English. We had to memorize a poem and recite it in front of the whole class. Teacher included in the listening. With a stroke of sheer brilliance yours truly writes in pen and ink the entire poem on the palms of his hands. It was a Robert Frost poem, for those who are interested; something about a wood and “it was just as the light was beginning to [something]”. Why did I write out the poem on my hands? For a laugh, of course. It greatly amused my friends. And I myself chuckled at my own genius. Boy, it was sure to be a riot today, I thought. “I’d show it to Mrs. Teacherlan” whom I had friendly jabbing contests with on several occasions and looking back was one of my favorite teachers.
I recite the poem - beautifully, and keeping my hands on my pockets through the length of it, I might add - but when I finish several classmates exclaim “Look at his hands!” Great, thinks I.
The teacher - Mrs. Teacherlan - remains silent the entire time until I sit down again at my desk. She stands up and says “Blackeyes let me look at your hands.”
“Why, certainly, Mrs. Teacherlan. However, I don’t see what you might hope… to find… [I begin to desperately lick my palms] on my… hands.”
I licked my palms feverishly for four seconds before Mrs. Teacherlan grabs them, inspects them, and gives them back. “Zero. Cheating”. Ouch, I thought.
But all was not lost, you see. For I still managed to pass the grading period; albeit a high C/low B but still passing with a not too bad grade considering the circumstances. And we all had a laugh over it and I got the negative attention I so desperately craved at the time. But oh, I had my comeback.
Later that year we have another poetry recitation. Shakespeare, in fact. Oh, how I plotted and schemed and schemed and planned and plotted for this chance at revenge. I would have it, I assure you. I spend most of the night before plotting revenge. I thought maybe she had forgotten the last episode by now; but I wasn’t going to let her. Hehehe.
I unattentively listen to some of my classmates stand in front and mumble through. I can feel my turn coming up; it’s time to prepare for my Moment. I searched my mind to create this idea weeks in advance and it was time to put it into action. So I grab a…
pen. And I write on the palms of my hands again. The script is barely finished before Teacherlan calls on me. I rise. I stand and deliver.
I was eloquent, peaceful, and charming. I grew a smirk on my face which only grew bigger. Because everyone in the class could sense it; could sense something momentous was about to happen. Many of them knew of my secret plan to dare do the same act again. The teacher even knew it. The air was so thick with tension and anxiety and expectation and foreshadowing and teenage hormones you could choke to death on it. My smirk was wonderful, even behind hip teenager braces. I paused at the end for dramatic effect, said my last lines, and subsequently finished my soliloquoy. Drama ensues.
“Blackeyes, let me see your hands. Again.”
“Oh, okay. Sure. Whatever.”
I show her my hands - covered in ink - and she gives one look at them and proclaims to the Land and God above What An Idiot I Am.
“Hahaha snort snort (Yes, I said “snortsnort”). Joke’s on YOU. Look at my hands one more time!”
She does. And Lo and Behold upon my hands were written 500 times a simple proverb:
I am a fish.
It was like freakin’ poetry, man.
Words cannot describe it.
We all had a good laugh about it later, even Mrs. Teacherlan. Because in the end she had the last laugh.
I nightmarishly bombed the poem the second time. :smack:
