My 3rd Grade Story

Once upon a time (about 15 years ago) in a land, oh, about 45 minutes away from here, there was a girl in 3rd grade....

Ok, enough of that...

When I was in third grade, my mom and dad were the meanest parents in the whole wide world and didn't let me do bad in school.

How dare them.

So they sat me down one evening and told me that any paper I brought home below a 70 was unacceptable.

Every Friday Mrs. Cocanougher (yes, that was her real name) would pass out papers to send home to our parents. Were there grades below a 70? You bet.

Right then my brain went into overdrive. What should I do with these papers? My parents would be so dissapointed if I brought home bad grades.

Here were my options:
1.) Rip up the papers and throw them in the trash. No. That wouldn't work. The janitors might find them and tape them back together and show my mom and dad. Since they had nothing else to do.
2.) Crumple them up and throw them away. No. That wouldn't work either. The paper might fall out of the trash can and someone would find them and show them to my parents.
3.) Crumple them up and flush them down the toilet. Hmmm.

I picked number 3. Just because I'm smart and it was a sure way that no one would ever find out that I was making grades below a 70.

This went on for about 3 or 4 weeks. Every Friday I'd get my papers back and every Friday I'd go to the restroom right after class and crumple them up into a little tiny ball and flush them down the toilet.

My parents were so proud that I listened to them. And if you think about it, I really did. They said not to bring papers home that were failing. And I obeyed. I didn't bring them home. I flushed them down the toilet. If they would have said not to make any grades below a 70 that would have been completely different.

That's my story and I'm stickin' to it.

So anyways. One day, Mrs Hudson, our vice principal, called me down to the office. Everyone (including me) thought I was going down to get a Lion Pride award, because I really was a good student. When I walked down to her office, she was standing outside her door (which is never a good sign) holding what looked to be wet papers. She asked if they were mine.

"No."
"Well, they have your name on it."
"Oh."
"These were stopping up the drains and a plummer had to come out and fix the pipes and he pulled these out. They were stopping up 3 drains in the girls restroom."

Then she told me we were going to walk up together to tell Mrs. Cocanougher. I don't remember what else was said but I remember crying and promising I would never do a bad thing again for as long as I lived.

When we got up to my classroom, she called Mrs. Cocanougher out to the hallway to tell her what a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad girl I was. Just kidding. But I was sobbing the whole time and thinking Mrs. Cocanougher would think I was the worst person in the whole world. Now that I think about it, I'm sure she was probably trying to keep the smile off her face, but she kept saying, "Oh, Ashleyyyy"

After Mrs. Hudson had filled her in on everything that had happened, I went back into the classroom. I had been bawling, my nose was runny, my face was red and tears were rolling down my face and the classroom was silent. Thankfully, it was almost time to go home so I walked to my desk crying, sat down, and kept my head down on my desk for the rest of the day, dreading what was going to happen when my mom found out.

When mama ain't happy, ain't nobody happy. And that's the truth.

So when the last bell rang, Mrs. Cocanougher walked us all out to the parking lot to wait for our parents. My mom always picked me up from school in our white Corsica and I still remember her walking up to me, seeing me still blubbering like an idiot, and asking what was wrong. I didn't say a word. I just pointed to Mrs. Cocanougher. I walked out to the car and continued my blubbering.

When mom got in the car she didn't say a word. I HATED THAT. I still hate that! Yell at me! Gripe me out! Get angry at me! Do NOT NOT talk! But that's how we drove home. The 5-6 minute drive home felt like 5-6 hour drive home.

When we got home, I went straight to my room. I knew I'd be grounded for the rest of my life, I should just make it easier on myself and stay in my room. A few minutes later, my mom came in my room and said I should go ride my bike for a little bit while my parents discuss my punishment.

The house we lived in at that time was right behind our church. There were huge parking lots with big hills right behind our house so it was really fun riding bikes up and down there. I rode my bike for about 15-30 minutes praying the whole entire time.

Lord, please don't let them kill me.
Please don't let them be disappointed.
Please don't let my mom cry.
Please make me a bird. Make me a bird so I can fly far far away from here.

(Just kidding about the last one.)

When I heard my mom call me back into the house I walked in, sat down, and braced myself. They told me I had probably been through enough turmoil so they weren't going to punish me anymore than I already had punished myself.

What? Did that really just happen? Did I really just flush my papers down the toilet, clog the drains, lie to my parents and NOT get in trouble? Yep. And I had never been so relieved or embarrassed.

I bet I would have been less embarrassed if Mrs. Cocanougher didn't go to our church and wasn't our youth minister's wife.

The End.