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Perfect
Deevich, as Danielle was known to her friends, wasn’t old enough to drive yet and almost everything fun was at least fifteen miles away from her house. The quickest route to town involved Cherry Hill Road.
When they named Cherry Hill Road they could have skipped the Cherry — there were no cherry trees on Cherry Hill Road. There was, however, one helluva hill. Deevich had tried to ride her bike up the road once before. Her skinny, muscleless thighs weren’t up to the job.
That single time Deevich tried pedaling up the road (the descent was easy, just sit on your bike seat and apply the hand brakes now and then) she got about half way, moved her bike off the road and found a nice flat rock on which to sit while she waited for her father to drive by on his way home from work. It was a waste of several hours of her time but worth it not to have to feel the pain caused by trying to pump her 10-speed up any more of Cherry Hill’s hill.
After he rescued Deevich, her father wanted to know where she had been. Deevich thought her father was a moron. She felt accomplished in her ability to weave a laborious but believable lie concerning her activities. She crafted her answer with detail. After two or three minutes, her father quit listening. When Deevich saw the glazed look that settled around her father’s eyes, she knew she was good to go. He didn’t need to know that she had a crush on her…
