Balloon
Once, when we were kids, my sister Lucia and I were sitting alone together at our dining room table.
She sat on one side.
I sat on the other.
It was a Sunday afternoon.
We were bored.
And we had a balloon.
*
Lucia and I started batting the balloon back and forth.
First we hit it softly.
And more or less horizontally.
The balloon floated gently across the table.
From her hands to mine.
From my hands to hers.
And back.
This was too easy, though.
We were still bored.
*
We started hitting the balloon higher.
We started hitting it harder.
Our dining room had a standard-height ceiling.
But it had an unusual light fixture.
Dead center over our dining room table was a crystal chandelier.
*
The higher and harder Lucia and I hit the balloon, the closer it came to grazing the chandelier.
First it was two feet away.
Then one foot.
Then an inch.
Finally, the balloon kissed the chandelier’s three bottom pendants.
The crystals bobbed and swayed, ever so lightly tinkling.
*
Lucia and I let the balloon drop to the middle of the table.
We looked at one another.
I was eleven.
She was seven.
Both old enough to understand the potential consequences of our actions.
And young enough to live in the moment anyway.
*
“We hit the chandelier,” I said.
“Yeah,” Lucia said.
“Do you want to keep playing?” I asked.
She nodded.
“What if the chandelier breaks?”
Lucia frowned.
“We’d get in trouble,” she said.
I thought about it.
I frowned, too.
Then I had a brainstorm.
*
“It’s clearly both of our faults if we break the chandelier,” I said.
“But what if we made a deal?” I continued.
“What if—if the chandelier breaks…whoever happens to hit the balloon on the time it happens…what if that person takes all the blame?”
Lucia smiled.
“Deal,” she said.
*
I grabbed the balloon.
I tossed it to Lucia.
She batted it back to me.
I hit over to her again.
And so on.
Higher.
Harder.
Once more approaching the chandelier.
Until finally we made contact again.
The bottom crystals clinked.
*
My spine tingled in resonance.
Lucia seemed to shiver happily.
Risk extinguished boredom.
We weren’t playing catch anymore.
This was balloon roulette.
Chandelier chicken.
A reverse piñata.
No prize but punishment or escape.
*
The game lasted a minute longer.
Every second thrilled me.
Realizing that I was doing something wrong.
Realizing that I didn’t care.
Or rather: I did care.
I cared because I was doing something wrong.
And someone else—sibling, stranger, accomplice, adversary—felt the exact same way.
*
Finally, Lucia or I hit the balloon hard enough to chip a crystal.
We weren’t sure, though.
We stood to examine the damage.
Just as we did, our mother came downstairs.
*
“What are you doing?” Mom asked.
“Nothing,” I said quickly.
“Nothing,” Lucia repeated.
Mom eyed us quizzically.
Her angels.
Her devils.
She noticed the balloon.
It had bounced down and tumbled off the table.
It lay still on the floor.
*
“Why don’t you two go outside?” Mom said.
She picked up the balloon.
“Here.”
She tossed it toward us.
“Make up a game with this.”