I am utterly consumed by my shame. Not a day goes by where I don't remember what I did -- feel the guilt, the remorse. And it wasn't just the sin itself. It was the cover-up. I beg that you refrain from judging me too harshly as I tell my tale. I was young. Still, it changed me.
That day began like any other. I woke up and went about my morning routine. I was a second grader then, and I was full of optimism and virtue. That was before, of course.
I had just gotten my first pair of glasses. With those beauties, I could see the board from my seat all the way in the back of the classroom. This position is probably what allowed me to get away with my crime.
My teacher, Mrs. Butterbee*, was teaching math at the board. I was feeling a bit under the weather, so I was having trouble staying with her. I coughed a few times. Nobody turned their heads. My coughing was commonplace at that point. What my classmates had not been introduced to was my ability to spew projectile mucus.
That's when it happened.
I coughed again and watched in astonishment as a massive mucus plug shot out of me. It sped in a parabola, catching a gleam of the florescent lighting. Then, just like that, I lost sight of it. Where did it land? I frantically looked around. Somehow, I had not called attention to myself, everyone was looking at Mrs. Butterbee. I scanned the potential strike radius, searching … searching …
Oh no.
I found ground zero. The plug had adhered to the hair of my friend, Sally. Oh God, why did it have to be Sally? I distinctly heard a bell toll in my head. Terror washed over me.
I was faced with a major decision. One, I could own up and tell Sally that a chunk of what used to be my insides was now clinging to what looked like freshly styled hair. Everyone would know that I was repulsive, but it was absolutely the right thing to do. I glanced over at a poster on the wall that read, “The Truth is Always the Best Answer.” The words sat below a picture of an orangutan. I hated his stupid, honest face. Two, I could feign ignorance.
I chose two.
I turned back to face the front of the class. I took a deep breath -- much easier now that my trachea had been cleaned out. I raised a brave little hand. Mrs. Butterbee's teacher eyes instinctively found me, all the way in the back.
“Yes Mara?”** she said.
Another deep breath.
“Um, Mrs. Butterbee,” I chirped, “Sally has something stuck in her hair.”
“What?” asked poor, sweet Sally. The teacher's aid flew in with a tissue and gasped at the grotesqueness that was my mucus. I nodded in agreement, like the snake that I was.
“Yeah, I don't know what it is, but it's kinda gross,” I shuddered.
“I don't even know what that is!” Sally exclaimed. Of course you don't, Sally. Of course you don't.
The class was so confused by the incident that they didn't even tease Sally -- a fact that I used to rationalize my evil, sticky crime. I still feel that as soon as I passed the buck on the snot rocket, my shoulder angel threw down its halo and left to pursue a more rewarding career in acupuncture. My shoulder devil has full-reign now.
This is a cautionary tale of wrong-doing, bad decisions, loss of innocence, guilt, and the refusal to address that guilt. So if any of you venture to cough, perchance, to hock a loogie, own up to it. I implore you to lead the virtuous path … at least, when it comes to mucus …
* Names have been changed to protect the innocent
** You already know this is about me …