Little Liar and the Good Breakfast
This is a very short story written as an assignment for a writing class. It goes into more detail on my adventures as a third grader with a politically incorrect teacher of that era (see Fingernails and Hankies...). I had to dig way back into the memories to piece this together but it was fun!
“Today’s children should be taught good
manners,” snapped Mrs. Crawford, a stern look on her wrinkled face. An
immaculately pressed white dress covered in pale pink roses stretched over
ample bosoms and hips with a spun gray coiffure. Potent flowery perfume
“Line up quickly, children!” I found my alphabetic place in the string of sleepy third graders. Sneaking a glance at my scuffed Thom McAns I began rubbing them on the backs of my pant legs, grateful that I had an “R” last name.
Only as an undercurrent did I hear Mrs. Crotchety’s lambastings as she worked the line like a drill sergeant; I was too busy artistically nibbling on my nails. She continued down the line with sharp words and assurances of letters going home to parents.
Two girls to go as I fished out the same handkerchief I’d been using all year. Like a skilled origamist, I quickly shaped the bleached square to a dulcet crispness and positioned it perfectly in my shirt pocket. She was here.
“Master Robertson.” I responded by snapping my hands out flat with palms down trying not to stare at the wart on her upper lip. She nodded grimly before glancing at my shoes and then my shirt pocket where a corner of my hanky stood up proudly. I thought I saw her eyes mist over.
“And what did we have for breakfast?”
“We had bacon, eggs, toast and Cream of Wheat, ma’am, with whole milk and Orange Juice.” It had taken me half the school year to find the combination that pleased her most, ignoring the fact that two jelly doughnuts and a Frosty root beer were writhing in my little belly.
She smiled and hugged me, “Well done, Master Robertson.” There was an almost audible collective intake of breath.
At recess, my life would be forfeit.
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