Of all my Shedeck stories, this is one of my favorites.
During fifth grade I became friends with Jason Lee, who was friends with Jeremy Smith. For a couple of years we were the best of friends. Mr. Hatcher used to commonly refer to us as “the three stooges.” Jeremy grew up in Sun Valley with me. In fifth grade Jason lived near Shedeck, but at some point (maybe during the summer between fifth and sixth grade) he moved to Sun Valley as well; in fact, his backyard was caddy-corner from my own (the creek ran between our yards, but that was never a serious obstacle).
I think Jason and Jeremy were already doing “risks” before I met them. Risks were simply things we weren’t supposed to be doing. Each risk was rated on a scale of 1 to 10 — the higher the number, the riskier the risk. Think of it as our version of the dare/double-dare/triple-dare/triple-dog-dare system. You could propose a risk to somebody else, or announce you were going to do one yourself. Each time one was proposed, we would each put our hands together, wiggle our fingers and say, “riiisk, riiisk …” in this goofy voice — actually, it sounded more like “reesk,” with a slight roll on the “r”.
One day, Jeremy proposed a risk that each of us would all go to the bathroom at the same time. I think two of us were in one classroom and the third was in another, and we picked a predetermined time at which we would all meet in the bathroom. Reesk, reesk! This would have been something like a “2” on the risk scale. There was very little chance of getting caught, and even if we did, what was the worst punishment they would give three kids for all going to the bathroom at the same time? I do remember laughing and running around a lot in the bathroom, so much that Mrs. Harris dubbed us “Harvey and the Wallbangers.”
Now, Jason one time did an “8”. Before Jason moved to Sun Valley, he walked to school (Jeremy and I rode the bus). One morning, Jason realized he had left his homework at home and decided to run back home and get it. Leaving school grounds was a big time no-no. Once you were there you were to stay there. The three of us huddled together on the edge of the school’s property; then, when Mr. Hatcher wasn’t looking, Jason made a break for it. He ran all the way home, grabbed his homework, and ran all the way back. Jeremy and I once again huddled together and just about the time Mr. Hatcher made it over to where we were standing, Jason hopped around the corner out of breath, but present and accounted for. I’m sure Mr. Hatcher knew we were up to something, but I don’t think he ever figured out what.
The three of us performed a lot of “risks” those two years — stealing library books, hiding things in class, and so on — but there was only one “10”.
Mrs. McDonald, our music teacher, had a jar of jellybeans stowed away in one of her cabinets. She used them for treats and rewards on special occasions. I remember playing a lot of Musical Bingo in her class, and the winners always got jellybeans.
We wanted those jellybeans.
Now, this plan is so good and devious that I doubt we came up with it all at once off the tops of our heads. More likely, the plan evolved over a few weeks.
Any one who’s ever seen America’s Funniest Home Videos (AFV) knows that if you’re nervous and you stand with your knees locked, you can pass out. AFV runs video clips every week of wedding participants pass out and who fall flat on their faces. It’s so common that Mrs. McDonald (and music teachers everywhere, I’m sure) would always tell us not to lock our knees when standing on the music risers while singing. I’m sure her worst fear was that a kid would lock his or her knees and pass out on stage in the middle of “Happy Birthday Baby Jesus” or “Germs, My Invisible Dog.”
I believe this risk — the mother of all risks — began as a plan to fake passing out during a music program. The best thing about this risk was plausable deniability. Passing out on stage under the bright, hot lights was a potentially real fate. But faking fainting? In front of an auditorium full of siblings, parents and teachers? This risk started out as an 8.
Then, someone suggested that all three of us do it. This would be our ultimate risk. I’d like to say it was a 10 already, but then someone remembered the jellybeans.
So there you have it. Our risk was to, one by one, fake passing out on stage during a musical program. Kids who got lightheaded were asked to quietly leave and go to the music room, which was right behind the stage. Eventually all three of us would do this. Once we were in the room, we would steal the jellybeans.
A perfect 10 risk.
The night of the music program came. I want to say it was a Halloween program, but I can’t say for sure. I, along with sixty other six graders, was standing on the risers singing when I quietly excused myself and walked off stage. I went and sat in the room as we were told to do. Soon, Mrs. McDonald stuck her head in the music room’s door. “Are you okay?” she asked. I assured her I was but that I had been feeling light headed. “Stay in here and come out if you start feeling better. I’ll come check on you soon,” she said, and ran back to continue waving around her wand in front of a bunch of kids that didn’t understand what the wand was for.
I had done it! Before long my fellow two stooges arrived, and with one of us acting as lookout, the other two opened the cupboard door and began filling our pockets with handfulls of jellybeans.
I don’t remember if we ever went back out on stage or not — probably not. To this day my mom remembers this program as “the time I almost fainted on stage.” I keep telling her that it was all planned, but I’m not sure she believes me.
I know Jason is a regular reader; if you’re out there, I’d love for you to add anything you can to this one.
But anyway, that was it — the perfect 10 risk.