Summer of Water Balloons !!!

I was still wearing undershirts,
though too hefty for them. It was
a summer of water balloons.

One of us would crouch over a faucet,
Another would knot thin ones and plump ones,
plump as a baby's belly. Then we'd lob each other
gleefully and with vengeance.

From a wall, we'd drop our watery bombs
on innocent shoppers wheeling carts
in the blazing sun.

That week, I was the only girl not asked
to the sleepover at Louise's house.
But then, as you'd have it, the boys needed me.

I was to merely knock on the door, and
they'd bombard her hall with dripping balloons.
Later, she would upbraid me saying -
"How dare you, you stained my mother's carpet."

By then, my heart had taken another turn.
Same night, I went bike riding with the boys.
My steed, an ancient racer, once grime and webs
in the dank cellar; now brought to life.

We raced past the park, past the stone mouthed
panthers guarding the hollow, panthers roaring
with vengeance and glee.

The sky was oiled an olive black,
the moon slivered in its silver shell,
a sharp wind swept across my face.
And yes,

there was this one lanky Irish kid,
head of the pack, who'd been adopted
by a childless Jewish woman.

At times, he'd ride not holding onto the bars,
like treading water or daring fate. Then,
surprisingly, he rode to the place where
I was - my heart was open.

Back home, my mom squawked,
"Out so late, the four little kids
are still awake. What were you thinking?"

Like four ducklings, I dropped them in the tub,
scrubbed them down, wrapped them in towels,
smoothed their feathers.

Then, I opened the drawer to my pink diary
with its brass lock - I listed the names of all
the boys on the ride and wrote a few lines
about the lanky Irish kid,