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I never egged Sarah Coburn’s house.

I was at this golf club in Maine ane the only reason why we were there was because my well-off friend had a membership there. We were only using the swimming pool. We went back into the locker room and cased the joint to see what kind of amenities this place had (sauna, hot tub, etc.) and it also had an indoor pool. So we were messing around in this indoor pool; mind you, we’re the only ones there. We started jousting with those giant french-fry floatie things and throwing around the random pool toys they had. So as we’re leaving this place, I pick up this playground ball, and my friend bets me that I can’t hit the light above the far end of the pool with said ball. I’m thinking back to my fifth grade summer, when my friend hit a three-pointer from 30 yards with a tennis ball to take $25 off of me. There’s no loss built in on my end, so I take the bet. Now I don’t need to say what happens next, because I wouldn’t be posting this crap if this was a random, uneventful missed shot, but regardless; I hit the light, it shatters on the side of the pool, no one sees us, we bolt and figure I won’t get caught.

So at the end of the week, my rich friend with the golf club membership tells me that I’m busted. Sarah Coburn (one of the lifeguards at the club) is implicated in the ratting, and we get verification from other lifeguard girls she is indeed guilty of Yarmouth High School treason. The club sends me a bill for $1,500 (pool cleaning, maintenance, and fixture replacement) and I shit myself. After I clean up the mess I made, I gave the bill to my dad (who is the manager of an insurance firm in Portland) and hope it gets cleared. Here’s the catch: that $1,500 hangs in the balance (and is just waiting to be subtracted from my balance) the whole summer.

From late June to August, several unexplained, unmotivated eggings of the Coburn house take place.

In September, Erica Rafford calls my house. She was a lifeguard at the club. She was the sister of a girl that we hung out with regularly. She was one of Sarah’s friends. Erica calmly explained to my mother that I had been egging “her” (in quotes because she claimed that she was Sarah) house and that, yeaaaah, if she would please approach her son and ask that he cease all egging immediately, that would be great, yeaaah. So when I get home, she asks what all the hoopla is all about, and I let slip, before she says the name, it was probably “Sarah Coburn.”

“Who?” She asks.

“Uhhh, Sara Coburn . . . Uhhh, I found out who reported me to management in the whole light incident this summer, and she probably thinks I have been egging her house.”

“Oh,” she says, “All right.”

I never egged Sarah Coburn’s house.

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