As you remember from last week’s column, Twin Brother Mark had just pulled off his genius Bedroom Blanket Bungle leaving our room in shambles, sending Dad laughing down the hallway and me cowering behind our bedroom sliding glass door draperies.
Mark’s midnight stunt was in retaliation for the constant bombardment of water balloons he’d received during our last battle — most hurled his way by Yours Truly. Coming from behind the drapes to help laughing Mark clean up the mess, only one thought crossed my mind: revenge.
It took an entire week, but I came up with the perfect plan. Just didn’t know it would end with Dad having to rush him to the hospital.
As genius as Mark’s Bedroom Blanket Bungle was for its complexity, my plan was genius in its simplicity. It started right after the traditional Friday night pillow fighting that usually ended when one of the pillows got the stuffing knocked out if it, one of us got our stuffing knocked out, or when Dad burst through the door grumbling, “You kids get to bed. Don’t make me come back in here.”
That night, after switching off our bedroom lights, Dad walked down the hallway to their bedroom, closed the door, then went back to sleep. But not for long … Mark waited five minutes and started to jump.
Twins sharing the same bedroom, I guess that’s some unwritten rule back when we were growing up. That rule made no sense to me. Another rule was twins must sleep in twin beds. Now that rule did make sense, why else would it be called a twin bed?
Ours were up against the same wall facing the same way out into the room with just a nightstand in-between. The two-foot span of empty air was too far for either of us to reach out and hit one another, but a perfect separation for jumping from one bed to the other. We’d each take turns jumping — not very difficult. But add that our bedroom was pitch black or throwing a pillow at someone in mid-jump? Well, that’s when things got interesting.
My plan for revenge was much simpler than hurling a pillow to throw Mark off. Every time he completed his turn at jumping, I’d quickly slide out of my bed and push it two inches further apart from his. Wasn’t long before the narrow gap between our beds turned into the Grand Canyon.
After Mark’s last successful jump of the night, I pushed my bed the final two inches. Now up against the sliding glass door, there’d be no way Mark could make the jump. I was right. He didn’t.
After missing the bed completely, he slammed into the bedpost, splitting his chin wide open before crashing down into a crying, bleeding, crumpled mass on the floor — one I was sure Dad was gonna blame me for. Moments later, I was proven correct.
Unlike the previous week, this time when he burst into our room, Dad wasn’t laughing. Mom retrieved a rag to help stop the bleeding as Dad scooped Mark up to rush him to the hospital.
Upon their return, I’d already made a trip down to the Weeping Willow tree in our backyard and picked out a switch. From that night on, Mark and I never jumped between our beds again. But jumping between Big Brother James and Older Brother Richard’s? Now that’s a different story for another time.
That night I received two things I’ve never forgotten. I had actually been the cause of Mark’s injury. Being only 6 years old, that made a lasting impression on me. It was also the first time I realized my brothers and me weren’t indestructible after all. We could get seriously hurt just having fun.
Twin Brother Mark also received something from that night that was permanent — a two-inch scar on his chin.
[Rick Ryckeley has been writing stories since 2001. To read more of Rick’s stories, visit his blog: storiesbyrick.wordpress.com.]
