In my defense, I had never given the luggage rack a second glance. I didn't even know what it was, much less its age or value. It had always been just smudge in my peripheral vision, a mildly interesting construction of black wood and satin ribbon that didn't hold my attention for long. It had always been in the guest room; I assumed, as children do, that it always would be.
Blame the rain, if you must cast blame. It hammered at the windows and had for at least an hour. Without it, the neighbor girl and I would have been outside, coming up with new and inventive ways to skin our knees on the pavement. Her name was Lauren; she was nine, like me, and came from a family much more permissive than mine. This lack of parental concern fascinated me. Because of it, my mother disapproved of her and I sought her company whenever possible. None of my other next-door or two-doors-down friends were home for various reasons, so Mom had sighed and let me invite her over.
Our game of hide-and-seek having degenerated into follow-the-leader, I trotted obediently around the house behind her. We'd already passed through the bathroom, every room downstairs, and my small, pink-walled bedroom; only the guest room lay unexplored.
In a moment that should now prove my innocence in the matter, I hesitated at the door. This room, I vaguely knew, was full of fragile ornaments and furniture that Had To Stay Neat Or Else. It had never been designated as a place to play. But Lauren marched in without a backward glance, and so I followed her bobbing ponytail anxiously.
She stood on one foot, flapped her arms like a chicken, made a face; I mimicked her as per the game's rules. Bored of such mundane commands, she glanced around for something to add interest to our escapade. She found the luggage rack.
It's worth knowing, at this point, that I was a rather portly child. Lauren, by contrast, typified the skinny, tanned little girl who seems to inhabit all neighborhoods of the past. At the time, my awareness of this difference was minimal; it never seemed to matter or come up in conversation. So when she perched like a tiny bird on the gold straps of the rack, I hurried to copy the action.
CRACK!
I felt one of the ribbon-straps give way beneath me, heard the wood splinter.
Later I would learn that the rack was antique. When my father got home, I would receive the worst scolding of that month. In the moment, though, I could only think, "I hate you, Lauren."
Because, obviously, none of it had been my fault.
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