" I'm Gonna Call the Police."

I was on the roof of the school, and the janitor was yelling at me, "Stay up there. I'm gonna call the police." Bruce, my brother, ran home to tell Mom.

I climbed on the roof of the school every once in a while to retrieve my shoe that flew off while playing American kickball. We played on a baseball diamond paved with asphalt, and the rules were similar to baseball, with a few differences. You couldn’t strike out—the pitcher rolled the ball instead of throwing it. If you kicked the ball and someone caught it, you were out. If a fielder got the ball and threw or even kicked it to hit you while you were running, you were out, too. It was fast, competitive, and fun, and I loved playing it.

That day, I kicked hard, and my shoe went flying—way too high, landing on the roof behind me. Not the first time it had happened, and it probably wouldn’t be the last. Usually, I would just keep playing barefoot until my foot got too sore, but when that happened, I had to climb the tree on the other side of the building, get onto the roof, grab my shoe, and climb back down.

The problem this time was that Mr. Haney, the janitor, must have spotted me. Just as I reached the tree to climb down, I heard him yelling, "Stay up there! I'm gonna call the police!"

Now, I was stuck. I didn’t know if he really could call the police on me, but I sure didn’t want to find out. Bruce didn’t stick around to see what would happen—he took off running toward home, yelling over his shoulder, "I’m gonna get Mom!"

We lived just across the street, so it didn’t take long. A minute later, I heard another voice cutting through the air. "You get down from there right now!"

That was Mom.

I hesitated. "Mr. Haney said I have to stay up here!"

"I don’t care what Mr. Haney said. You get down right now!"

I didn’t argue anymore. I climbed back down, shoe in hand.

Mr. Haney stepped a few feet away and motioned for Mom to come over. He started talking in a low voice, but it didn’t matter—Mom wasn’t having it. "You’re telling me my kid is supposed to stay up there? What was he supposed to do, sleep up there all night?"

Mom: "It’s dangerous for him to be up there, and you tell him to stay? What kind of sense does that make?"

Mr. Haney tried again. "Well, climbing on the school is against the rules—"

"And so is leaving a kid stuck on a roof!"

At that point, Mr. Haney didn’t have much else to say. He grumbled something under his breath and stomped off toward the building.

Mom turned to me. "You get home right now."

I didn’t argue. I went straight home, and Bruce followed, still wide-eyed from everything that had just happened.

Later that night, while we were eating dinner, Dad asked, "So… what’s this about you getting stuck on the school roof?"

I looked at Mom. She was still mad, but now there was something else in her expression—maybe amusement, maybe exhaustion.

"I wasn’t stuck," I muttered.

Dad just shook his head and went back to his steak.

That was the last time I climbed on the school roof. At least, the last time I got caught.

Would you love to hear more of these childhood misadventures?