The Audacious Adventure of August Lee

Blood, like honey, leaked from the wound and stuck his foot to the driveway. It tore anew with each step, protesting his advance as he climbed the stairs to the house. He could hear his father’s voice inside, angry about something on the news, and his mom bouncing from the stove top to the pantry, then to the refrigerator and back. She hummed a tune that August didn’t recognize, and she tapped her foot in rhythm with every still moment afforded to her. But that would change when she saw him. Her mouth would purse, and her hands would work the towel as she crossed the kitchen. She would inspect him from head to toe—a good-cop routine only because of his father’s reaction. He would be angry. Would he ask about the bike first or August’s missing shoes? Any answer was sure to lead to capital punishment.

He turned, noting a path from the door to the truck-topper. It was quick access, stored by their shed, and covered in vines, an easy first option if things went south. If nothing else, he could climb a tree. They had plenty of them in his yard, and he was talented with the Oak. Just a few weeks ago, he’d beaten all his friends, and they’d had a head start. His chin rose a little higher in memory, and the sight of his mangled bicycle hurt a little less. He limped through the first step before heading inside.

August’s mom stooped over a flattened ball of dough. She hadn’t looked up when he walked in, simply said, “Hey, Sweetie,” as he crept across the linoleum floor. His father echoed something similar, but his attention was pulled toward a half-glass of beer and a sports magazine.

August felt his pace quicken, a smile building in his chest. All he had to do was get to the staircase. If he could clean off in the shower, he could delay his parents until tomorrow. And by then, there would be no reason to suspect he’d been riding outside their subdivision when the wreck happened. He’d stay out of trouble—maybe even get a newer bike.

His hope mounted to a crescendo as he reached the carpet, and in a single collision of joy and relief, he leapt over the first two stairs and used the railing to slingshot himself into the safety of isolation. From somewhere in the living room, the television changed from breaking news headlines to cartoon theme songs. His brother giggled. Then he heard shoes clack against the floor, and August could hear the murmur of his parents. They were colluding, and doubt like electricity jolted his heart.

The television sounds stopped; more pacing in the kitchen. Then August heard his name. Adrenaline sent a ripple through his body, causing him to shake as his grip fell from the handle of his bedroom door. His mind raced. Time slowed as he tried to sort his thoughts, which had come to a screeching halt and began to pile up, like the time his dad wrecked their minivan. Except that it had happened quickly.

His feet were anchored, unwilling to move until his dad called a second time. He dragged himself down the stairs, eyes low and body angled to favor his less-injured side. Then, his heart dropped. Across the kitchen, pressed into the carpet, and smeared on the third stair step were little dots of blood—his blood—so small it was a wonder his old man had even noticed them. But he did. And August watched as his little brother fled past him, unwilling to become a casualty of war.

“Are you bleeding?” his dad asked, standing tall at the base of the stairs. His shoulders were squared, hands on hips, but he sounded genuinely concerned. He was an expert interrogator. Another tremor hit, this one powerful enough to shake August’s whole body.

“Aug?” His dad prodded.

August’s eyes began to well with tears. They were going to figure it all out, and only because a couple drops of blood got on the floor. August breathed deep and steadied himself against the railing. He could see only one way forward, so he explained everything:

“Yes, Sir, but it’s not a bad cut. And I thought it was dry, so that’s why I didn’t clean up the mess. I was just on my way to put a band-aid on it. I’m sorry for the mess. But it happened when I was riding my bike. I saw a kitten and I wanted to catch it—I know I shouldn’t have and I’m sorry. But I was just down the street, so I figured you wouldn’t mind. So, I went to catch this kitten, and it started running away. I had to get on my bike and chase after it because I didn’t want it to get hit by a car—you know I love kittens. I’m sorry, but you always say it’s our job to help when we can, so I was just trying to help. But he started running away. So, I followed him and I realized I’d gone too far. Then, I tried to go home, but I was lost because I hadn’t ridden that far from the house. I’m sorry, I know I shouldn’t have done that, but I wouldn’t have gotten lost if I’d broken your rules before. Then I remembered that show we watched together—the one where the guy had to survive in the forest for a long time? He climbed a tree to figure out where the water was.”

Mr. Lee nodded while rolling his finger, beckoning August to speak faster. “Well,” he continued. “I couldn’t find any trees, but I saw a hill just outside our neighborhood. I figured if I rode my bike on that, I would be able to find our house. I wouldn’t have done that unless it was an emergency.”

“So, I climbed the hill and found our house. But the hill was really steep, and I was trying to go slow like you told me—I wouldn’t go fast because that could hurt me, and I didn’t want to break my new bike. But the brakes stopped working, and when I tried to stop, I saw the kitten again. I turned so I wouldn’t hit it, and I ran into a ditch. When I wrecked, all I could think about was how disappointed you and Mom would be that I broke my bike, so I got scared.”

Tears dripped from his cheeks. His voice had grown so frantic that he’d nearly spoken in cursive. As he awaited judgment, he added, “I’m really sorry. It was an accident; I swear it was.”

His parents’ eyes met somewhere between amazement and sympathy. It was his mom who spoke first, turning as she did. “Well,” she said. “You’re home safe. Get cleaned up for dinner, and we’ll talk about it then.”

And as August turned up the stairs, he smiled to himself, pleased with just how well he’d executed his lie. Surely, he’d covered all his bases, and he’d even been able to cry on command. It was a skill he’d only recently learned, but it worked like a charm. He tucked it in his back pocket, set on testing its effectiveness elsewhere.

*

Mr. Lee watched his son disappear around the corner. “Susie,” he said. “You know that was one big lie, right?” She chuckled as she wetted a rag. “Of course,” she said. “The Engle’s called when they saw him riding past their house. Bill kept an eye on him the whole time and let me know when he wrecked. I figured it wouldn’t hurt to have a hot dinner while we tell him he’s grounded.”  

“I suppose that’s right,” Mr. Lee responded, thinking back to when he was August’s age. He shook his head, remembering the stories he once told his own parents. And he knew everything would turn out fine.