NICOTINE TEEN I was in my 10th grade science class, wishing, as always, that I wasn't. As if it wasn't bad enough that I had absolutely no interest in anything scientific, I was also totally entrenched in my own personal addiction to nicotine. Back in those days, in the early 60s when "bad" students were the ones who chewed gum in class or ran in the hall or wrote with lipstick on the bathroom mirror, I was the worst of the bad. Although I had no use for science, I did like Mr. Davies. He was good at bantering with me and I enjoyed the competition. Even though science stunk, Mr. Davies didn't. On this particular Friday, I couldn't get having a cigarette out of my mind. I had gotten caught fulfilling my desire for nicotine so many times, that I was perpetually suspect. Most of my teachers had given up on me. Still seated at my desk, it was a snap to slip the match into the top of my sock. It required a little more care to fit the butt under my watchband. After making sure it was covered by the long sleeve of my blouse, I took a deep breath and prepared to lie. Lying was different than just being a goof off, mouthing off or just plain being a lousy student. It bothered me to lie. The meaning of my name is "truthful one". Fortunately, that means much more now than then, since it was obviously not beneath me to lie if I wanted something badly enough that I could feel the end justified the means. Nicotine was something I wanted badly enough. I walked up to where Mr. Davies was sitting. By the twinkle in his eye, along with a slight smirk, I knew that he knew part of what I was going to say. And he knew, that I knew, he knew. "Mr. Davies..." He leaned back and clasped his hands behind his head, listening patiently, interested in hearing the details of my latest, but clearly not expecting to be fooled in the least. "I need to use the restroom, but I am not going to have a cigarette. Look... I am leaving my purse on my desk..." I pointed to it, in case he wanted proof. By the time I finished my plea, I could see in his face that he was going to let me. I just knew he bought it. But then he looked away and he didn't look so happy. Quietly, he told me, "You dropped something." I looked at the floor and saw that hideous cigarette. Instant death would have been welcomed. And deserved. Here was this big-mouth, smart-alec class clown, supposed to be tough as nails, now slinking back to her desk, her face buried in her hands, barely able to see to find her way. Somehow managing to seat myself while still trying to hide in my hands, my head spun and my face burned crimson as I waited to be humiliated still further by whatever words the teacher chose to finish me off. I had lied. I had tried to trick him. And, I had failed. I remember bracing myself for his words. I remember no one laughed. And I will always remember exactly what he said. He could have killed me with words at that moment. I was certainly one to recognize the perfect chance for him to get a good laugh at my expense from the entire class. This was one competition he could win so easily, so coolly, so smoothly. On top of that, he could have sent me to the principal. I would have been suspended for sure -- once again. Clearly, I was at his mercy. Most of all, I feared his words. When they came, after what seemed like about a year, I could hardly believe what I was hearing: "I want you to know that you are a welcome part of my class. And I want to see your bright an' smilin' face back in here for class on Monday morning." That was it. Mr. Davies was not a man to kick a girl when she was down -- golden opportunity or not. He was a gentleman. Even though I was no scholar. »§«:*´`³¤³´`*:»§«:*´`³¤³´`*:»§«:*´`³¤³´`*:»§«:*´`³¤³´`*:»§« You're Just Jealous Because The Voices Are Talking To Me Richiele Sloan ICQ #63829109 (Missi) »§«:*´`³¤³´`*:»§«:*´`³¤³´`*:»§«:*´`³¤³´`*:»§«:*´`³¤³´`*:»§«