The Height of Foolishness

I became daring in the dark. Gazing at the crisscross ladder to the town’s water tank, I bowed my head and choked, “God help me.” In the daylight, I played the perfect preacher’s daughter. On Sundays, elder parishioners assessed my skirt a sensible length and my hair neither too short nor too long. My high school teachers praised my good grades; my parents expected nothing less. I scoffed at the sixpack sippers parked on deserted dirt roads. My drunken uncle’s ruined life squashed any desire for drinking. Friends and frenemies alike teased me with “What a goody-two-shoes.” Being good led to boredom, however. Boredom led to lowered defenses. Lowered defenses led to saying yes to this crazy dare in the dark. 

One bold senior cheerleader, believing me braver than I was, swatted me on the bottom and handed me a magic marker to put my name next to hers. “Hey, kid. You’ve got this.” Not one to disappoint, I tucked the marker in my bra. 

“Yeah, I do.” My churning stomach declared I didn’t. Four steel trestles held the million-gallon tank and would handle one hundred pounds more. My trembling knees might not.

Swiping my sweaty hands on my shorts, I stared at my feet and cursed. “Stupid strappy sandals,” perfect for a summer Saturday night date but dead wrong for scaling a water tower. I slipped them off.

Four cheerleader girlfriends who’d dared me and three boys who’d stopped cruising the loop to see what was up, whooped and hollered. “Go, girl, go.” 

The south end of Main Street lay deserted except for these rowdies and me under a full moon. At midnight children dreamed of flying or daring impossible heights without fear. With windows open on a sweltering August night, would their moms and dads stir with my friends’ harangue, wake to my pounding heart, and call the sheriff or worse—my dad?

I stepped on the first metal bar and winced. The ragged edge cut into my arch. “Would anyone loan me their tennies?”

One of my buddies threw me her shoes. My stunt counted as primo weekend entertainment. Nobody wanted this party to end, except me.

Shoes tied, I dried my hands again on the back of my shorts and set one foot on the first rung and placed one hand over the other. Five feet off the ground and 160 to go. Doubts dried my mouth. Like being stuck in a broken, packed elevator, I suffered limited options, no wiggle room, and numbing panic. But no one ever could call me a quitter. 

Halfway up, one of the boys whistled. I glanced down. Dizzy, I flattened my body and pressed my forehead against the cool girders. My grip froze. I gulped the moist night air and licked my lips. The crowd below grew quiet, like the moment a tightrope walker steps onto the rope without a net, wobbles, and hesitates. 

 I tilted my head to stare at the moon. Clouds slipped across its mocking face. No rocketing through space in my future, but damn it, I’d reach the top and return to earth again. 

A breeze rustled the leaves of trees beneath me. My memory muscle kicked in. I clutched the next bar and the next, faster, and faster until I touched the railing circling the tank. Wrapping my left arm around the rail, I pulled out the marker, bit the top off, and spit it out. I scribbled my initials next to others on the tank and tossed the marker to my friends. They cheered. Not a permanent mark on the world stage but worth a bow. Letting go with one hand, I waved to my admirers and gasped.

Sweat trickled between my breasts. My soaked tee stuck to my back. An owl hooted. “Fool. Fool.” If only I had wings. If only I’d said, “No way.” If onlys and what ifs tortured me. What if my friends called for help? The gossip and shame if I stayed a prisoner on the tower until the fire department rescued me scared me more than falling. I faced my only option. Descend. 

Crickets’ chirping quieted my nerves. My mantra “Focus on your hands and feel with your feet” rolled off my tongue. Slow. Steady. My friends' murmurs drifted up and pulled me like gentle gravity. Down again until my toes touched the ground. Brushing away hair plastered to my brow, I exhaled. “Haaaaa.” 

My girlfriends huddled around me, hugged me, and giggled, “Way to go, girl. You did it.” Leaning against the car, the boys surveyed me with expressions akin to respect. I celebrated my mission accomplished with an audible “Alleluia.” With an internal never again, I snuck home. In bed, I contemplated my miscalculation: No secrets survive in a small town.

Published in Foolhardy, Personal Stories Publishing Project, Fall 2024