Thumbs Up

I spent most of sixth grade staring at Alan Bilsing. Everything from his blond mushroom cut to his extra baggy JNCO jeans made him the coolest and cutest sixth grader to ever exist. My subtle staring-but-not-staring soared to new heights in the only class we had together: Language Arts.

Ms. Salam was going over our homework from the night before. I was watching Alan chew his number two pencil in the row in front of me when Ms. Salam said my name. She was holding up a printed sheet of paper, beaming with pride: “Nadine wrote this amazing story and I would love for her to come up and read it to the rest of the class.”

Story? I thought to myself. I looked at the paper that she claimed was mine. The font. The border. The “From Nadine” carefully written across the top. Did she think I wrote the story sample from the computer program? There had to be some mistake. I felt the heat travel with the throbbing– from my chest, to my throat, to my cheeks. Don’t say come up, don’t say come up.

“Come on up, Nadine,” she insisted.

“Uh– I–“ I could feel 20 pairs of eyes watching me, but it was like I forgot how to form words. My eyes found Alan Bilsing’s as he turned in his chair to look at me, and, all of a sudden, I was standing in front of the class, reading this brilliant story that I didn’t write.

It truly was a beautiful story, but someone else wrote every beautiful word, and I knew it.

My face burned hotter with every sentence that came out of my mouth. Ms. Salam beamed at me, but I couldn’t meet her eyes. The entire class was in awe of my wonderful tale and right there, sitting in the second row, Alan Bilsing was looking right at me. My chest pounded so hard, I worried that Alan might feel the vibration of every thud from across the room. After what felt like an entire year crammed into a few seconds, I hurried back to my seat in the back and placed the story face down on my desk.

My head swirled and thumped with my heart. No one in the room could possibly own the same dorky creative writing computer program. It was obvious that everyone loved the story from the way they were looking at me. All I could see were the smiles on my friends’ faces. But how could Ms. Salam think that “From Nadine” meant the same as “By Nadine”? How could she just sabotage me in front of the whole class without talking to me first? The hammering in my chest traveled up to my ears; thump, thump, thump. And then I looked up and Alan Bilsing was giving me thumbs up. ME! For my story! I smiled back and thought of nothing else for the rest of the day.

Two days passed and the image of Alan’s thumbs up was replaced by a gnawing thought: it wasn’t my fault. It didn’t matter as long as no one knew. But the guilt was devouring every inch of my stomach. I hadn’t gotten a single awkward glance or knowing look from any of the kids in my Language Arts class, but during the break right before class, Ms. Salam asked me to come up to her room.

My knees were numb as I followed her down the hall. I am such an idiot, I thought. I should have said something. I should have given her the story myself instead of leaving it on her stupid desk. I should have played it cool when she called me up and said something clever like, “Oh I wish I wrote that, I just found it and thought you’d like it”. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.

The following 15 minutes were a blur. I stood in front of Ms. Salam’s desk and she said things like “plagiarism”, “unacceptable”, “disappointment”, and even “illegal”, but I was focusing all my energy on not bursting into a fit of tears.

“You’re going to have to apologize to the class, Nadine, and explain that the story was not your work,” she said sternly from behind her desk.

I couldn’t hold it any longer. “Apologize? In front of everyone? Couldn’t I just write them a letter or have her say something instead?” But Ms. Salam wouldn’t budge. I should have spoken up sooner. I had a few minutes to gather my thoughts, but all I could think of was Alan Bilsing. He gave me a thumbs up; he listened to me; he noticed me; and now he was going to hate me forever. I tried to catch my breath between sobs and I found my usual seat in the back row.

People gave me weird looks and asked, “What’s wrong?” as they made their way to their seats. I tried to wipe my tears, but they were too fast–each drop was instantly replaced with another.

Then Ms. Salam stood up and every inch of my body felt frozen, except for the thumping in my head. Alan Bilsing wasn’t in his seat, and I hoped to God he had gone home sick.

“Nadine has something she would like to share with you,” Ms. Salam announced with a heavy disappointment that filled my eyes right back up with tears.

I got up from my desk and in walked Alan, looking confused as he made his way to the second row. My heart felt like it was going to fall out of my butt and into my pants.

“I– I…” I tried not to cry, but it was impossible. “I didn’t write th-that s-story from l-last class. I’m sorry!” I said to the grey carpet that collected the tears that dripped straight out of my eyes onto the ground. I couldn’t look up. I couldn’t look at a single person in the room.

Ms. Salam came up and touched my shoulder, and I rushed out of the room and speed-walked straight to the bathroom, where I spent the better part of the class ugly crying in one of the stalls.

I never looked at Alan Bilsing again.