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The bright yellow molding of the car still swings as
we come whirling around again. The teenagers in the cars
behind us start screaming--for joy or for real terror, I
cannot decide which. An answering cry comes from the
little boy who wanted off before,
and now realizes that he is stuck until the ride is over.
Once you agree to something, you can do nothing except see
it through. I shiver a bit, as the cold fear pours through
me, too. I tell you this.
You say that agreeing not to do something is as much a
decision as agreeing to do something. You have to go on
living, you say. And you might as well have fun doing it.
You hold me close and whisper more about the spaceship and
the trunk. We will see every star on this side of the Milky
Way first. Then hop through a black hole and never come
back again.
It will be crowded in the black hole, I say. Then we will
both have to sleep in the trunk,
you decide.
I think about the time my father
pretended to put me in the trunk of his car and drive off.
What would you do, if someone did this to you? He asked me.
Scream, I said. Not good enough, he said. And taught me
karate each night for five years until I won a black belt
tournament.
I tense into a stance now, and relax.
This is not what my father was warning me against, not
the terrors he prepared me for.
This is nothing to worry about. I tell myself.
And I believe me implicitly.
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