F<\/span>or all her hateful qualities, my third grade teacher inspired me to a richer communion with God. Because of Sister Dominic, my bedtime prayers took on a new fervency. \u201c...lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil. Amen. And please, Lord, let me die in sleep so I won\u2019t have to go to school tomorrow.\u201d<\/p>\n

He didn\u2019t answer that prayer directly, but He was listening. He\u2019d heard the public censure and insults she\u2019d heaped upon me, the youngest and quietest student in the class: so stupid I couldn\u2019t learn multiplication; so frivolous I owned a shoulder bag like a big girl and so immature that it was pinned to my coat for safe keeping; so impious I believed my mother when she said a hood was as good as a hat for school-day Masses; so picky I dared complain about curdled milk.<\/p>\n

One day after school, I watched my favorite art project flutter over the heating register near my desk as I waited for the minute hand to creep around the clock. I did that a lot lately.<\/p>\n

While Sister D held court with some of the other teachers in the corridor, I compared my picture to the others on the wall. It was one of thirty-four identical scenes of feasting Pilgrims and Indians posted around the room in perfect order, all outlined with heavy black lines and colored-in as we\u2019d been instructed. I\u2019d been so proud of my work\u2026until I saw the D plus. Next to my paper was that of the teacher\u2019s pet, a bossy only child. Her heavy crayon strokes raked the page at angry angles that had earned her an A. Were my lines too light? Too short? What was wrong with me? I couldn\u2019t even color right.<\/p>\n

I overheard Sister D talking about me in the hallway.<\/p>\n

\u201cKept after school?\u201d It was the surprised voice of my former teacher. \u201cOn the first day of vacation? Why would you have to do that? She was always such a nice child.\u201d<\/p>\n

I never knew she felt that way about me. Her kind words made me cry.<\/p>\n

\u201cWell, not anymore,\u201d Sister D said, wagging her sour face under her tight white wimple. \u201cLet me tell you\u2026\u201d<\/p>\n

I sneaked my hanky from my shoulder bag and dabbed at my nose and eyes. Eight years old that week, and already I was a failure. She didn\u2019t even know that I was also a sneak.<\/p>\n

For two weeks I\u2019d been hiding my apples \u2013 ever since my lunchtime buddy, Sean, had stopped eating them for me. No one within arm\u2019s reach would take them anymore, and throwing away food was forbidden in Catholic school. Sometimes, though, I could swing a trade for a banana or an orange if I threw in a Ding Dong. The first time I couldn\u2019t find a taker, I crumpled my paper bag around the apple and buried it in the trash, but that was a high stakes gamble with stiff penalties. Then I\u2019d hit on the idea of hiding them in my desk. I knew it was a stupid solution, but I couldn\u2019t think of anything else.<\/p>\n

<\/a><\/p>\n

\u201cWhy does your mother put apples in your lunch every day if you hate them?\u201d Sean asked.<\/p>\n

How could he possibly understand? Him and his crustless sandwiches and bakery-bought pastries. You could bet his mother didn\u2019t stockpile a three month supply of the season\u2019s cheapest produce to serve at every meal. Raw apples, apple pie, apple brown betty, slimy apple sauce, and mushy baked apples for dessert.<\/p>\n

\u201cMy mother likes them,\u201d I said. \u201cShe thinks everyone does.\u201d<\/p>\n

<\/strong><\/p>\n

The hidden stash haunted my dreams. I\u2019d known I would have to deal with them sooner or later, and later had come. They were turning a silky tan color and starting to smell in my desk, though no one else had noticed so far. Loathe as I was to touch them, I knew I would have to smuggle them out of the building in my bag that day. But Sister D reappeared and pardoned me ten minutes \u201cearly\u201d in an unexpected surge of holiday cheer. I slinked out of the room, rejoicing for the long weekend and praying for Divine intervention to solve my problem.<\/p>\n

Thanksgiving break was one long, anxiety-induced gorge. The old apple smell in our storage room at home was starting to permeate the kitchen, so I know the smell of rotten apples in our warm classroom was bound to be vicious by the time we returned. I didn\u2019t dare tell anyone about my problem because I was guilty, but I didn\u2019t have a plan. I was even a failure as a criminal.<\/p>\n

I imagined what Sister D would do to me when she found my stash. I pictured her force-feeding me mushy, rotten apples after school with the door closed and the blinds drawn. She would probably tie my hands to the chair and spoon-feed them to me, smearing them like baby food on my face, my clothes, my hair. She would snicker her Elvis sneer as I squirmed and gagged.<\/p>\n

The bell rang at 8:15 Monday morning, just as it always had. This, despite my foot dragging, my hypochondria, and my feeble protests to Jesus. The classroom smelled more stuffy and sour than usual, concentrated in the back corner near my desk, but the apples hadn\u2019t yet fermented as I\u2019d feared they would. I sat down, red-faced and self-conscious, trying to act nonchalant while the kids around me wrinkled their noses and eyed me with suspicion.<\/p>\n

\u201cAll right class,\u201d Sister Dominick intoned. \u201cVacation is over and there will be some changes made around here. We\u2019ll start by changing seats. Everyone empty your desk and put the contents on your chair. Then carry your desk to the wall and wait for me to call your name with your new seating assignment.\u201d<\/p>\n

My bowels churned. I wished my desk had a lift-top, but it was the boxy type with only three sides. I wouldn\u2019t be able to hoist it without spilling my secret. I stalled until all the other kids filled the walls so that there wasn\u2019t room for me with my desk, too. Being in the back corner of the room gave me a reprieve of sorts, but then Sister D started calling names.<\/p>\n

\u201cTommy, right here, front row. Mary, behind him. Susan next. Then Peter.\u201d<\/p>\n

The move was going too smoothly. I wished someone would trip, scrape their chair legs, drop their books, do something to deflect Sister\u2019s attention before she got to me. But no, I was as good as crucified. She pointed to me next.<\/p>\n

\u201cYou, right here in front of my desk.\u201d<\/p>\n

I had to think fast. Maybe the helpless act.\u00a0 It wasn\u2019t my style, but I\u2019d seen it work.<\/p>\n

\u201cI can\u2019t,\u201d I whined.<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat do you mean you can\u2019t? Pick it up and come over here.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cIt\u2019s too heavy.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cOh for Chrissa\u2026\u201d<\/p>\n

She marched half way across the room, then stopped, lowered her bushy eyebrows, and sniffed. She cocked her head, baffled, then swept toward me like a chalk dust devil.<\/p>\n

\u201cDon\u2019t be stupid,\u201d she barked. \u201cOf course you can pick it up. It\u2019s not that heavy.\u201d<\/p>\n

Sister didn\u2019t like to be contradicted, and my voice had abandoned me, anyway. She leveraged the desk against her hips and ten rotten apples tumbled out with a plop on the spotted linoleum tiles and her black oxford heels.<\/p>\n

She gawked at them, speechless, staring at the mess like a border collie puzzling over a new scent. When she finally spoke it was in a humbled hush.<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat the He...? Apples? Why would anyone put \u2013 apples \u2013 in a desk?\u201d<\/p>\n

It was a genuine, stupid question: not rhetorical, not snarky. She really couldn\u2019t think of any reason a child would do that. She wasn\u2019t as smart as I\u2019d thought.<\/p>\n

She didn\u2019t yell. She didn\u2019t call me names. She didn\u2019t order me to clean it up. She just sighed, got a dust pan and brush from the coat room, and cleaned up the mess.<\/p>\n

Did she ignore me out of surprise or respect for my originality? Did she see this as a sign of backbone she\u2019d never suspected or did she fear the consequences if the story got out that I had hoodwinked her? Had she spent vacation praying to be a better person, just as I had prayed to die?<\/p>\n

I never found out. Report cards came out the next day, followed by a parent-teacher conference, and I was transferred to public school within the week.<\/p>\n

My new teacher was young and pudgy and pretty. She didn\u2019t make us eat everything in our lunches. She thought everyone was talented in some special way, and she liked me even though I never could learn my multiplication tables. She gave me my first A\u2019s: in penmanship, art and music, and she asked me to lead the class every morning in songs. I brought her fudge and flowers so she would know I liked her, too, but I never brought an apple for the teacher.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

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