The Report Card

opened the door. “Whoops, almost forgot.” Istepped over and flushed the commode. “Yeah, I really had to go,” Isaid, chuckling.
After putting the books in my bedroom, Icalmly entered the den. Mom was still on the phone, so I placed thereport card on the coffee table. Down the hall I hustled and outinto the spring afternoon. I hopped on my bike and took off downthe long lane for a ride. I desperately needed fresh air in myface. I was suffocating.
You know, looking back on this event, I nowrealize how stupid I was. I mean, if I had really brought my C’s,from the previous grading period, up to B’s, I would have beendoing somersaults while my mother looked at my grades. But, no, Irun out and pedal my bike like a madman down the country road toStumpy Lake. Oh, the foolishness of youth.
Report card day happened to fall on aFriday. I’ve always loved Fridays. I’m not sure why, but I have.(And still do.) Maybe it’s because on Fridays our family always hada relaxed supper, no dinner table. We had sandwiches, potato chips,and Cokes. And best of all, we could eat in the den while watchingTV. Life was normally loads of fun on Friday.
When I finally returned home, my dad wasthere. He owned a Purina feed store, which worked out good since welived on a chicken, hog, and turkey farm. My heart began beatingfaster as the realization of my scam settled in. Within a fewminutes my little scheme would be tested for real. I’ll admit I wasas nervous as a bird in a cat’s paw.
I stepped into the kitchen and saw myyounger sister, Betty Ann, helping Mom fix our sandwiches. Momturned around and smiled as she said, “Bobby, I’m so proud of you.You brought up your math and history grades to B’s.”
Betty Ann offered her opinion. “He probablycheated, Mom.”
“No, he wouldn’t do that. Son, I know yourdad will be pleased.”
“Thanks, Mom. I’m going to wash up. What’sfor dinner?”
She replied, “Peanut butter and jellysandwiches, Charlie Chip potato chips, and ice cream fordessert.”
As I entered the den, I hollered over myshoulder, “Good. I’m starvin’.”
After washing my hands, I looked in themirror and had a stern word with the fear-filled face. “No need tobe nervous, half of this game is won. Just act natural and keepyour cool.”
Our family assembled in the den. Betty Ann,and my little brother, Johnny, and I plopped on the floor in frontof the TV.
Please know this, I still remembereverything as if it happened yesterday. It was six o’clock, and wekids liked a local TV show called ‘Bungles the Clown’. Hewas pure silly. He wore a long, down-to-the-knees dotted tie, big,yellow shoes, and had red frizzy hair. I’d outgrown him, but afterhis childish antics and jokes, he would show The ThreeStooges or cartoons. Those I still liked.
So, we’re eating and laughing at Moe, Larry,and Curly. Suddenly my mother said to my dad, “Honey, report cardscame today. Bobby (that’s what the family called me since my firstname is Robert) brought up his math and history grades.”
Dad replied, “That’s good. Let me see.”
At that precise moment, hearing those words,my eyes focused so hard on the Three Stooges, they blurred,becoming Six Stooges. The total silence behind me becameearsplitting. My heart thumped and raced. I couldn’t have laughedif I’d been tickled. My face caught fire from the neck up.
My brother and sister continued yakking itup, eating their sandwiches and chips, and enjoying their Fridayevening, unaware of my dreadful situation.
I could barely get a swallow of Coke down mydry throat while picturing my dad looking at my ‘fake’ grades. Inthat moment, I discovered a new form of torture. (Yeah,self-inflicted.)
Dad’s deep voice sliced through the goofyclown singing the Bozo theme song and waving ‘hello’ to hisinvisible fans with his pinkie finger. “You brought up your mathand history to a B?”
My eyes burned into the TV, wishing for onceto trade places with the funny-looking kook. I replied, “Yes,sir.”
When I think back on this event today, I amsure the word ‘Liar’ was flashing across the back of my head.Again, had I really brought my grades up, I would be bouncing likea frog around the room. What in the world was Ithinking?
My dad said, “Are you real sure you got B’sin these two subjects?”
As Bungles danced around with those floppyshoes slapping the floor like some self-proclaimed applause, Ianswered without moving my stare from the TV, “Yes, sir.”
“Son, I’ll ask you one more time. Are thesegrades correct and written on this report card by yourteacher?”
Here was my chance to ease out of thisdeceitful move. I ignored it. A wad of potato chips caught in mythroat. I quickly washed them down with a bitter swig of Coke.“Yes, sir.”
Mom said, “Lee, you don’t think Bobbychanged the grades, do you?”
Dad replied, “Hand me the phone book, dear.Son, what’s your teacher’s name?”
My eyes crossed, sweat bubbled from myforehead, and my bratty brother and sister sniggered at me. “Mr.Schmidt,” I whispered.
“Do you know his first name?” asked dad.
I wanted to say, “Mister”, but I knew nowwasn’t the time to be funny. “I think it’s Howard.”
Silence. Then came the sound of pagesflipping.
“Here it is. H.P. Schmidt. Dial this number,honey,” my dad said to my sweet mother.
I froze hearing mom’s finger spinning eachnumber on the rotary phone, knowing it was only a slow motioncountdown of the steel trap preparing to snap my skinny neck. Icould’ve stopped the whole thing by being honest, but no, I wasmaking another costly error, and I still hadn’t made it to the ballfield. Life wasn’t very good now, no matter what silly Bozo or theThree Stooges were doing.
The following is my half of theconversation. Listen in:
“Mr. Schmidt, this is Mr. Carey. My son,Bobby, is one of your students.
“Yes. Well, thank you for saying that. He’sa good boy at times. I have a question.
“Do you have your grade book handy?
“Yes, I’ll wait.”
Here is when I should have jumped up andconfessed, but no, I remained on the floor, squeezing my PB&J,trembling like a red wiggler on a fishhook. What an idiot!
“What were his grades for math and