It Was The Night Of Our Homecoming Football Game.
The night my backdoor was opened. Our team was terrible, but we went anyway—more for the mischief afterward than the game itself. As expected, the post-game foolery began. Eggs, toilet paper, shaving cream—classic tools of suburban chaos. I got an egg from a friend and scoped out a group of upperclassmen. One of them spotted me and smirked. “Don’t even think about it,” he warned. So, naturally, I did. I launched the egg. It narrowly missed, and a couple o...