Four stories follow. Three are true, one is false.

#1: The house at the end of the block had five orange trees in the front yard. The leafy branches, decorated with orange-green baubles of ripening fruit, partially stretched over the brick wall that separated the neighborhood from the city street. Two brothers, both younger than me, lived in the house with their single mother. Both boys had light skin, bright blonde hair, and ruddy cheeks.

Our usual summer ritual included sitting on the brick wall to watch the cars whoosh past in the wide, clearly-marked California lanes. The occasional orange unlatched itself from the tree and plummeted to the sidewalk on the other side of the wall, splattering its citrus entrails onto the heated concrete. Flies and other winged creatures eagerly delved into the pulpy flesh, coating the once shiny fruit with a unhealthy glaze.

“I dare you to throw an orange at a car,” the older boy said.

“Yeah! Throw an orange at a car!” the younger boy exclaimed.

The cars zoomed past at regular intervals; only a few drivers peered at us through the passenger side windows.

Wouldn’t it be funny if an orange gushed open all over the windshield? I bet it would really scare the driver.

“But that’s not nice,” I said.

“But it would be funny. We can jump down from the wall after we throw the orange. They won’t know.”

He had a point.

It would be funny.

We armed ourselves with choice, squishy oranges (to ensure explosion upon impact) and, all together, began to throw them in traffic. The oranges flew through the thick summer air in gentle arcs before landing with the grace of anvils. The oncoming cars began to honk in protest at the small citrus shower that produced juicy fireworks upon landing.

None of the oranges hit the cars.

This, I am certain, was not an accident.

#2: He peered over his glasses and shoved me.

“Come on,” he quietly taunted.

I pushed him back.

“Come on yourself,” I replied, pushing him again, this time with both hands.

He was the class outcast, recognized only for his practice of inserting his index finger into his nostril, twisting it a few times, and extracting a glob of snot. Rumor had it that he then inserted the offending finger into his mouth and licked off the snot with relish.

His nickname? Booger.

“Come on, Booger,” I teased. It was malicious teasing, the humiliating and inciting kind. “I bet you can’t even beat up a girl.”

He grabbed my pant leg and pulled, sending me sliding to the ground. I felt the tree roots rub against my butt as I struggled to regain my balance. In an unoriginal maneuver, my right hand grasped the cuff of his pant leg. I yanked hard and he, too, spilled onto the dirt.

I can’t remember what exactly happened from there: I recall that he restrained my arms, but I managed to free one and then hit him across the face. He may have recaptured my flailing arm; he may have tried to sit on me.

The recess bell interrupted our tussle.

He quickly got up, brushed off his clothes, and shot me a dark look. I extended my middle finger and poised my hand for his viewing displeasure.

My skin was sweaty and my face was flushed when I reached class.

#3: “Oh, Jason?” she said, examining her painted fingernails. “He’s cute. He’s going to help me with my homework later.”

“He is?” I exclaimed, surprised.

“Yeah; I think we’re going to go to the mall first and then he’s going to help me with social studies. He’s cute and smart. I think he likes me,” she said nonchalantly. She pulled out her ponytail and shook her head a few times, sending her wavy brunette locks into a cascade down her back.

“Jason does not like you,” I retorted. What I actually meant was, “I want Jason to like me.”

“Well, I think he does,” she replied. “He kept looking at me in class.”

“No, he wasn’t,” I snapped. This constituted repartee at that age.

“Yes, he was!” she exclaimed, finally looking at me. “You’re just jealous.”

“I am not jealous,” I said. “Why would I care if Jason likes you or not?”

“You like him, don’t you?” she said, a smile forming on her face. It wasn’t that flirtatious smile she reserved for the boys in the class; it was a toothy, condescending smirk. “Maria likes Jason and she’s jealous that he likes me.”

“I don’t like him and I’m not jealous!” I hotly protested.

“Yes, you do!”

“No, I don’t!”

“Stop lying. You love him.”

“Shut up.”

“Maria loves Jason! Maria loves Jason! Maria wants to have Jason’s babies!”

“Shut up!”

“I’m going to tell Jason that you want to marry him and have ten kids with him when I—”

The reason why she stopped talking is because she realized that a wad of my spit was now on her face. Shrieking with disgust, she hastily wiped her face and ran away, loudly commenting to no one about the grossness of it all.

#4: My parents were appalled.

“Girls don’t play video games,” they sternly said. “Why can’t you be more like a lady? Boys play video games. Why are you playing video games all the time?”

“I don’t know,” I replied, blinking rapidly to rehydrate my eyes. I was on level 14 of Tetris and my parents were breaking my concentration.

When Nathan, the kid who lived across the street, was playing Super Mario Brothers with me, my parents said nothing. They merely sighed loudly at us while we intensely collected coins, mushrooms, and princesses.

“You have to stop playing,” my parents said. “You’re spending too much time in front of the TV.”

“I’m almost done,” I replied, impatiently waiting for a 4-block line to drop from the Tetris heaven. My mountain of blocks was nearing the top.

“Now,” they said. “Turn it off.”

“Almost, almost!” I said. The 4-block line never came and my hopes of reaching level 15 were effectively walled off.

“We’re going to have dinner,” my parents said to Nathan and me. “Is your family going to have dinner soon?”

Nathan was a sharp kid. He recognized the cue.

“Uh… yeah. I guess I should get going.”

I was annoyed with them—how could they interrupt us right as we were starting level 9???—but, truth be told, I was hungry, too.

“We like Nathan,” they said, “but he plays too many video games. It’s too bad there aren’t any girls on this street; you need to act more like a lady.”

“Okay, okay,” I said, dreaming of green pipes and brick castles.

Which one is false?

UPDATE: The answer is after the jump…

… I have never spit at anyone. #3 is false. (Curious facial expressions to the commenters who opined that I “don’t seem like a spitter”—yet I somehow seem like someone who pick fights? ;)

(Part of the ongoing Relationship Series.)