“I wrote my report on the metamorphosis of tadpoles into frogs,” I heard. “Oh, no ma’am,” a voice–my voice–poured out of me, my brain, frenetic, only barely keeping a syllable ahead of my mouth. I sat, breathless and rapt with the rest of the class, listening to this story unfold. Miss Underwood absolutely terrified me–almost as much as did the prospect of acquiring the entire class’s ridicule or getting caught in a bald-faced lie–and such terror can be a remarkable survival mechanism, because my brain spun a web and my mouth spewed it out without so much as consulting with me. You are not lying to me, are you?” It was more a challenge than a question. I stared at the vibrant gladiola sprouting out from beneath Miss Underwood’s belt, and felt the entire class’s attention span shake from all else and swoop down on me. I had an overpowering impulse to move away from her, but my chair shackled me to the spot. Miss Underwood stood stiff, smack dab in front of my desk, so close I should have been able to smell the little flowers on her dress. “Roscoe ate it,” I said with slightly more conviction. I blinked, swallowed a spitless lump in my throat, and having already lied, promptly repeated myself. She planted her fists against her ample hips and leaned in, hovering over me. “What?” Miss Underwood scowled more, if that were possible.
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