May 16, 1991

When I was in second grade, I told the whole class I was turning 10. We all know eight is the more appropriate age at that grade level.

My mother was bringing a cake that afternoon, I guess I needed to live up to the attention I was expecting to get.

I don’t remember a single classmate not believing me. I remember telling one, maybe two people and the rumor must have spread like wildfire. What was so great about 10?

I just remember my mother walking in the classroom later that afternoon with a huge cake and possibly some ice cream. She must have taken off from work early, something she rarely did.

My mother and Mr. Brown, the best teacher till this day, conversed for a few minutes as usual. Made small talk. Mr. Brown was very handsome. I’m assuming he was single and not gay. But don’t think they were flirting. Sally’s mom would flirt with Mr. Brown, she even asked him for gas money once.

The question must have been something along the lines of, “How many birthday candles do we need on this cake?” Or maybe Mr. Brown asked aloud, “How old did you turn today?”

If memory serves me right, my mother’s response must have been something along the lines of, “Eight!”

I just remember my heart sunk. Before I knew it, the class was whispering. A few people started shouting, “10!” The newish, quiet boy shouted the loudest in his Spanish accent, “Teeennn!”

“Oh, great. They actually believed me.” I thought.

I remember Mr. Brown looked at my mother. My mother just laughed and said, “She’s going to be eight.”

Mr. Brown made a very loud, clarifying announcement to the class that I had turned eight.

I embarrassingly sank into my chair. I’m sure the entire class turned and looked at me. My mother and Mr. Brown just laughed it off. No big deal. But my spirits were crushed.

One of the two adults began cutting into the cake at the front of the room. I had to redeem myself.

I turned to my friend, we’ll call her Linda, sitting at the same table as me and whispered, “But I'm really going to be 10!”