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.”
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Halfway up the staircase, hidden in the shadows, I crouched quietly and allowed a few moments to pass into the darkness. I had clumsily shifted my weight on the previous step, sending an audible crack echoing into the silence. I might have given myself away, but maybe if enough time went by, the inconvenient sound would be disregarded as the cat slinking around, or the house settling. I couldn’t continue until the coast was clear.
It was New Year’s Eve, but the house was still dressed up for Christmas; the decorations never came down until sometime in January. Dad always insisted that Christmas wasn’t over at midnight on December 25th, and that there were the Twelve Days of Christmas and all that. I didn’t mind.
She was waiting for me when I got there, patiently sitting in the shade on the covered porch, partially hidden behind a cluster of orange lilies. Somehow she knew exactly when I’d be there, as if she had a watch hidden somewhere in the fur of her paw…
The asphalt was hot, but it felt good against my towel-wrapped legs while I sat at the end of the driveway. Mom was up toward the house looking at a table filled with kitchen supplies. An old lady sat just outside the garage in a lawn chair and smiled at me when I noticed her.