So there I was, eight years old, in third grade, riding the school bus. I had the window seat, as I liked watching the scenery go past, and my best friend occupied isle seat next to me. He was both a year older than me and a grade ahead, but it never bothered us. Either I was mature for my age, he was immature for his, or some combination of the two. Whichever it was: it worked out great. Dave and I spent hours upon hours together after school, playing lazer tag, or video games.
“So Jonh,” he said with a smile “my birthday is coming up, I’m having a sleepover party this weekend, are you coming again this year?”
“Of course!” I responded, “I wouldn’t miss it for the world, not after how much fun we had last year.” His previous birthday party was great; I can still remember it vividly in my mind. He had invited me, and four other mutual friends—we had a blast. From water balloons to giant ice cream sundays, we did everything.
“Oh, and I’m going to invite a few more people this year, we’re going to have a lot of fun,” Dave continued with his still-gleaming smile.
“That’s... cool. See’ya then!” I yelled as he was getting off the bus at his stop. In truth, I was a little uneasy about the idea of more people going to his party. What if he invites people that I don’t know? What if they don’t like me? What if… etcetera. I decided that I would trust my best friend’s judgment, that we were going to have just as much fun as last year, and there was nothing for me to get myself all worked up about.
When I awoke the next morning, my Mom took me shopping for a gift for my friend. I got him the best water gun I had ever seen in my life. It had a “water base” you could hook up to your hose, and it would fill your gun for you just by pushing the nozzle of the gun into the base, and you never had to pump! It was pretty much amazing.
It was finally time for the birthday party-sleepover-extravaganza. I arrived about a half hour early, because he was my best friend and I wanted to be the first to wish him a happy birthday. He appreciated the gesture, and started showing me all the cool stuff that his family had gotten him. He was as happy as a dog whose owner had just returned from a long vacation. Jumping from gift to gift; telling me all about each one, with that same gleaming smile still on his face.
And then the guests started to arrive.
That’s when the situation took a turn for the worst. I didn’t notice it at first, but every single guest was older than I was—not just a couple months either. At least a full grade ahead of me, sometimes two! You know that game where you pull sticks and whoever pulls the short stick loses? Well, I felt like that short stick. Fortunately for me, the feeling didn’t last long. The “cool” older crowd treated me as an equal, even though I was an outsider. I was at the top of my world, being accepted by the coolest kids at school, and all day everything went well. All my worries had been for nothing. Dave had been right—we were going to have a lot of fun at the party. We did the water balloon fight, the giant ice cream sundays, Dave showed off that new water gun I bought him. It was another great birthday party-sleepover-extravaganza.
Then came nightfall.
The sun went down, and the moon replaced it. It got dark—and fast. We went inside; took our sleeping bags to the basement; told ghost stories by candle light. After sharing our spine tingling tales, we blew out the candle and went to sleep. Or, tried to. I had just remembered that I was afraid of the dark! Those ghost stories certainly were not helping the situation either. So, I did what any normal third grader would do. I took out my blanket. Boy, did that calm the fears. Little did I know that my fear of the dark was about to become the least of my worries.
One of the big kids noticed that I had a little blankee, and it really got him going. “How did we think he was cool when he has a blankee!?” The kids roared with laughter.
“No guys! I really am cool! I promise!” I quickly rebutted. The insisted that I should prove it and that the only way possible was for me to tear up my beloved blankee into pieces. Perhaps the biggest regret in my life is that I did it. I succumbed to the pressure for the sake of being “cool.”
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