When I was in high school, my mom taught freshman English literature to my friends. And my enemies. At my high school.
It was a double-edged sword. On the one hand, there was no cutting class, cheating on tests, or any other shenanigans. Mom wouldn’t find out about these transgressions days, weeks, or months later, after all was long said and done. No, she found out within the hour from her coworkers, who were also my teachers. There’s no point in acting out, when there’s no feasible chance of getting away with it.
On the plus side, I always had a car ride to school. She was able to coordinate my schedule so I would end up with the teachers of my choice. Best of all, I was able to conduct my own personal study hall under the guise of being her “assistant.”
Students had the ability to be a teacher’s assistant one hour of the day, rather than taking an extra-credit course. Theoretically, these students were to assist the teacher doing who knows what. In my case it meant sitting at a desk stashed away in the English supply room, reveling in the gift of undisturbed slumber.
This secret nap was sorely needed. By the time I was in high school, I spent most of my free time at ballet. Ballet shoes took up more space in my backpack than books. I’d often go straight to ballet after school, arriving home at 9:00 in the evening to wolf down a re-heated dinner, and (finally) start my homework.
I was tired.
Until one day, I had an unanticipated surplus of energy. Embarrassing, embarrassing energy. I sat at that stashed away desk in the supply room, mentally going through a recently-learned dance routine. Pretty soon I was walking through the steps while sitting in my seat. Before long, I leaped up, and twirled into a double-pirouette, landing only to see one of the other English teachers chortling in the doorway.
And that is reason no. 239 why I wasn’t popular in high school.