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I Don’t Deserve Any Gifts For Christmas
The year I deemed myself naughty
When I was in the fourth grade I tripped my elderly schoolteacher and sent her to the hospital.
On accident.
The time was 2:53. The bell would ring at 2:55 and Christmas break would officially begin. Mrs. Davis wandered around the classroom handing out miniature candy canes dressed in a mint green sweater, brown pants, and a broach on her breast — she was old. I watched her hand candy canes to Charlie, then Alex, then Riley across the room. I would save my candy cane for the bus, I decided. Surely I’ll be on the bus momentarily.
2:54. One minute to Christmas. Butts shimmied in seats. I remember feeling fairly disconnected from my fellow classmates, not because I didn’t share their enthusiasm, but because for whatever reason I didn’t have many friends in my class this year. Regardless of whether anyone seated around me would be at my birthday party come February, at this moment we all felt the same thing in unison: An eagerness for the holiday to begin and a desire to be anywhere but this classroom.
Christmas cheer, you might say.
I heard it before I saw it. The squeak of the first chair, thrust back all so a fourth grader could sprint from their desk to the door, only to be halted there before…