For all I knew, the Saturn Ion that would pull up to the front of my house on Sunday afternoons only meant the most boring hour of my life was about to take place. Just like dark clouds in the sky warn of a storm approaching, the sound of the front door unlocking and polite banter between my mother and tutor were signs that I needed to devise a scheme to escape the awful process of Chinese tutoring.

For a ten year old who was set on becoming a professional soccer player, Chinese lessons were not at the top of my priorities. The lessons were extremely difficult and frustrating, especially when I never got around to practicing due to my absolutely hectic elementary school homework workload. Naturally I needed a way to dodge the inevitable boredom of Chinese lessons. Of course I mastered the art of stalling by using the restroom. Nothing works better than the simple need to pee when it comes to the art of stalling. It was in these critical minutes that the mastermind of the ten year old would trigger ideas.

The first method of stalling would be throwing my brothers under the bus and making them take their separate 15 minute lessons before me. During these crucial 30 minutes, I put on my best display of acting in pretending I was seriously sick. With the help of corn, leftover fajitas, and green beans, I created the best throw up decoy possible. After heaving up a gallon of air and making over the top painful noises to grasp the attention of my mother, I retired to my bedroom in a successful bundle of nerves.

Quickly, the overwhelming sense of guilt snuck into the back of my mind. Thoughts about how much money my parents spent on the tutor, the amount of driving my tutor did just to come teach, and my overall feeling of disappointment that I had let my parents down. On the contrary, I also had managed to escape the lessons, and even though my mission was almost compromised when my mom entered my room while I was playing Wii Sports with my partner in crime: my brother. The quick leap of faith I made to my bed and intricate maneuver of the sheets to hide my grin when she walked in could’ve fooled an FBI agent.

In retrospect, the waste of food, time, and money may not have been worth the effort I put into this endeavour, but without it, I would’ve never understood the crushing feeling of guilt. The unavoidable continuation of acting I had to pull off eventually led me to miss my favorite part of the week. Soccer practice. I could hear my teammates muttering under their breaths when I returned the following week saying, “he’s a con man”, “he’s the sneakiest kid on the field”, and my absolute least favorite, “he’s a liar”. Without a doubt, lying caused me to understand the cruel punishment of guilt.

Sin was all around me. It hung on to the end of my sentences, whether they were in English or Chinese. Sin followed me in my shadows and nagged at me until I finally acknowledged it.