(This story takes place in the late nineties. I have a fairly sizeable collection of novelty pencils: patterns, holographic, Lisa Frank, etc. During one class, I have three out at once for some reason, and as I’m focused on writing something, I see a classmate’s hand inching towards one of them out of the corner of my eye.)

Me: “Don’t touch my pencils.”

Classmate: *shocked* “How did you know?!”

Me: “Peripheral vision?”

Classmate: “What?”

(For the rest of the class, he kept putting his hands where he thought I wouldn’t see, and was amazed every time I did.)

I went to a small middle school in a small-ish building. One year on April Fool’s day, my class decided to play a prank on our science teacher.

Before class, we snuck in and left a note on his overhead projector saying that we had unanimously decided to skip his class. We then left a trail of paper footprints going down the stairs, through the gym, and up into the drama closet, which held costumes, props, and the like.

We all crowded in and waited. When he got close to the closet, we ran up through the drama classroom, and back down the stairs and into the science classroom, stifling giggles the whole way. When he threw open the door to the closet and roared, trying to startle us, he found it empty. When he got back to his classroom, we were all sitting at the tables like perfect angels.

(I work at a daycare and am filling in for the teacher in charge of the two-year-olds. While I am pouring paint to do their art project, they get impatient. I look up and see five two-year-olds standing on their chairs.)

Me: “Get down! OH! Wait… Can you say, ‘O captain, my captain’?”

Two-Year-Olds: “O captain, my captain!”

Me: *dying*

(It may sound odd, but there is a 20-year age-gap between my little sister and me. Our dad died a few years ago, and our mom has been disabled since a car crash a couple years ago, so I take care of my sister most of the time. At the time of the story, she is six, and I am 26. It should be noted, despite me looking years younger — I am frequently mistaken for a teenager — people often think I’m her mother. This happens at a parent-teacher conference with her teacher, who I have met many times.)

Teacher: “Hello, Mrs. [Our Last Name].”

Me: “Oh, [My First Name] is fine.”

Teacher: “Ah, yes. Well, [Sister] has been excelling in reading, but her math scores are very low for a child of her age.”

Me: “Yes, I’ve been giving her extra help. Difficulty with math runs in the family.”

Teacher: “About that… I was thinking it might be due to her home life; as her mother, you’d know best.”

Me: “Oh, no. I thought you knew, I’m [Sister]’s sister. Our mom couldn’t make it, so I came.”

Teacher: “It’s okay. You don’t have to play games with me. I won’t let the secret slip to [Sister].”

Me: “Excuse me? What secret?”

Teacher: “I know you are her mother and that your mother claims to be her mother to protect you from the stigma of a teen pregnancy. It’s all right; as I said, I won’t tell [Sister].”

Me: “What?! No. I’m her sister, not her mother. I was not a teen mom. I’m here to talk about how she’s doing in school, so if we could continue?”

(She continued to make insinuations that I was my sister’s mother, and even “accidentally” used the term “mom” several more times. She had no interest in really talking about how my sister was doing in school, and I found out my sister wasn’t really thriving in her class. We had her moved to another teacher who turned out to be much better, and her math skills went up, too.)

(We are an all-girls school with a uniform that includes optional black tights. As part of the policy, if you wear black tights, they must NOT have ladders or holes. My best friend is known for not having much common sense. She and I have just returned from a PE lesson, both very tired and out of breath, and are getting changed back into uniform, when I notice that she has a ladder in her tights.)

Me: “[Friend]! There’s a ladder in your tights; you might get coded.”

Friend: “I’m sure no one will notice. It’s fine.”

Me: “No, we have [Strict Teacher, notorious for random uniform checks] next period. Just go without. You have shorts to wear under your skirt, right?”

Friend: “Yeah, but it’s fine. Watch this.”

(She begins to turn her tights the other way out, so that the label is on the outside, and puts them on again.)

Me: “Wha… What are you doing?”

Friend: “See? I turn them inside out, and the ladder will be on the insi… Oh.”

(Pause.)

Friend: “I’ll go without.”