The Last Day of School

The bell rang. Mom pulled up. I ran over to the car and hopped in. She turned out of the parking lot and began her usual play-by-play recap of her day. Our ride home was her opportunity to talk to a captive audience, and she took advantage of it.

I was in first grade. Life at home was pretty unsettled, between my parents not getting along, and my surly teenage siblings.

“So. First off, your sister tells me she’s taking a break from college. She and her roommate are going to open a jewelry store. A jewelry store! And not just any jewelry. SCRIMSHAW! Whatever the hell that is!” She continued on, giving a rundown of her troubles with each family member.

She sighed. “Well, Jane, at least you’re an easy kid. You never give me any trouble.”

Every day was the same. Our home was always in chaos, and the focus was always on everyone else. I felt invisible.

Mom turned onto Mendon Center Road and finally glanced in the rearview mirror at me. She forced a smile. “So, anyway, honey…how was YOUR day? Aren’t you excited? Tomorrow is the last day of school!”

“I guess so,” I replied. I sort of liked school. It was a nice break from home.

Then I worked my courage up. I said as casually as possible, “So…on the playground at recess today, a guy pulled up in his car and asked if I wanted to see his kitten.”

She surprisingly didn’t say anything. So, to fill in the awkward silence, I babbled on. “I was way at the far corner of the playground, by that big rock near West Bloomfield Road, you know? Playing by myself. So a light blue car pulls up, and a guy gets out. He opens the car door and says, ‘Do you want to see my kitten?’ And I got a really bad feeling, and I just ran as fast as I could back to the school without looking back.”

Mom remained silent. By this time, we had pulled into our driveway. Finally she said, “Did you tell your teacher about it?”

“No,” I answered. “I didn’t want to upset her, so I kept it to myself. I didn’t even tell the other kids.”

“Well…” Mom said, slowly, “…you did the right thing to run away.” She got out of the car, slammed the door and walked briskly into the house without saying another word.

I was confused. Why wasn’t she upset? Her daughter was almost murdered!

Here I’d expected hugs and kisses, relief that I was alive and well, and admiration that I was so smart to have escaped a murderer. Maybe she would even make my favorite treat, a rainbow sherbet-ginger ale float. But nothing.

Oh, well. Maybe she didn’t believe me. Fine.

The next day was the last day of school. I was at my desk, pencil in hand. Suddenly, my teacher came up from behind me and whispered in my ear, “Jane, I need you to come out into the hall with me, please.”

I complied. The kids’ eyes followed me as I was escorted out. The teacher smiled comfortingly at me. But I was thinking, have I done something wrong? I don’t recall doing anything wrong. I never do anything wrong!

She closed the door behind us. We stood facing each other in the dimly lit hallway. Now the teacher was looking more serious than I had ever seen her. More serious than the time Patrick Kendall pooped his pants in the Housekeeping Corner.

Suddenly, I was feeling really unsettled.

“Jane. Your mother just called me. Do you have something to tell me?” She waited.

Oh no. I knew what this was about. Panic immediately set in.

“No,” I coolly replied. “What did she say?” I bit the inside of my lower lip to keep it from trembling.

“Your mother told me that a man tried to get you into his car at recess yesterday,” the teacher said, her eyes fixed on mine. “He told you that he had a kitten he wanted to show you. Is that true?”

“What?” My thoughts were racing.

I couldn’t tell the teacher the story I told Mom.

Because there had been no guy in a car. I’d made it all up.

I’d overheard the news on TV about the serial killer in Rochester, and how he tricked girls into getting into his light blue sedan. So I’d told Mom the story only to get her to focus on me for a change. It had never occurred to me that she would call my teacher about it.

I now realized the full ramifications of such a serious accusation. The cops would be called. Under interrogation, I would surely crack. At seven years old, I wouldn’t be able to stall by asking for coffee and a cigarette while they played Good Cop, Bad Cop. I would immediately fall apart and confess to my lie. Then it would be all over the news. FIRST GRADER LIES ABOUT SERIAL KILLER.

All I’d wanted was Mom’s attention. How did it come to this?

So, running through all the outcomes in my little blonde head, I did the only thing I could do.

I threw Mom under the bus.

I looked my teacher straight in the eye and said firmly, “I didn’t tell my mom any story about a guy in a car. I have absolutely no idea what she is talking about.”

The teacher’s mouth got tight and her eyes narrowed.  “Jane. Let me get this straight. You are telling me that your mother is a liar. That she made this all up. Your own mother?”

“Yes. That is what I’m saying,” I said firmly, with all the confidence I can muster. “My Mom lies all the time. Ask anyone.” I rolled my eyes.

The teacher frowned and put her hands on her hips. “All right. I’ll be discussing this further with your mother. You can go back to your desk.”

I was red in the face, sweating profusely. I sat down hard, smoothing out my plaid skirt, and stared blankly at my math book. I jammed my pencil into the palm of my hand and read the same problem over and over as I tried to figure out how I was going to get out of this one with Mom.

My Mom could be really scary for absolutely no reason. And I’d just given her a really big reason.

That day was the longest day of my life. Watching the clock. Tick tock, tick tock. The bell finally rang for the last time of the school year.

I walked as slowly as possible toward Mom’s car. She leaned over and glared at me menacingly. I was really in for it. I’d never been so scared.

Then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw the guy in the light blue car pull up. He smiled broadly. I ran over to his car, and hopped in.