The sun beat down on my shoulders. A cool breeze tickled my short legs. It was the beginning of spring and I was 9 years old. All of my cousins were over, for a family dinner. We were outside, and I was sitting in a tree, being my typical show-off self. I looked down at my cousins and sisters below me, most of them telling me to get down, and some even threatening to get the adults. I screamed back at them in my high-pitched voice, asking if I should jump. A breeze rustled the leaves around me, seeming to egg me on. Should I do it? Would I get hurt? My 9-year-old brain told me I should. Everyone was watching. I contemplated it. Everything was silent. My cousins watched nervously, wondering what I would do. I had always been the dare devil, doing crazy things and getting myself into trouble. I jumped. My cousins gasped in awe. I landed in the grass, face down, and right on my left wrist. I even dragged down some leaves with me. Everyone stared screaming at once. I could barely breathe, let alone try to get up. Tears welled in my eyes, but I tried to hold them back. I didn’t want to seem like I was hurt in front of my cousins. Finally, I got up, with bright green grass stains on my knees and t-shirt, and leaves stuck in my hair. I rushed inside, hoping to get some ice for my throbbing wrist but at the same time not wanting my mom to find out because I knew she would be angry with me for being so stupid. My mom noticed me hurriedly grabbing ice from the freezer, and asked what I was doing. She noticed the leaves stuck in my golden blonde hair, and began trying to take them all out. She asked again what had happened. I told her that I had just tripped and hurt my wrist. I hoped my cousins wouldn’t come in and tell her what really happened. Luckily, no one did, so she bought it. In the end, I just really bruised my arm. But I learned to be more careful, and not be such a show-off.