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I could use a time machine right now, or a magical spell to rewind my life seven days. That's all it would take to give me a second chance to set things right. Last week I felt uncomfortable and confused when I gathered together some of my closest friends to plot the "incident." Incident. That's how the newspaper described it. The Merriam Webster lexicon describes incident as "an action likely to lead to grave consequences." I hope not. I guess I won't know until next week when the board of education meets and decides my fate.  Before they pass down my punishment, I will entreat them, if necessary, to consider my pristine school record: member of the National Honor Society, most valuable player in the championship, football game, and student with a clean discipline record. I never even cut a class--at least not before last week.

Now that I'm suspended I have time to think. With graduation only a couple months away, I can say there are definite pros and cons to attending high school. During the last four years the downside thrashed at me more than once, like a wild dancer in a mosh pit .  I've survived loathsome, long lectures given by boring teachers who forced me to feign attention. I've gone on expeditions across the pages of the MLA manual searching for the elusive proper citation format to use in my research paper. I've been smacked in the face by the horror and mortality of war--the facts calmly stated by my history teacher so they could be memorized for the next test. Most of all there were rules, which never seemed to bother me before last week.

I've learned to subsist on all that is good, inspiring, and exciting about high school: the extracurricular clubs, the pep rallies, the sports events, and the diverse student body. It also helped that our school had a copious supply of topnotch teachers who showed us how to become caring, useful members of society--not by lecturing or forcing us to be submissive, but by showing us with their actions. 

Even so, last week something just snapped inside me. I was Huckleberry Finn wrestling with a moral dilemma. I had heard the well-known phrase: "Rules are made to be broken," but wondered if the situation would be a good reason to do so.  After much deliberation I followed my heart instead of my intellect.. 

On the morning the incident was scheduled to take place, my confederate of co-conspirators arrived at the high school before our classmates began their mass exodus from the school busses. We manned our stations, each of us at a different entrance. While the noisy crowd was entering the school we frantically pulled students aside and whispered instructions to them, frequently looking over our shoulders for teachers and administrators. No one noticed, except John, a congenial custodian with the ability to scope out a caper long before the administration catches a clue. 

As he approached me I tried to muster up the quick-thinking skills of Huck Finn, but they escaped me. I'm not Huck. I'm Roger Livingwell. As John approached I struggled to sound laid-back. "Hey John, what's up?" 

He looked at me through squinted eyes. "You tell me!"

"What do you mean?" I shrugged my shoulders nervously, and he laughed.

"Don't give me that. I've been around here long enough to know when someone's planning a prank. What is it?" he drilled me. "A food fight? Another crazy scavenger hunt? I hope you're not planning on tagging the teacher's room! I don't think they could deal with that!"

I took a deep breath and decided to trust him; after all, he was a nice guy.  Nervously, I laid out the details of the upcoming "incident."  He froze, silently thinking for almost a minute.

Finally his mouth twisted into a catawampus smile and he spoke. "Well, the principal's not going to like it, but your intentions are noble and at least your dash won't be destructive. You can count on me to keep quiet."

"Thanks John!" I slapped him on the back enthusiastically and raced to class with only two minutes to spare before the late bell rang.

With each passing moment I became more confident our plan would work. The scattered snickers and whispers that had been present at the start of first period turned into clamorous conversations among students heading toward their third period classes. I knew there was no turning back. At 10:30 A.M. I raised my hand and asked to go to the bathroom.

"Hurry back," Mrs. Murphy warned as she handed me the pass.

"Sure!" I responded while my heart galloped. 

I went directly to the principal's office to see Mrs. Strider. She's the nicest, most helpful secretary any school could have, so a bit of guilt crept up inside me. Maybe there was a bit of fear in there too, which helped because I needed to sound frightened as I ran up to her desk.

"Mrs. Strider! Mrs. Strider! There's a riot in the library! We need the administrators now!" I hollered with only two minutes left in third period.

She stared at me in disbelief without flinching. "A riot? Mrs. Litisfine didn't call for help on the intercom!"

"She can't! She's trying to break up the fights!" For the second time that day I looked into squinting eyes, but finally, calmly, she picked up the walkie- talkie on her desk to dispatch the administrators, just as I had hoped.

"Attention. Code V. Code V. Would the administrators please report to the library immediately. "

"Thanks Mrs. Strider! Thanks!" I ran out of the office just as the third period dismissal bell was sounding, but instead of running to the library, which is in the front of the building, I ran down the hall toward a back exit. I wasn't sure how many people were with me at that moment. The halls are always crowded between classes. I pushed forward, but as I got closer to my destination I met less resistance. Everyone was moving with me in a rush to get out.  

When I passed through a back door and out into the field, I was ecstatic. It was working! Hundreds of kids were traversing the field  and dashing up the hill toward the woods. I hoped there would be safety in numbers, but our principal, Mr. Sharppow, was smart. I knew somehow he'd find a way to make us pay for our actions. I reached the top of the hill on the edge of the woods and looked back at the school. Mr. Sharpow was standing at a back door surveying the stampede, binoculars in hand. A shutter ran down my spine. I was certain he had me in his sights. Yet, I had to move on. This wasn't some senior prank. My ultimate goal still had to be reached. 

Everyone walked slowly through the woods, perhaps readying themselves for the solemn setting they were about to enter. We could see it at the other end of the grove of trees that separated it from the school. There was no hearse outside the stately white church with a tall steeple rising towards a clear, blue sky dotted with puffy, white clouds. Only throngs of people, both young and old, moved through the doors into the church.

When I stepped inside I saw squinting eyes again--the third time that day, but who's counting! I suppose the priest was baffled by the crowd of students who quietly shuffled down the center aisle and filed into the pews. All sat quietly and respectfully. The priest's lips spread into a smile. 

 By the time the memorial service began, the church was filled to capacity with people who had come to pay their respects to the beloved, school nurse who had touched their lives before succumbing to cancer. We listened to eulogies filled with anecdotes. We heard the story about how she got up early one morning to proctor a special sitting of the SAT so that the juniors on the football team wouldn't miss a big game. We heard about her help with school blood drives. We learned what we already knew, that her office door was always open when a student needed to talk to a wise and helpful adult. 

Most importantly, we were encouraged to think about our own lives when a close friend of our nurse read a poem called "How Do You Live Your Dash" by Linda Ellis http://www.lindaslyrics.com/The%20Dash%20Poem.html . I thought about the fact that my tombstone will list the year of my birth and death, but it is the dash between those dates that is important. The dash is a symbol. It stands for my life and I must live it fully in service to others as well as to myself . 

I felt a tap on my shoulder and turned to see Mr. Sharppow squatting in the aisle near me. I was snagged.

"Move over," he commanded. 

I squeezed a little closer to the cute girl from my sixth period chemistry class and she smiled at me. Mr. Shappow slipped into the pew beside me. He wasn't smiling. He sat quietly listening to the eulogies. Then he stood with me and the others when we were asked to give our nurse one last standing ovation for her well-lived life. I stood up and focused on the small white box containing her ashes in front of the altar.  She would be missed. The tears streaming from everyone's eyes told me she would be missed greatly. 

The next day when I sat waiting in Mr. Sharppow's office, I noticed that Mrs. Strider had a picture of our late nurse pasted on the wall. The picture was popping up on walls in several of the classrooms too. That fact pacified my grief. Somehow I knew that our nurse's kindness and dedication would live on and manifest itself in the faculty, staff and students of our school. 

I'm glad my classmates and I were able to go to the memorial service, but I guess I was a bit improvident in planning the "incident." I didn't think about the consequences. When I met with Mr. Sharppow he was kind. He said that he had to suspend me for breaking the rules, but, like John, he admired my good intentions. I guess it's true. Sometime, when the situation is extremely extraordinary, rules are made to be broken.

USE WITH VOCABULARY PACK #2

POINT OF VIEW: ( first person major participant)

Dedicated to the memory of my cousin Linda, a kind and caring school nurse whose presence will be missed at the high school where she worked.

The large crowd of friends, family, and students who attended her memorial service inspired this story, although the
school-hours dash is purely fictional.

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