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CHRISTMAS EVE IS SUPPOSED to be about love, joy, and peace. Apparently my older cousin Tammy never got the memo. I don't think she actually intended to put us in mortal danger, but things tend to get out of hand when you're a 12-year-old heady with power.

My cousin Aaron and I knew something was up when Tammy told our parents she wanted to take us outside to play after our annual Christmas feast ended. I was only 8 and Aaron was 6, but we knew one thing for certain—Tammy didn't like to "play." She was the black sheep of the sixth-grade set, a smart-talking rebel. She smoked. She wore eyeliner. And she delighted in bossing us around.

I wanted no part of it.

"I don't want to go out," I said to my mom, who was helping my grandma with the dinner dishes.

"It'll be fun," she said absentmindedly as she dried her hands on a towel and got my snowsuit from the closet. "Just don't go too far."

Bundled up, Aaron and I stayed close together as we left the warmth of the house and stepped into the blustery winter night. I had a sick, churning feeling in my stomach as I looked up at Tammy.

"What are we going to do?" I asked, hoping it was something only mildly scary, like exploring a haunted house or skydiving.

"We're going sledding," she said. Aaron looked at me with naïve hope glimmering in his eyes. "That sounds fun," he whispered. "Maybe she's being nice 'cause it's Christmas."

"We don't have sleds," I announced, happy to have a legitimate excuse not to participate.

Tammy wasn't listening. She was rummaging around in her backpack. After a moment, she triumphantly held up a roll of shiny black garbage bags. "We've got sleds," she said.

I wasn't sure about sledding on garbage bags. They didn't look like they had much steering capability.

Aaron piped up again. "Where are we going to sled?"

It was a good question. My grandma's house was in a flat little pocket of northeast Minneapolis. There weren't any nearby hills, and she wasn't old enough to drive anywhere. I felt relief flooding through me, warming me under my too-small snowsuit. It was a short-lived emotion.

"I've got a place," Tammy said. She began walking at a fast clip, and we had to trot to keep up with her. She led us, block after block, intent on reaching our mystery hill. Finally, we reached a tall fence bordering Interstate 35W and she stopped.

"We gotta climb this," she said, tucking the garbage bags into her pocket.

"Why?" I asked stupidly, the question already answered in my mind.

This was our sledding hill. The embankment next to 35W. We were sledding into death. I promptly burst into tears.

Tammy didn't blink an eye. "If you don't go down that hill, I'm going to tell your mom and dad you peed in your snowsuit," she said with a grin.

I hadn't done any such thing, but the shame associated with such an act spurred me into action. Throwing Tammy what I hoped was a look of death, I hoisted Aaron over the fence and let her boost me over. The three of us stood at the top of the embankment, looking down at a stretch of highway with three lanes of traffic on each side.

The next hour was a blur of sledding trips straight out of kamikaze training school. We slipped and slid down the steep slope again and again, clinging to the sides of the plastic bags so we wouldn't lose control and tumble into traffic. The cars whooshed by, the drivers blissfully unaware that small children were at play near their hubcaps.

I did my best to slide without actually sliding, dragging my heels in the snow as I inched down the hill, but Aaron didn't have as much control. On his last trip down the hill, he rocketed along on his garbage bag and came to a screeching stop on the shoulder of the freeway. A passing driver honked his horn in alarm, a long, loud blare that brought Tammy to her senses. Apparently the thought of telling Aaron's parents he was run over by a speeding Oldsmobile wasn't the way she wanted to spend Christmas Eve.

She soothed Aaron's hysterical tears and helped us scramble back over the fence to safety. She even held my hand on the way back.

I was still trembling when we got back to my grandma's house, but the warm air in the kitchen made the whole adventure seem like a bad dream. My mom called out from the living room as she heard us troop inside.

"Did you kids have a good time?"

I stood for a moment, not sure if I should tell the tale or keep quiet. Tammy made the decision for me.

"Don't forget you peed in your snowsuit," she whispered in my ear. MM

Nichol Nelson is associate editor of Minnesota Monthly.