(or “Why I Probably Shouldn’t Be a Children’s Author”)
Dad said, “Do not look inside that place!”
Every day on the way to school down the long boulevard, I walked by that
place. The door was always closed.
Every day on the way home from school, I walked by that place. The door
was always open.
“Did you look inside that place?” Dad asked.
“No,” I said.
Every day on the way to and from school, I walked by that place. Sometimes
music came out the door. Sometimes a sour smell came out that door.
“I hope you didn’t look inside that place,” Dad said.
“No, Dad. I didn’t.”
Sometimes we drove by that place. Sometimes I rode my bike by that place.
Every day after school, I walked by that place.
“Don’t look inside,” Dad said.
I didn’t look. Ever. For a long time. And then one day, I walked by that place.
And I looked.
Dad said, “I saw you look inside that place.”
I hung my head.
“Now don’t let me see you look inside that place again.”