As a child, I was a master of storytelling. These days though, I’d probably be called a compulsive liar. But then it was “a wild imagination,” which is what most of my teachers liked to write on my report cards. I was the child that begged my mom to let me watch “Men in Black” with my cooler more mature nine year old brother and his friend, and then proceeded to see aliens jumping out at me for the next two months. I was the child who ran to her mother, terrified, every time Yoda came on the screen during my brother’s favorite Star Wars movie because I swore he was going to use his Jedi powers against me (not to mention, he was creepy looking). And I was the one who was convinced that I was really Pippi Longstocking and wouldn’t let my mother unbraid my pigtails for four weeks. In any case, I had a reputation for being a bit dramatic.
As the youngest, I was constantly looking for attention in anything I did. According to my mother, that‘s why my “famous first grade incident” happened. At least, that’s how she starts out the story each Thanksgiving, Christmas, and really, at any family function. I don’t quite remember every detail from those days, honestly how could I, it seems like a million years ago, but I personally blame Ellen for everything that happened.
It was near the end of the year and Mrs. Daoust was having problems keeping our first grade class focused. My best friend, Cameron and I were the ring leaders of the noisiness. I had, and still have, a knack to continuously talk, even when I have absolutely nothing at all to say. Cameron had a tendency to get bored very easily, and since he was a budding artist, tended to draw pictures on anything in front of him. Fortunately, his mother had the good sense to never give him permanent markers.
It was the end of the year, and therefore Cameron and I were even more restless than normal. Strangely enough though, our class got a new student. Elementary school is probably the only time you can get a new student with maybe two months of school left. Ahh, the good ol’ days. I don’t remember her name, so let’s just call her Ellen.
There was a ridiculous amount of excitement when we found out there'd be a new girl in our class. You have to remember how that felt. First grade was just torment to your seven year old self. You constantly complained about how your teachers treated you like little kids while playing on the merry-go-round at recess. You would find out about a new kid around a week in advance, and all week you and your friends would sit on the spider web and ponder everything about this new person. Then of course, when the new kid finally got there, you were excited for about two days. Everyone wanted to be the new kid’s friend. And then the novelty wore off and it was back to complaining about the unfairness of sixth graders getting an extra recess.
It was different with Ellen though. Sure, the first part of the routine still went as usual, but once she got there, things didn’t change. Ellen was from New York City. She had a pink backpack and pink ribbons for her hair. And worst of all, Ellen had a cute puppy that her parents brought to school every day to pick her up. All first graders are suckers for puppies. She was instant popularity.
I had a serious problem in front of me. The class that I had so thoroughly run just a few weeks ago was now eating out of Ellen’s hand. Even Cameron wanted to sit by her at lunch. It had to stop. Now, I had nothing personally against Ellen. She was actually a very sweet girl, but she was stealing my spotlight, and according to my mother, that was my prime reason for pulling out my secret weapon.
Most first graders would resort to bullying or cruelty to bring down Ellen. But I was different. I was, and most likely always will be, an avoider of conflict. I hated fights or disagreements. I just couldn’t stand it if anyone was upset with me. My mother told me I went through a stage in my toddler years where every five minutes I’d ask “Mommy, are you upset with me?” And if she said yes, I threw a fit; this is obviously not the best way to deal with my problems anymore. I needed to move the spotlight off of Ellen and back on me, so since I hated conflict, I resorted to my “secret weapon”: my imagination.
It just so happened that the day I decided to put my plan into action was my “Show and Tell” day. It wasn’t the usual kindergarten show and tell though. No, we were way too old for that. Instead, two days a week, two kids (one for each day) got 15 minutes in the front of the classroom to show or tell about anything they’d like. It was 15 minutes of heaven. I had yet to tell a story because I always seemed to have something exciting to show, like my new limited edition America Bear beanie baby, or my pink Skip-It. But this time I had a story that I knew would get the entire class talking about me.
When “Show and Tell” came around, I knew exactly what I was going to say. I walked to the front of the classroom and sat on the “speaker bench” Mrs. Daoust set up. I then waited for absolute silence. Surprise, surprise that I had to wait the longest for Cameron, who was directing Ellen on her facial expression as he drew her. Traitor. When there was complete silence, I began the tall tale that was going to win back my popularity.
Now, I don’t remember what I said word for word. This was a number of years ago. But in the end, my first grade class and my teacher were under the impression that my grandfather was an exotic animal trainer. Mrs. Daoust drilled me, trying to see if I was telling the truth. What kind of animals? (Mostly large cats, like lions and tigers.) Where does he work? (He works for different zoos.) Have you ever gotten to touch any of them? (I got to pet a baby tiger named Benjamin.) I seemed to satisfy her questions well enough, at least at first. But did I mention that I tend to let my imagination run away with me?
As the week went on, I was never without at least three of my classmates beside me, bombarding me with questions about my grandfather and his business. I was loving it. Sadly, back then I had not yet perfected the fine art of lying. For instance, I hadn't realized yet that lying works best when you keep the lies simple. As time went on, I started to elaborate on my story. My grandfather went from working for random zoos to having a safari business in Africa. And the large cats that he trained expanded into exotic species ranging from alligators to elephants. My classmates ate it up, hanging on to every word, and to my naïve mind, so was my teacher. I hope for the sake of her future students that she saw through me before my fatal mistake.
The fatal mistake came about two weeks after my story thrust me into stardom; well at least as far as my first grade class considered. Coincidentally, it was “Show and Tell” time again, and it just so happened to be Ellen’s turn. She walked to the front and waited for quiet. Just like me, it was Cameron she was waiting on, but this time it was because he was engrossed in talking to me. Finally, Mrs. Daoust silenced us, and I sat there, confident that nothing she said or did could budge my popularity. Did I also mention that I tend not to have the best intuition?
Ellen went to the door to let her mother inside. Her mother was carrying the cutest bunny rabbit I had ever seen. Ellen knew how to play dirty. Instantly the class rushed Ellen and her mother. I was left alone at my desk, my two weeks of fame dissolving around me, and all I knew was I had to do something. Without thinking, at that very moment, I blurted out “Benjamin the tiger is staying in my basement for the weekend. I got to play with him all day yesterday.”
You hear about those moments when everyone in the room falls completely silent, but you rarely get to experience it. Well trust me when I tell you this was one of those rare moments. The entire room went silent. And then the mayhem started. Ellen’s fluffy bunny was forgotten as kids rushed me, pleading left and right for invitations to my basement. If it was possible, I was even more popular than before. Baby tigers beat fluffy bunnies any day. If only I had known that the few short hours left of that day would be the end of my heaven on earth, I would have treasured them even more.
When I got home from school that day I was greeted with an afternoon snack, which made me immediately suspicious. Although my mom was only working part time, she believed that by the first grade I should be able to find my own snack after school; I came to terms with my deprived existence early in life. My mom sat down with me at the table and asked me the normal questions about my day while I devoured my cookies and milk as quickly as possible just in case she had any thoughts of taking them away. She finally got to her point.
“Honey, this afternoon Mrs. Daoust called me and told me an interesting story…” She proceeded on with the fine details I had embellished about my grandfather. If Mrs. Daoust was anything, she was a great listener. As my mother rehashed my tall tale, I almost forgot this meant bad news as I reveled in the brilliance of it all. Finally she finished my story and asked me if it was true. While I was great at telling stories, when it came to my mother, I could not look her in the face and lie to her. So I told her the truth. I figured she’d lecture me on telling tall tales at school and then let me on my way. But then she dropped the bomb.
“Honey, I know you were just telling a story. But you lied. Mrs. Daoust and I decided on the phone that tomorrow you will stand up in front of the entire class and tell them the truth.”
I was horrified. I had to admit to my friends that I made it all up? No one would find the truth of my grandfather being a retired electrician even half as exciting. All night I tried to come up with some way to get out of it. I finally had a great idea.
“What if I just tell everyone grandpa died? Then they’ll never have to know I made it up!”
I got sent to bed early that night. Just in case you were wondering, killing off your grandpa so that you don’t have to admit to lying is highly frowned upon.
The next morning was Friday, every student’s favorite day of the week, and this Friday dawned sunny and inviting, but all I wanted to do was hide in my room until I was old, like twenty, and everyone had forgotten about my story. I tried to fake sick, but instead I was walked to school by my mother to insure that I went. I had to skip the playground and go right to the classroom so my mother could make sure I didn’t come up with another story to tell Mrs. Daoust to keep from having to confess.
The morning bell seemed to ring hours earlier than it should have. Everyone rushed into the room and Cameron immediately started asking me how Benjamin was. For once in my life, I did not say a word. I just stared at the wall, waiting for the fateful moment. As soon as the class was in order, Mrs. Daoust called me to the front. Most of my classmates looked at me in excitement, thinking I was about to delve into another adventure that I had with Benjamin the night before. Instead, I stared straight at the wall in the back of the room, and started to speak.
I don’t remember a single word I said. I think I tried to block out my confession. It was torment to have to destroy the illusion I had worked so hard to create. All I remember is staring straight in front of me and somehow confessing to my crime. Once again, I had the complete attention of my class. Except this time, no one was looking at me with wonder, but instead, I distinctly remember confusion on the faces of my classmates.
I finished speaking and rushed back to my seat, too afraid to look at anyone. Mrs. Daoust thanked me for my honesty and then started right in on our spelling lesson. When I look back, I feel a rush of gratitude towards her for understanding how hard that confession was for me and moving on quickly. Although I tend to question her competence at times, she really was a great teacher who let me show my imagination and I think she hated the fact that I had to break the illusion as much as I did; she was just doing her job.
I didn’t say much the rest of the morning, and no one tried to speak to me. When lunch rolled around, I was completely ready to be shunned. It’s what any normal first grader would expect. But instead, as I sat down, Cameron and many of my other classmates followed suit right behind me. Then Cameron said the most beautiful words my seven year old ears could have heard at that moment.
“Hey Elizabeth, I’ll trade you my chicken for your fries.”
I was forgiven. We laughed and chatted throughout lunch; even Ellen joined in with us. She was starting to grow on me. As we went outside to enjoy a battle of chicken on the monkey bars, a boy in our group, Toby, started talking about his new 5-speed bike and how he was bringing it to school tomorrow.
Now this just wouldn’t do.
I yelled out “Hey guys, did I ever tell you how my dad’s getting me a motorcycle for Christmas?”
