Being the deer was always more fun. Maybe it was the thrill of being chased, or the glory of being the protagonist. Or maybe it was just that, when you were the deer, you weren’t “it.” No kid ever wanted to be “it.”
Down at the creek, the deer grazed along the water’s edge and warmed its velvety back in the sunlight. This particular deer was dressed in a pretty skirt and dressy cowgirl boots; not the ideal protection while running for your life.
I stood atop one of the islands, the grass- and moss-covered mounds that jutted out of the water along the creek’s edges. With the toe of my boot, I gingerly tested the footing ahead to ensure it would hold me. Some of the islands, with their long, wide blades of grass drooping lazily, reminded me of the shaggy backside of a fantastical creature half submerged in the water. Fortunately, the island-creatures never moved nor minded the children that traipsed across their backs each day.
The wolf was not far behind, hair gleaming red in the sunlight. My sister growled a challenge to her prey: Run before I overtake and devour you! Becoming dinner was bad enough, but if she caught me, I would be “it” and assume the role of the outcast wolf. With a surge of momentum, I jumped to the next island. It was smaller than the others and required careful navigation to avoid slipping off one of the sides. But I had hopped this island dozens of times before. It didn’t slow me down.
The wolf was quickly closing the gap between she and her prey, effortlessly bounding from one island to the next. My sister was four years older than me. Bigger, faster. My heart began pounding. Could I escape? I looked at the path ahead. There was an island in front of me, but it was too far away. I had never cleared that jump before. I wouldn’t make it. There was second island to my left, but it was across the width of the creek, and between, the water dammed up and pooled before flowing over a small rocky ledge. I looked over my shoulder, gauging the wolf’s distance. She was gaining. If I didn’t move, it wouldn’t be long until she killed and ate her dinner.
My mind raced with indecision. Forward? Across? Back? I was paralyzed. I turned back and forth, trying to choose my fate. My boot slipped on the edge of the island and I nearly lost my balance. In that half-second my body started moving and suddenly I was crossing the creek. Maybe I could walk across. I could make it!
My decision quickly deteriorated into a pathetic fall that landed me in the middle of the three-foot reservoir. I panicked as cold water rushed over the tops of my boots, making my feet heavy, as if Earth’s gravity had doubled in that moment. The wolf cried out as she approached, nearly on top of me. I struggled to step up to the island in front of me, to escape her, but it was no use. The game was over, and I lost.
“Are you okay?” My sister stood on the island where I had just been.
“Why did you do that?” I didn’t have an answer. It seemed obvious; I was trying to get away.
Slowly, I waded to the creek bank and my sister helped pull me up. I sat down on the grass-covered incline and removed my boots one at a time and poured out the excess water. Suddenly, a new worry set in, one much worse than losing the game or even becoming the wolf. I was soaked in murky creek water up to my waist, and that included my dress boots. What would I tell our mom?
After I slipped my boots back on, I followed my sister and headed back to the house. I tried to come up with an explanation for how I had become soaked, but my mind raced and I was distracted by the discomfort of walking with my wet skirt clinging to my knees and my feet making a creaking noise as they squished into the soles of my boots.
My sister reached the side door before me, and before I could make it inside, Mom had come out and was walking my way, her expression a mixture of concern and disappointment.
“What happened?” she asked. She crouched down with her elbows on her knees so she was more at my level. I didn’t say anything. “Were you playing in the creek?”
“No,” I answered quietly.
“Then how did you end up all wet?”
I hesitated and searched my mind for the plan I had come up with moments before. “We were playing on the bike path,” I started. “I was running and I fell, and rolled into the creek.”
“You fell and rolled all the way down the side of the creek bank and into the water.” It wasn’t a question.
“Yes,” I said. Mom reached out and pulled my skirt away from my knees to straighten it. She didn’t say anything. There was no way she believed me. Even I knew that my story was far-fetched. Had I rolled down the bank through the grass and sticks, and especially over the rocks, I’d be bloody and bawling.
Mom looked me in the eyes. I winced on the inside, waiting for her to scold me, to tell me that I ruined my boots, or to restrict me from being anywhere near the creek ever again. But she simply sighed, stood, and shook her head slightly. Was that a smile on her lips?
“Let’s get you in some dry clothes,” she said. She waved me toward the house. “Take your boots off on the porch.”