At the school rummage sale, there were four somewhat muddy, somewhat rusty bicycles going cheap. The bike we currently have for S. is really too small for her; she needs a taller one, even though she still uses training wheels.
So anyway, I was considering these almost-free bikes and called her over to look at them. They were all boys bikes, and two were probably no bigger than her bicycle, so there was not much point in considering those, but of course it was one of the smaller models that interested her most.
We had a brief chat about the pros and cons of the bikes in general, and I went back to staffing the money box, thinking that I shouldn't have shown her the choices and we were better off with something newer anyway.
About fifteen minutes later, a woman came to the front table and asked those of us working behind it, "Is it true that the bikes aren't for sale?"
"Oh no, they're for sale," the hostess assured her.
"Well, I just thought I'd ask you because someone said they're not for sale."
"Who told you that?"
"One of the girls here," the woman answered.
Call it mother's intuition. I saw S. playing with a large bird cage in the corner of the lawn. "Was it that little girl over there?" I asked, pointing to her.
"Yes, that's the one" the woman said.
Right.
(Imagine Obi Wan saying: "You don't need to see those bikes. Those bikes aren't for sale.")
I laughed. "Don't believe her!" I said. "She just said that because she wanted to get one of them. They're really for sale."
Ha ha. I laughed again. We all laughed. Those crazy kids.
It was less humorous a minute later when the woman's young son wheeled his purchase down the hill. S. happened to be looking up from playing at the moment that the boy walked by. Her head turned slowly to the left as she watched him go out the gate with his father to the parked cars. Then she frowned a little, and her head turned slowly all the way to the right as she leaned forward to peer past the battered tables and broken desks to the top of the hill and the pile of bikes for sale.
Her head whipped back toward the boy again, and you could practically hear a "click."
Her face changed: her eyes narrowed, her mouth tightened into an angry frown. She glared across the lawn at me. I had just taken the woman's money for the purchase, and S. knew it. The look she shot me would have slain me on the spot if it weren't for the fact that her Jedi Powers haven't yet reached their full awesome potential.
The other parents staffing the sale table saw the look too. They gave a collective sharp intake of breath.
"Maybe I'd better go talk to her," I said.
"Maybe you'd better," they all quickly agreed.
So I approached S., who appeared to be above speaking to the likes of me. After all, I was the person who had foiled her anti-sales tactics and allowed the bike she wanted to get away.
"We could think about getting you a new pink and purple bike," I started.
"I don't want a new pink and purple bike," she said, indignant.
"Well, uh..." I floundered.
Fortunately, she helped me out.
"What I want is a new Spiderman bike."
"Oh," I heard myself say. "We can get you a new Spiderman bike."
I also think I said something like, "We don't need to see his identification," and "These aren't the droids we're looking for."
Doomed, I tell you.
My husband and I, and anyone who ever dates my daughter.
Doomed.
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