6. Second-Grade Lesson (cont.)

I thought it a stupid question. Of course, I wouldn’t. But then if I had tried such a thing, my mother would have stopped me instantly. I didn’t say any of that, though. I just hung my head and said, “No.”

Apparently I had made a lot of work for the janitor who was going to have the task of sanding my desktop smooth again, and I was genuinely sorry for that. Still, it seemed to me that waiting for the last day to mention this matter was a bit like closing the refrigerator door after the milk had gone sour. It only confirmed, however, what I already knew. Adults were beyond any understanding.

I tell all of this to explain how it came to be that I entered second grade as a known criminal. I also entered second grade knowing in the deepest part of my soul that I would never carve anything again as long as I lived. But, of course, no one knew of my silent promise except me.

Miss Simpson, my second grade teacher, had red-gold hair that she wore in heavy braids, wrapped around her head. Miss Simpson, my second-grade teacher, was also my Sunday school teacher at the Episcopal Church, so I got to see her six days a week. Miss Simpson, my second-grade teacher, hated me on sight.