In eighth grade I was class president, so I had certain privileges. For example, during lunch hour I didn’t have to sit in the cafeteria. I could go up to the teachers’ lounge on the third floor and hang out with the teachers. My favorite teacher was Mr. Metter, who taught history. We used to call him “King Brat” because he was big and from Sheboygan, the brat capital of the world.
One day I was up in the teachers’ lounge at lunchtime and King Brat and I were tossing around a wicker plate like a Frisbee. It was a warm spring day and the windows were open. I was standing near the windows, and King Brat threw me the Frisbee, but it sailed past my outstretched hands and flew right out the window.
I saw it sail down, down, down toward the ground, and I watched in horror as I suddenly realized it was going to hit someone. And that someone was none other than Mr. Larsen, the school principal. We called him “Pegleg” (not to his face) because he always walked with a limp and he had a voice like an old pirate.
Well, the Frisbee pegged old Pegleg right in the chest. Bap! He immediately looked up, his face contorted in a snarl. And he saw me gaping down at him, slack-jawed. He pointed his finger at me and yelled “You!! My office! Now!!!”
When I arrived at his office a few moments later he started screaming at me right away.
“You’re the student council president, you’re supposed to set a positive example…!! What are you doing up there anyway, you have no business…!! I’m going to let your parents know what you’re up to…!!” And on and on he went for about five minutes.
He asked me who threw the Frisbee and I wouldn’t tell him. And King Brat never confessed or tried to bail me out. But that semester, for some reason that was never explained, I got an A+ in history on my report card.
