Mom frowned at me, arms crossed.
I began again, trying to remember what I said before to keep my narrative consistent. No use contradicting myself!
Mom tapped her toe. She leaned back slightly.
I lost track of where I was. I fumbled, the words bumbling out. I stopped talking, stared at my toe.
I looked up at Mom.
Her expression was unchanged, but she clapped her hands about once every two seconds.
“Bravo,” she said. “A master weaver on the world’s largest loom couldn’t handle as many threads as that. Perhaps the truth now?”
Oh-oh. I am so grounded.
Word count = 100