s red car.

Within seconds, the ball sailed cleanly through the car’s back windshield. All of the glass collapsed, filling the back seats.

In that moment, I swear all went quiet. The birds stopped chirping. The bees stopped buzzing. The wind stopped whistling. Nothing. Zach and I just looked at each other, motionless.

“What’re we going to do?” I asked

“I have no idea, but I think I should go home now.”

I was all alone. I sat on a rock in front of the car and stared while guilt and fear took turns jabbing at my stomach.
Options of what I could do circled around my mind, taunting me. One was that I could ignore it, and act oblivious to the fact that her back window was missing. Or I could use my good old charm and lie myself out of it. Or lastly, I could tell the truth.

I couldn’t win.

I stepped inside, and gradually, I dawdled up the steps, still deciding on what I was going to tell her. But before I knew it, I was at the top. I opened up the doors to the playroom, looked at her, while shying away from eye contact, and murmured, “Michelle, I need to tell you something…”

She looked up from her book. “What is it?”

I took a deep breath, and then forced the truth out, telling her every detail about what happened to her car. And for the slightest moment when I was done, I felt good, like a rock that pinned me down had been lifted. But that quickly ended when steam began to barrel out of her ears.

She stormed down the stairs, moving so fast it seemed as if she jumped from the top step directly to the bottom. I followed quickly behind. When she saw her car, she froze. Stock-still. That’s when the tears came. And then the yelling started. I felt even worse.

When my dad got home and heard the news, he also yelled at me, and then grounded me. But hey, at least I told the truth. And lemme tell you something; sometimes the truth hurts.