Which one is the lie?
1. grade nine… standing beside my desk… the head of the geography department had me in something of a nasty headlock. I watch as a broken string of pooka-shells from my necklace scatter across the floor. An atlas… my atlas… was still jutting from the garbage can. My arm came up… my arm came down… my elbow came back with significant force, (considering my rather diminutive form) and made a remarkably accurate connection with Mr. Smithson’s testicles. As he collapsed between the desks and all the eyes of the other students and the teacher fell upon him, I thought “Shit… this is going to be really bad.”
2. grade ten... two ambulance drivers holding me – rather bodily - to a table in a theater within the emergency ward… plastic surgeon dude holding a large rubber mallet... three 10% cocaine gauze things rammed up each nostril... a hand over my mouth forcing me to breath through the gauze... and he's fucking hitting me in the face with the mallet. My mom was waiting in the car.
3. grade eleven… “so we have a deal?... I come to class... I don’t actually get you mad about anything… and it’s an A this year and next… so long as I don’t try to take grade 13* Art?” To this Mrs. Davies replies… “Deal!” and we shake on it. I had just handed her 10 packages of Kodak ectachrome slides… 360 (flash free… so tripods etc.), 35 mm images taken of the artwork in the Van Gogh museum in Amsterdam while I was on a trip there to visit my brother.
* Q-year… grade 13 (a “university qualifying year” in our school system at the time).
4. grade 12… “du behover… inter tola svenska… fer a festoa… svenska qualateer” or something remarkably close to that… practicing and practicing and practicing… It was from an Elna Sewing Machine magazine advertisement and was supposed to mean “you don’t have to speak Swedish to understand Swedish quality.” The Swedish exchange students had arrived yesterday and I was dead set on meeting Helaina… and intended to deliver this line with as much grace as I could manage. Flash forward three days… it’s the pre-march-break school dance. Helaina is sitting with me down in the boiler room in the school basement. The Master Key, long ago stolen from a janitor and handed to me by a graduating student friend last year had come in handy. The red glow of the exit signs and various “indicator lights” on strange equipment was the only light… but it was enough to reveal the outlines of delicate Swedish skin and only the strength of dramatic effort kept me from actually making gurgling noises… “du behover… inter tola…”.
Make your guess ... I'll post some info on this stuff and the answer... tomorrow.