Blockhouse

On the blacktop, I spied a house of wooden blocks. “Can I come in?” I asked the boy inside.
“No! Go away!”
Rejected, I pushed in a wall block.
Soon the Yard Duty was hugging the boy, who clutched his index finger. We Kindergarteners mobbed around.
“He says that SOMEBODY pushed in a block on purpose. WHO did this?”
I remained silent.
The boy pointed his good finger at me, blubbering: “SHE did it!”
“Um, somebody pushed ME,” I said, cooking up a lie. “And, um, I fell.”
I was let off.
After a long absence, the boy returned to school. A gigantic splint and bandage shrouded his shattered finger.