The Peanut Butter Alibi

3, 2, 1… ATTACK!

I slam my thumbs down on the controller and stick my tongue out in concentration. They’re closing in on my squad, and I’ve got to do something or it’s all over. I switch to my AR and focus on the sight when—WHAM! The door to my bedroom flies open and there’s Dad, standing in the doorway.

I almost fall off the bed from being scared and let out a protesting yelp. Samson, my golden retriever, comes flying into the room to save me and lands in my lap, knocking the controller free from my fingers. Dad’s laugh fills the room, and by the time I refocus on the TV, I’ve lost the match.

I let out a frustrated sigh and look at him.

“You just cost me that match, and I was WINNING.”

With a grin on his face, he responds, “From what I saw, you were getting your butt handed to you.”

I roll my eyes and seize the opportunity to play our favorite game.

“Wanna play a game of Madden? Come on! Four-minute quarters.”

I’m excited. He looks like he might consider it. But then his eyes sweep the room and stop at my desk.

“Depends. Did you finish your homework?”

I don’t even need to answer. The frustration ripples through me, and I dramatically fall back onto the bed.

“Come on, buddy. Games are off till it’s done. Don’t make me come in and tell you again,” he says as he leaves the room.

I let out a huff and go to the desk where my notebook is. It looks like a weird paper snowflake, with all the corners of my assignments poking out the sides from being shoved in there every which way. I flip through the pages and look for the homework assignment. I freak out when I get to the math section and don’t find it.

“I know it’s here…”

I rip open the backpack under the desk and find it empty.

“Crap,” I mutter under my breath.

I close the bedroom door and sit at the desk.

“He’s going to kill me,” I quietly say to Samson.

He looks back at me with his goofy face. This isn’t the first time I’ve forgotten to bring my homework home. The number of missing assignments I have is pretty high, and there’s no way he’ll even consider playing Madden if he finds out there’s another one.

I flip through the rest of the math section of my notebook and find a folded paper that stuck to the page before it. I pull it free and look—it’s last weekend’s homework. I never turned it in. Now I’m in even bigger trouble.

I look at the corner to see where the source of the stickiness came from. Is that... peanut butter? When’s the last time I had peanut butter?

I’m lost in my thoughts when Samson comes and stretches his neck, sniffing the paper in my hands. I look at him. Look at the paper. Look back at him.

Then it hits me: This is my way out.

My dad’s no dummy, so I’ve got to make this believable. I open the door and run to the kitchen.

“Can I have some peanut butter?”

My dad looks into the kitchen from his spot on the couch.

“Just peanut butter? That’s weird, buddy. Let me cut you an apple and you can have some peanut butter with that.”

He stands and walks into the kitchen. I can’t seem to focus my eyes anywhere as he pulls a knife out of the drawer and an apple out of the fruit bowl. I’m buzzing with excitement and nerves as I get the peanut butter out of the cupboard and wait patiently.

Dad puts my apple slices and a spoonful of peanut butter in a bowl.

“Can I eat it while I do my homework?” I ask quickly.

Dad looks at me and lifts an eyebrow.

“Everything okay, buddy?”

“Yeah! I’m just hungry and want to get my work done so I can kick your butt in Madden,” I say with a grin.

He chuckles and rolls his eyes.

“Can I eat in my room?” I ask again.

“Sure, just don’t make a mess.”

I scurry back to my room and call Samson after me. He doesn’t come at first, so I call again.

WHOOSH! He flies into the room and hops on my bed, staring at me as I contemplate how much of this peanut butter I can actually eat. It really does make the apple taste better, and there’s a bunch of it. I can have a couple swipes and still have enough to carry out my plan.

I set up Bob’s Burgers on my phone and mindlessly start munching. Before I know it, I’m out of peanut butter—and my assignment isn’t eaten.

I look at Samson with hopeful eyes and stick the paper in his face. He sniffs the old peanut butter in the corner and contemplates, only for a second, before turning his nose up. My stomach sinks as I look at the empty bowl on my desk. I practically licked it clean without even thinking about the plan.

I look at Samson and plea,

“Please, buddy, let’s play tug-o-war! I promise I’ll let you win!”

He huffs at me, obviously disappointed in his lack of snacks, and lays down on the bed.

Alright then. I’m on my own.

I start to tear the assignment into pieces and toss some of them into my backpack so it looks like Samson ate them. I gag thinking about what I need to do next, but it must be done. I take the main chunk of what’s left of the assignment and put it in my mouth to try and get it slobbery… just like Samson would.

I glare at my dog, telling him telepathically that I’m mad at him for his lack of effort. When he doesn’t even pick up his head in response, I move on to the next corner of the paper. Gagging again, this time I make sure to add some bite marks to make it more obvious that Samson “ate” my homework.

Satisfied with my efforts, I look at Samson and pat his head, apologizing for what’s coming next.

“SAMSON, NO! BAD DOG!”

He takes off running, and right on cue, Dad hollers from the living room,

“What’s going on?”

I work up some fake tears and take off with the shredded assignment in hand.

“He ate my homework!” I yell, pretending to be mad at my loyal canine.

I don’t even make it down the hallway before I see Dad standing there with a smile on his face.

I look at him through tearful, blurry vision and ask,

“What’s so funny?”

He looks at me and says through a chuckle,

“You never cease to shock me with how hard you’ll work not to do homework.”

My jaw drops. All that grossness—for nothing?

I start stuttering over my words, trying to come up with the right excuse, but he cuts me off.

“Buddy, you’ve got to remember. I was your age once, and I hated homework more than you do. I’ve told every lie and gave every excuse to get out of doing mine. I’m impressed, though—you’re committed to your cause.”

I look at him full of hope. Is he actually going to let me get away with this? Am I actually not going to be punished for tearing up my homework?

As if he can read my mind, he says,

“Yes, you’re in trouble—but not because you didn’t do your homework. It’s because you put so much effort into lying. If you would have just put this much effort into doing your homework, you’d be done twenty minutes ago, and we could have been playing Madden by now.”

My shoulders slump and I look to the ground, defeated. I tell him the truth—about leaving the assignment at school, about how I was planning on using the peanut butter to lure Samson into trouble, and about how I sucked on the paper to give it the slobbery effect I was looking for.

I brace myself for the tongue-lashing I’m sure is about to happen—when I see Samson coming out of the spare bedroom with a piece of paper in his mouth. He comes toward me, and I reach for it, realizing what it is: my missing math assignment.

I must’ve left it there when I went to ask Dad for help yesterday after school. Just as it all comes back to me in a rush of memory, Dad breaks out in a hearty laugh.

“Well,” he says, “I guess you’ll actually have to turn in a half-eaten math assignment. The dog really did eat your homework.”