Tracking

My fifth-grade class did not recess with others. Being smart, we got to skip the standard curriculum.
We sat in Mr. Munger’s stuffy classroom, shades drawn and slide projector humming, and viewed star constellations. Not sharing Munger’s passion for astronomy, I got disruptive. I was sent outside more than once.
“Several of you will be transferring out of this class,” Munger announced one morning, “to the regular fifth grade.” I then heard him say my name. How to face my friends? What to do with the newly acquired smugness? Soon two large boys transported my desk to one of the commoner classrooms. I trailed behind, heading for the gallows, bawling.

Fan Letter

I selected Davy, my beloved Monkees’ British—so Beatle-y!—lead singer. He was a former jockey, a fan magazine told me, so not too much taller or heavier. And if you ignored the age difference (me: 9, Davy: 22), I reasoned, our pairing was plausible.
But how to convince Davy?
Later, puberty raging, I discovered the fan letter in my mother’s desk. Jolted and ashamed, I read my own third-grade words: “Dear Davy, I am the kind of girl that all boys like….” I decided to kill the plan to save this one for later laughs. I tore the letter into bits, to never again be found and read. Ever.

Show and Tell

During second-grade Show and Tell, a nerdy kid exhibited what he referred to as “rock specimens.” He had been spotted during recess, just prior, hastily gathering ordinary rocks. Though a mere second grader, I had somewhat refined taste, and I expected more from my entertainment. But the way he stood up front, fondling the dusty rocks and expertly describing their mineral composition and geological significance, was impressive. He took those dirt clods (ahem, specimens) and made you think he’d just unearthed gold itself from that California schoolyard. I lost track of him, but I’d guess that he now runs a research lab and that he goes spelunking on weekends.

Tattletale

When a fellow second-grader returned from recess and “told on” another classmate, Mrs. Cuddy made her position clear. She had zero tolerance for a tattletale. She then tied a length of dirty-white jump rope around the playground snitch’s waist, positioning its “tail” (we could barely spell, so disregard the homonym) to hang down the informer’s backside—yes, over the unmentionable (butt!) region. And this ropey tail—a 1960s dunce cap—stayed knotted around the tattler for the remainder of the school day, scoring off the public humiliation charts. Being young, impressionable, and terrified of Mrs. Cuddy, we second graders learned quickly: Regardless of the injustice, never tell on anyone!