On August 16, 1977, Elvis Presley saved me. The previous afternoon, I played with my six-year-old peers in Heather Peters’ backyard. I was enjoying my cake, when Heather asked me where my sleeping bag was. Only then did I know this party was a sleepover. The word “sleep-over” to a six-year-old bed-wetter is like what “cancer” means to an adult. But what if I told them I was a bed-wetter? At least with cancer, people gather at your bedside instead of running from it. I thought of a way to escape. I would explain that I needed my mother’s permission to spend the nights. But as I called my Mom, Heather stood beside me to listen. She granted permission! Then I would be sleeping in the same living room as the other girls. I didn't bring my own nightdress, so Mrs. Peters offered me Heather's nightdress. As the other girls drifted into their sweet dreams, I tried to stay awake. “Do I need to go again? I’ll stay up to go one more time...”. Of course, I finally fell asleep. The next morning, I was the first to wake up. I was warm! I lay in panic for what seemed like hours before the other girls started to wake up. I did the only thing I could do—I pretended that the bed-wetting didn't happen. I got up, took off Heather's nightdress and changed into my clothes like the other girls. Mrs. Peters walked into the room, and before she could say anything, she stepped right onto the pile of my wet nightdress. My heart stopped as I watched her face burn red. “WHO DID THIS?” She screamed, with a look so scary. Should I answer? And that was when it happened—Mr. Peters came in and grabbed his wife, “Elvis Presley died!” The news of the King’s death overtook Mrs. Peters, and I was narrowly excused. Then, we left Peters’ together but without the other girls knowing what had happened. 小题1:The author had to spend the night at Peters’ because ________.
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