“Bill, you’d better start going to bed earlier.” Mom looked me in the eye. “School starts next week, and you need to change your sleeping habits, young man.”
“Right, Mom.” I went downstairs to my room and pulled out a book instead.
At the age of 14, when summer lasted for three glorious months of idleness and indolence interspersed with periods of sheer boredom, I already knew everything. With a whole week to prepare, I’d be fine.
Secure in my smugness, I followed my normal routine. Waking around noon, playing touch football, going to the pool and riding my bike to the library filled the daylight hours. After dark, my next door neighbors turned on their backyard floodlights—Foster Memorial Stadium, we called it—and we played whiffle ball until the 10:00 news reminded our parents we should be inside.
The rest of the evening and the better part of the night, I spent in my room with a book. After reading the same sentence over and over, usually around three or four a.m., I put my book down and slept, rising again around noon. Rinse and repeat.
At bedtime the night before school, sleep was the farthest thing from my mind. Mom gave a warm, but unsympathetic, smile. “You should have paid attention to me last week. Go to bed.”
Of course, I obeyed, not even thinking about a book. Instead, I tossed and turned, falling asleep around 2:00.
That morning, 7:00 came early, far too early, but I got up without complaint and, somewhat bleary-eyed, handled the entire day.
At dinner that night, Mom kept an eye on me and my frequent yawns. “If you stay up until at least nine, you’ll be fine tomorrow.”
“Yeah, Mom. Sure.” After all, I was 14 and I already knew everything.
William R. Bartlett lives in Belton with his family.