I’ve had an independent streak for my entire life, so fourth grade wasn’t exactly out of the blue. At the same time, a combination of being in the same classroom with my dearest friend, Eve Koopmann, being fairly fast at my work and thus able to complete Montessori ‘contracts’ quickly, and a love of giggling conspired to send me to the office more than you might assume. In this, as in everything we did at that age, Eve Koopmann (pictured) was my co-conspirator, my leader, my follower, my pal.

Eve Koopmann in fourth grade

Today’s post is more a few snapshots of us at the age of 8 and 9 than it is one particular day. I remember we learned how young men showed excitement while watching the older brother of a teammate on swim team do the backstroke after kissing his girlfriend. Oh our sisters and mothers had a lot to explain at that point.

Another day that year, sitting in Eve’s bed, we accidentally broke a thermometer, and spent at least an hour playing with the fascinating balls of mercury before her mother discovered us and admonished us as to the danger we were in. I still remember with such clarity how it broke apart and pooled back together on her sheets, both liquid and solid at the same time.

Mrs. Stokan

How we strung string and cups from my dad and stepmom’s house to her house (across the street) to be able to talk all night long. How we tried to sell our artwork on the street the way other, more enterprising kids sold lemonade. There were very few takers. I remember the first Playgirl we found and explored (with astonishment and some horror) together. I remember the time we made mac & cheese together in the kitchen and I made her laugh so hard she got caught on the stool and actually peed on the floor.

We were good, good friends. And that meant, in the school day, we were very, very often in trouble. And so, Mrs. Stokan. She was a beloved assistant principal, regarded as tough but fair, and no one wanted to displease her. And yet, again and again, in our fourth grade year, Eve and I found ourselves in her office. And while it was shameful to be sent, we were a relatively solid team. Until we reached the most, most, most dreaded part of the meeting: The part where Mrs. Stokan said, “well, you know I’m going to have to call your parents.”

Our parents were each the original hippies, loathe to spank and ready to use the phrase “I’m disappointed” more than anger. But still, the idea of disappointing my mom, of having Mrs. Stokan call her, was always terrifying. Eve and I would grab each other’s hands and moan, “noooooo!” just before it all took place. The idea actually was worse than the punishment, which I don’t even remember.

I hope my children learn to behave within school rules, but if they do occasionally stray out of bounds, I hope they have a friend as dear as Eve to walk that dreaded march to the principal’s office with together. It’s easier to do anything when holding hands with your best friends.