I Dare You to Go Down Don't

In this flash fiction, twelve-year-old Bobby faces his fear of growing up by doing the stupidest thing possible. 

I’m twelve years old. Callaghan and Gannon are fourteen. They fling their sleds over the fence, scrabble up and over, and haul them to the snow-covered golf course. I try to keep up.

Callaghan says, “Yo, Bobby, I dare you to go down Don’t.” 

I go, “I don’t want to go down Don't. I just want to have fun.”

Gannon goes, “Bobby’s not allowed to go down Don’t.”

“Fuck that,” comes out of my mouth. “I do what I want.”

I hate myself for saying it. I know what’s coming.

“Do it, then,” Callaghan says.

“Yeah,” Gannon says. “Money, mouth.”

I boot across the snow. Phlumph-phlumph. The closer I get to Don’t, the higher Don’t gets, the steeper, the icier. 

I stop. My boots are rooted to the ground. 

“Bobby’s a-scared he’s gonna break his frozen little dick,” says Gannon.

They lose me. I watch them sneaker up, up, up to the summit and scream down Don’t. They do it again. And again. 

I hate that they think I’m a-scared. I hate that I am a-scared. I practice on smaller hills. But what’s to practice? 

After a while, Callaghan goes, “C’mon, Bobby, we’re gonna be late.” They’re hustling away. I try to keep up.

“Late for what?” I say.

Callaghan and Gannon say it together: “Sheila!”

I go, “What about Sheila?”

Callaghan throws his head back and howls like a goddamn wolf. He goes, “Wanna tag along? We won’t tell your mommy.”

I stop. I don’t say anything. I watch them fling their sleds back over the fence and scrabble up and over.

And then they are gone.

I’m alone in the snow. The sun is getting low.

Sheila? Sheila sits next to me in math. Sheila’s always crossing her arms in front of her chest. I didn’t know Sheila was hanging out with older boys.

My cheeks burn. 

And I know what I’m going to do.

I lift my sled over my head and stomp to the summit. 

I study the path down Don’t. But Callaghan and Gannon have gone down so many times, they wore away all the snow. It’s just grass. Morons. Now I can’t go down Don’t. 

Or can I?

Along the side of the path, there’s about a hundred yards of snow descending at a sixty-degree angle. Gravity does not care how many frozen little dicks it breaks, and neither do I. 

I sit down on my sled. I shove off.

Nothing. The snow is deep, icy.

I shove off harder.

Nothing.

I stand up. I take a few steps back. I get a running start. I dive, flop down face-first on my sled. It starts out fast. It gets faster.

I slice through the ice, whizz-whizz, my face wet, cold, snow in my eyes, ice in my eyes, why did I do this, I race full-tilt down, down, whizz-whizz, fast as a bike, there’s a rock and I swerve, why the hell did I do this, fast as a car, there’s a tree and I swerve, and I swerve and why the fuck did I do this and then there is a cliff — there is a cliff and now I am a bird.

I’m flying, flying. It’d be cool if it wasn’t so — boppo! — I hit the ground. I roll off my sled. Something warm and wet dribbles out of my mouth, bright red on the snow. I lie there watching the twilight turn to violet, every bone in my body calling me a moron.

And I know I’m not gonna tell anybody.

And I know if that cliff was any higher…

I close my eyes and picture Pop, after dark, his flashlight scouring the snow, back and forth, back and forth, please God give me back my boy, please God give me back my boy, please God give me back my boy, my boy, my little boy.