At the age of eight, I didn’t have any experience skipping school. As far as I knew, none of my class mates had experience either. In fact, I don’t recall being aware that anyone had ever, in all of history, ever cut classes. It seemed to me, as I snuck off to my bedroom, that I was contemplating something decisive and as-yet unimagined . . .
Here’s the deal. My best friend, Mark Krebsbach, was having a birthday party. Mark was an excellent friend because he loved the Beatles as much as I did. More, his parents let us use the family turntable (in my house the turntable was “not a toy”), build a stage in the living room, and rip stuffing from an old couch to use as material for wigs. He was Paul, I was John (or Ringo, depending on the song). Mark’s younger sisters were the warm-up act, usually Betty and Veronica from the Archie comics, but sometimes Jose and the Pussycats.
At Mark’s house there were musical instruments. Red maracas all the way from Mexico. A tambourine which Betty and Veronica slapped alternately against their hands and hips whenever they sang. A black, plastic recorder, good for “Fool on the Hill,” which we fancied we knew how to play. Mark’s dad even had a guitar. It was an old wooden thing with nylon strings. He kept it in a closet, and the top was all warped. I never actually heard him play it, but it was cool just to know there was a real guitar in the vicinity.
All this to say that Mark’s birthday party was going to be a musical event. It was rumoured that every kid would get a real instrument to play, and we would form a band. Mark’s dad would record us on the reel-to-reel machine. It would be called “The Birthday Session,” and we would make up our own group name. Who knows, we could all be famous! The invitation said the party would begin immediately after school on Monday and go until dinner time.
But there was a problem: it was grade 3, and I was a terrible student. My arithmetic skills were poor. My reading was slow and uncertain. I was easily distracted. My report cards would read: Nick has a wonderful imagination but lazy work habits. He doesn’t pay attention in class.
My teacher, Mrs. Telfer, had arranged to help me. On Tuesdays and Thursdays, I would attend Mrs. Rush’s after-school class for weak readers and poor spellers. On Mondays and Wednesdays, I would work on long division with Mrs. Telfer for an extra 45 minutes after the final school bell. My parents were delighted that I had such a dedicated teacher. I would begin the program immediately.
I didn’t feel I was doing anything deceitful as I sat in my bedroom on Sunday evening, copying and recopying the note until my handwriting was neat and grown-up.
True, I had pleaded with my father to make Mrs. Telfer let me out of school at the regular time “just for this once.” True, my father had absolutely refused. “If I make an exception this time, you’ll always expect exceptions,” he had said. “Consider yourself lucky to have this opportunity. You can go to the party – you’ll just be a little bit late . . .”
But I ached so badly not to miss a moment of the party. What if I arrived and all the good musical instruments were already taken? What if I missed the recording session altogether? Not deceitful, but necessary, decisive and brilliant. I felt like a genius! I copied the note several more times:
Dear Nick’s teahcer:
Plesse let Nick go home on time today becuase he has to go to a paty.
From Nick’s mother
Mrs. Telfer accepted the note and let me go to Mark’s party. The next day, in front of the class, she asked me to stand up. Then she asked me to explain why my mother had neglected to sign her letter. Or date it. Or spell correctly.
I learned more in that moment than I did in two months of Mrs. Rush’s after-school class for weak readers and poor spellers . . .
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