I am the daughter of idealists.

My parents resisted tradition in raising us. They resisted "having rules." They resisted "using labels." They resisted "wearing pants."

My sister Amie and I knew we were different, and we were okay with that. We were allowed to swear. We were allowed to criticize the establishment. We were allowed to call President Reagan a "little bitch."

Of course, my parents didn't abolish rules completely. We could not watch "Popeye." We could not watch "Divorce Court." We could not watch "Donahue" when the guest list was weak.

My mom was emphatic on a few points in particular. We could not pierce our ears. We could not say something "sucked." And most importantly, we could not eat sugar of any kind.

While other kids licked candy jewelry rings and bubble gum cigarettes, we attended a regularly scheduled snack hour at our family's one-level house at the bottom of the hill on 60th Street. We ate okra and broccoli. We ate jicama and sprouts. We ate carrot sticks, celery stalks, carob chips, granola bars, apple sauce, asparagus spears, tangerine wedges, banana sandwiches, ginger chews, dried pineapple, and trail mix.

We were the laughingstocks of the cul de sac.

When I was 9 and Amie 12, we decided to take matters into our own hands. It was Easter Sunday, and we were still reeling from a particularly good egg hunt in the backyard. Amie discovered Barbies near the lemon trees. I found Matchstick cars under the honeysuckle vines. We crossed the street to our neighbors, Kelly and Carrie, who were 7 and 8, so we could gloat.

Our humbling came quick. Laid out across their glass coffee table was an obscene array of chocolate bunnies, chocolate chicks, chocolate cats, chocolate dogs, chocolate turtles, chocolate dinosaurs, and various chocolatey creatures from the sea. I reached for a jellybean. Amie nodded approvingly.

Questioning authority had never tasted so lightly tangy. I knew I was in trouble, but it wasn't until I went to the bathroom later and stuck out my stained black tongue in the mirror that I saw the full extent of the damage done. In desperation, I pumped soap from the hand dispenser and slathered the liquid on my tongue, working it into a bubbly foam. I cringed. I spit. I winced. I repeated.

I vowed to never eat sugar again.

Later that summer, my sister—bolder, wiser, and totally not afraid of the mean girl up the street who used a spaghetti strainer and Clorox to dye her hair—reminded me of the transgression. Amie said she wanted to "take a bike ride." "I feel like taking a bike ride," she said. "Do you know what I mean?"

She meant candy.

"Yeah, I want to go for a bike ride, too," I winked back. Fight the power. Smash the state.

We pedaled furiously up the street. Past the Frogen Yozurt, past the sketchy college apartments, past the giant blinking neon Indian twirling a baton on the closed-down drive-in movie theater. We kept riding until God's divine number appeared above our heads. We had reached the everyday place for people on the go. The leader in convenience retailing.

What happens at 7-Eleven stays at 7-Eleven, we assured each other.

There were rows upon rows of Sweet and Sour Pops, Milk Duds, Jolly Ranchers, Bazooka, Tootsie Rolls, Kit Kats, Snickers, Skittles, Lifesavers, Hot Tamales, Mike & Ikes, Reese's Pieces, Butterfingers, Gobstoppers, Candy Necklaces, Charleston Chews, Banana Runts, Candy Buttons, Atomic Fireballs, Twizzlers Pull-n-Peel Cherry Candy, and Chupa Chups Jelly Belly Jelly Beans.

We ate ourselves sick.

Thirteen dollars, 46 cents, and two hours later, we walked our bikes home. "We were just riding around the neighborhood," Amie instructed. "We ran into some people. We ran into friends. We explored nature. We had fun. Whatever you do, go straight to the bathroom."

We stopped dead in our tracks at the front door. My mom stood on the porch, arms folded, eyes wide. Way too nice.

"Hi!" she said, sitting down and blocking our paths. "How did the big bike ride go?"

We looked down.

"Good," I said.

"Great," Amie said.

"Really? Well what'd you do? Where'd you go? Tell me all about it."

"Not much," Amie said. "Not much to say."

"Did you go down the big hill?" my mom asked. "That hill is so scary!"

My sister was defiant. "Look mom, it was just a bike ride. Nothing special, okay?"

I looked up, taking my lead from Amie and agreed. "Yeah," I nodded. "Regular."

My mom looked at me and turned to ice. "Stick out your tongue, Mandy. You too, Amie."

We looked diseased. Blue tongues, purple teeth.

"Grounded," my mom hissed. "For the rest of the summer."

I retired to my room to spend the summer with my collection of collections (snow shakers, pennies, postcards, stickers, restaurant coasters, stuffed animals, hamster food, dirty underwear). Amie returned to her Billy Idol poster and the sealed Seventeen magazines that she was not allowed to read until she actually turned 17. Gift subscription.

I wrote letters to tell my friends the news.

"Dear Maureen, I'm sorry I can no longer play with you, but my mother has lost her trust in me. You're kind of a liar anyway. Have a good summer - Mandy."

My sister did what she does best in times like these. She strategized.

The next day, she came to see me. She stepped illegally onto the brown furry carpet in my room.

"I know how we're going to get out of this," she said. "We clean the whole house. The whole, entire thing. Everything."

Idealist parents are kind of messy.

"What do you say?" Amie said. She folded her arms like my mom. She scared me.

"Oh," I said. "Yeah, definitely."

We used the intercom system set up in our bedrooms to work out the rest of the details. We would wait until my parents had gone for the evening. We targeted critical areas of need. Somehow I ended up with the bathroom.

Later that day, when my parents left for the night, we dug into the cleaning supplies. We skipped the 409 and went straight for the Scrubbing Bubbles. My sister demanded perfection. When she came in to check my progress in my parents' bathroom, she wasn't happy with me simply shining and buffing the counter. I had to use a toothpick to clean out every groove in the control dial to my father's Water Pic.

When my parents returned home that day, they were speechless. Stunned and speechless. My sister was emboldened. "Now," she said. "What do you think of us now?"

My mom regained her composure. "Interesting," she said. "I see you've been doing a little tidying up around the house."

Amie interrupted. "We worked the entire time you were gone. And we thought about what we did. And we talked about it, too."

I kept quiet. I didn't want to screw this up. Instead, I did what I found helpful in a lot of stressful situations when I was 9. A headstand in the corner.

Their negotiations began. "What would you think about a month for the grounding?"

My sister was unimpressed. "A month?" she asked. "I'm sorry, but maybe you haven't seen the bathroom?"

"A week," my mom countered.

"A day," my sister held firm.

"A really long weekend," my mom said.

"Done," Amie replied.

I exhaled and rolled out of my headstand. I thought about what we did. I did not talk about it, too.