In 6th grade, I fell on my face, and I heard my arm crack. I was playing on the monkey bars outside. That was my first mistake. I was always somewhat of a rotund pudgy boy. It felt kind of numb and funny. I went up to my teacher and told her, Mrs., I think I broke my arm. She looked at me and let out a giggle. I was a known storyteller; I dramatized everything. In fact, if there was an award for being the most dramatic student at my school, I would have won it. Numerous times. After collecting herself, she told me something along the lines of, "Okay, but if you go to the nurse, you can't eat at the class party. This made me sad. My arm was almost a second priority! I mean, heck, no ice cream! Looking back, I am confident every kid would have the same thought. After putting more thought into the pros and cons of my arm vs. the party, I despairingly decided my arm was more important. Of course that was because my arm started to tingle and hurt; if it hadn't, I am confident that to this day I would have decided to go to the class party. My teacher buzzed me in, and I slowly and dramatically grabbed my arm with my other hand and begrudgingly walked to the nurse's room. When I got there and told her what had happened, she laughed! She then said, Well, monkey bars can be dangerous. She moved my arm around and declared it was not broken. She sat me down and fed me crackers! Crackers! This was awful to me, for I did not sacrifice my class party for nothing, so I told her it was broken and I needed my mom to get me. She smiled and decided to call my mom. She said something along the lines of, "Your son thinks he broke his arm and is asking for his mom.". She then had the nerve to suggest, "Why don't you bring him to the hospital to see if it is really broken? My mom liked that idea. I guess it was smart in an adult's mind. Teach a kid a lesson on "trying to get out of class,” or at least they thought. They didn't understand class parties like I did. She drove me to the hospital, and the staff quickly took me and brought me to an x-ray machine. I didn't just break my arm; I broke my growth plate! I got the last laugh; my mom felt bad for me and got me ice cream when I was getting my splint.

In 6th grade, I fell on my face, and I heard my arm crack. I was playing on the monkey bars outside. That was my first mistake. I was always somewhat of a rotund pudgy boy. It felt kind of numb and funny. I went up to my teacher and told her, Mrs., I think I broke my arm. She looked at me and let out a giggle. I was a known storyteller; I dramatized everything. In fact, if there was an award for being the most dramatic student at my school, I would have won it. Numerous times. After collecting herself, she told me something along the lines of, "Okay, but if you go to the nurse, you can't eat at the class party. This made me sad. My arm was almost a second priority! I mean, heck, no ice cream! Looking back, I am confident every kid would have the same thought.   After putting more thought into the pros and cons of my arm vs. the party, I despairingly decided my arm was more important. Of course that was because my arm started to tingle and hurt; if it hadn't, I am confident that to this day I would have decided to go to the class party. My teacher buzzed me in, and I slowly and dramatically grabbed my arm with my other hand and begrudgingly walked to the nurse's room. When I got there and told her what had happened, she laughed! She then said, Well, monkey bars can be dangerous. She moved my arm around and declared it was not broken. She sat me down and fed me crackers! Crackers! This was awful to me, for I did not sacrifice my class party for nothing, so I told her it was broken and I needed my mom to get me. She smiled and decided to call my mom. She said something along the lines of, "Your son thinks he broke his arm and is asking for his mom.". She then had the nerve to suggest, "Why don't you bring him to the hospital to see if it is really broken? My mom liked that idea. I guess it was smart in an adult's mind. Teach a kid a lesson on "trying to get out of class,” or at least they thought. They didn't understand class parties like I did. She drove me to the hospital, and the staff quickly took me and brought me to an x-ray machine. I didn't just break my arm; I broke my growth plate! I got the last laugh; my mom felt bad for me and got me ice cream when I was getting my split.