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“Anybody ever dive off that bridge?” Rach asked him. It seemed to loom over us, though it was some distance away.
It was the only bridge over the Neosho for several miles in either direction.
John B. scoffed. “Are you kiddin’? You’d break your neck. You’d have to be crazy to do that.”
Rach floated on his back and looked at the bridge and smiled. “What you’re saying is,” Rach taunted, “you don’t
have the guts.”
When my brother was in sixth grade, he was susceptible to any dare.
I was out over my head in the river when I heard this chatter. I don’t think I meant to do it, but I suddenly
swallowed a big gulp of the Neosho and began coughing and sputtering like crazy. In my panic, I lost my stroke
and went under, thrashing for air. My short legs were unable to find the bottom in the murky water.
In a flash, John B. had me up on the riverbank pounding hard on my back. When I finally caught a breath, the first
thing I did was yell at him to cut that out. Then I coughed out a bit more ooky river, wheezed in a couple gulps
of air, wiped my nose on my wrist, and said in my most plaintive voice, “Johnny, you got to promise me you won’t
ever jump off that bridge.”
He blinked. “Okay, Emmy. I won’t.”
I had no way of knowing if he meant it at the time, so I insisted. “Promise?”
“Promise,” he vowed.
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(c) 2010 Douglas Armstrong
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