Miss Chick

My seventh grade English teacher was Miss Chick. That’s her name, she was not a "chick."

It’s already been established that I didn’t like school. Actually, school itself was okay, but they expected you to learn stuff there.

Miss Chick believed in assigned seating. I, of course was assigned to the first row, center desk.  I’d like to think it was due to my rapier like wit, my intelligent participation in classroom discussions, or because all the girls talking to me distracted the class. But no, she wanted me right in front of her desk at all times, because I was on a very short leash.

One day, we were given a reading assignment in class. Miss Chick, her cat woman eye glasses, and her eight inch bun, were all busy grading papers at her desk. The only sounds in the classroom were the turning of pages and the squirming of students in their seats.

At least those were the only sounds until Miss Chick let go with a monstrous flutter-blast.

Thirty heads snapped up so fast, you could hear vertebrae popping.

I was sitting directly in front of her and I knew it was her who farted. I looked at her and then at everybody behind me. All eyes were wide open, with eyebrows raised in disbelief. There was giggling and some outright belly laughs.

When I turned back around, Miss Chick stood up, looked directly at me, and said “Patrick! That was disgusting! Go to the office immediately!”  A short argument ensued, she told me that what I did was bad enough, to then deny it, was worse.

By the time I got to the principal’s office, Miss Chick had already called him. The cranky old bastard didn’t even want to hear my side of the story. The nerve!

I had been sent to the office for far greater offenses than farting, but he acted like it was a capital offense and said he was going to call my mother. I wished him luck on that one. If he could in fact reach my mom, she would be happy to know I hadn’t broken anything, or hurt anyone. Then she’d probably go off on him for wasting her time.  He made me sit outside his office for the rest of the school day.

The event spread all over school. I was a hero for something I hadn't even done.  When I reported to Miss Chick’s class the next day, she wouldn't even look at me. But when report cards came out about a month later, she gave me a much higher grade than I deserved.  Payment for services rendered.  I guess she thought I earned it for jumping on her stinky grenade. Actually, she pushed me on it...

For the record, had I been able to conjure up that beauty myself, in class, I would have been more than willing to lay claim to it, on the spot.