I wish I hadn’t dared Oliver to throw the rotten eggs on Mrs Rhyse’s porch. We hate Mrs Rhyse. She is a horrible old lady who always complains about us—to our parents, to the neighbours, and to the teachers in our school.

            I had thought Oliver would chicken out; and when he said he would do it, I knew he was trying to be cool.

            “What if I do it?” he asked.

            “You won’t do it. You are a wuss.”  I was having fun. I liked how troubled he looked.

            “And you think you are better?” He said calmly, picking up the egg carton that we had found near the garbage dump. “If I egg her house, then you will scratch Mr Nolan’s car.”

            The day before, while we were spray-painting the rocks behind the church, Mr. Nolan had confronted us, given us a piece of his mind, and told on us. I was so angry that I said I would put a big scratch on his shiny red car.  

            “Will you do it? Or are you a softy?” Oliver asked, looking dead serious.

 I couldn’t let him win, and I was sure he wasn’t really going to throw the eggs.

The summer was dreadful. There was nothing in town to do, and we were dead bored. Oliver was getting on my nerves. We had played together day in and day out; the school was closed for another month. Oliver was shorter than me and looked small, but when we wrestled, he could defeat me if I didn’t go all in. He ran faster than me and could do tricks on the bike that I couldn’t. But he was scared of darkness. And I knew he wasn’t going to egg Mrs Rhyse’s house.

            As Oliver picked up the egg carton and began walking towards her house, I called out, “But you will have to take the blame. It is easy to throw the eggs and run. If you are not a wuss, then you would own it.”

“I am not a wuss,” Oliver said and walked resolutely to Mrs Rhyse’s front porch. He threw all four eggs on her porch, and as one of the eggs hit the glass window with a thud, Mrs Rhyse came running to the front. Oliver didn’t run away. He stood there and looked her in the eye. It took some time for Mrs Rhyse to see what Oliver had done; by then, he had walked back home.

Oliver got a thrashing from his father and was grounded for a week. When he was allowed to go out, he came over to my house and reminded me of what I had to do.

            I wasn’t going to back out; otherwise, he would have called me names in front of the boys, and I couldn’t have that. I took my papa’s crowbar with me, and as Oliver stood by my side, I scratched it across Mr Nolan’s car’s bonnet, leaving a fine line about an inch long on the shiny red.

            “Cool stuff,” Oliver observed.

            “I know,” I said with a smile. My heart was beating very fast. I knew I was in trouble, but the pressure that had built up after Oliver’s egging of Mrs Rhyse’s house defused. I felt myself again. “Throwing eggs was no big deal,” I told him with newfound bravado, “See that,” and I pointed to the scratch, “That’s a big deal. You can’t do anything like this.”

            “It's not a big deal,” Oliver said, “I could do it.”

            “But I did it.” I said, and I thought I couldn’t let him so easily, “Tell you what, if you are so fearless, then I dare you to steal Mr Garrison’s chicken.”

            Oliver was thinking. He looked blank. I wasn’t sure he would fall for it, so I added, “Leave it, I knew you would chicken out.”

            “Deal,” Oliver said, and we shook hands.

            I went home and waited for the things to unravel. Mr Nolan took me and my papa to show what I had done. I said it happened by mistake, but I couldn’t explain anything. My papa slapped me in front of Mr Nolan. It was terrible. When we got home, he used his belt, and my back hurt. I didn’t stay at home for long. I was angry and worked up. There was no way Oliver was going to steal Mr Garrison’s chicken.

            “I will steal the chicken. But Mr Garrison doesn’t have to know that I did it.” Oliver said.

            I agreed. I didn’t believe he would do it. And besides, Mr Garrison has two ferocious dogs that would bite anybody who went near the fence; the dogs are never on leash. So, when Oliver dared me to dig up the grave of little Billy, who had died in a freak accident last year, I said I would.

            I was out of luck; Mr Garrison’s dogs were asleep after lunch, and Oliver managed to steal the chicken. I asked him to gut it and throw the carcass in the nursery. Oliver did it too. That evening, I dug open little Billy’s grave and kept the casket open. The next morning, everyone was talking about the gutted chicken and the grave-diggers. We didn’t get caught. My grandma believed that someone was up to some black magic, and the elders kept a vigil at night for a week.

            I couldn’t let it rest. I wanted to show Oliver his place. So, I asked him to set Mrs Pine’s barn on fire. I just wanted to see him scared. I didn’t think he would do it. But now, I am hiding in his cupboard with a chainsaw, waiting for his father to come home, and my heart is going wild with anticipation. I must kill Mr Cook; this has gone out of hand I guess, but I can’t back out now. But I wish I hadn’t dared Oliver to throw the rotten eggs on Mrs Rhyse’s porch.