By: Maya Goldman
The author in her element.
The inside of my desk was neat and tidy. I had folders stacked on one side and notebooks on the other, my little pencil box right at the front;next to it, a pile of colorful erasers I’d bought for 25 cents each at the school store during lunch (using my very own tooth-fairy money). During snack time, I shared my Goldfish with the kids who’d forgotten their snacks at home. I sat quietly on the bus each morning, and invited anyone who wanted to join to play with me and my friends at recess. I was only 7 years old, sure, but I knew the rules, and I knew how to follow them. I knew how to be a “good kid.” I wanted to be a good kid.
I also really wanted to pass this spelling test.
I always did well in school. I prided myself on that just as much as I did my being nice and respectful. But we’d been learning about the “I before E, except after C” rule in my second grade class and it kept tripping me up. So this week, I’d practiced all the words over and over again. I knew that damn spelling list like the back of my hand.
Adrenaline surged through my tiny body when we sat down for that week’s spelling test. I pulled a folder out from my organized desk to use as a divider between myself and my desk partners — the latest in second grade cheating prevention techniques—and an eraser shaped like an ice cream cone. I took a deep breath.
Mrs. Walker began to read the words for my spelling level. “Believe,” she said. Okay, I knew that one! Easy! “Eight.” Another easy one. “Weird. Field. Achieve.” I was on a roll. I knew I hadn’t messed anything up yet. This was my week! I smiled to myself behind my dividing folder.
“Receive.” Oh no. I froze up. I couldn’t remember—did this word follow the rule? Or was it an exception? I panicked. I didn’t have much time to think. There were only a few words left on the list, and I had to think of the correct answer.
Suddenly, without giving myself time to chicken out, I got out of my seat. I walked over to the tissue box, picked up a Kleenex, and blew my nose. I saw from behind the tissue that Mrs. Walker had her back turned away from me. I threw the tissue away and, as I was walking back to my seat, without giving myself a moment to consider what I was doing, I peaked over my classmate Josh’s dividing folder. R-E-C-E-I-V-E. Jeremy was sitting next to Josh—I looked at his sheet, too, just to make sure. R-E-C-E-I-V-E. I scurried back to my seat, just in time for Mrs. Walker to call out the next word, and I wrote it on my sheet: R-E-C-E-I-V-E. Just like I’d seen it on my friends’ papers. When the test was done, I turned in my paper. I knew I’d received 100 percent.
The reality of my actions didn’t sink in until I stepped off the school bus that afternoon. I ran inside, threw open the bathroom door, and stared at myself in the mirror. The face of a 7-year-old cheater. I’d let my desire for perfection overtake me. Was I still the good kid who shared her Goldfish at snack time? What did it even mean to be good?
This was my first existential crisis.
I left the bathroom in tears and confessed to my confused but supportive mother, vowing never to cheat again. Of course, in the 18 years since, I’ve had my fair share of additional moral quandaries. But I’ve learned, luckily, that I can make mistakes and still be a good person. And Prozac has helped me keep that perfectionism in check.
Still, I think about that little girl sometimes, who wanted something and just went after it. Cheating wasn’t the right way to get there, don’t get me wrong. But now that I’m an adult and life is more complicated than a second grade spelling test, I miss that feeling of knowing so clearly what I want—of being decisive, of not overthinking, of going after my goals without hesitation.
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