So, when I was in middle school, my English teacher, Ms. Wells, was awesome. She had long, curly strawberry blond hair, and she loved poetry. She actually taught me all about poetry, and then created a semester-long project where we had to write and decorate our own poetry (oh! I wish I still had that!). The day before this was due, I spent the night at my dear friend Valerie’s house. We had a great time, and set off for school (far, far, far away from where either of us lived — we were in a magnet program) on the school bus.

When we arrived at school, I realized, to my utter horror, that I had forgotten my beloved poetry project at Valerie’s house. We discussed our (limited) options, and with a faith in Houston’s transit system based on nothing more than faith alone, we decided we would take a bus back to Valerie’s house (she agreed to come with me!), then get the paper, come back on the next bus (would the bus wait for us? I secretly thought it would) … and then turn it in by 5th period English NO PROBLEM.

It wasn’t no problem.

We got on the wrong bus. We got off it, but forgot a transfer. We got on another bus (no, we didn’t have smart phones, or cell phone, or even very many street phones) and that was the wrong one, too. We tried to get a cab, but we were going really far and only had $10 between us. For that, he took us all the way to about a mile from Valerie’s house — we could see it. And that’s when the police car pulled in front of us.

Are you truant? he asked!

No! I said, sure that truancy was drugs or alcohol related.

ARE YOU TRUANT? he said again, as Texas police people are serious.

NO! I PROMISE WE ARE NOT, I said, though, we both were.

Finally, he said, Are you supposed to be in school?

Yes! I said, but we’re on our way back! We just have to get this one poetry project! It’s in those apartments over there — you can see them!

He called our parents. My mom came, and we were in the back of the police car. Through the open window, we could hear her.

“Officer, I’m busy. What happens if I don’t have time to pick them up?” she asked.

“Well, we’ll have to take them downtown, to the police station,” he said.

We began to wail.

Of course my mom picked us up, and she even took us to Valerie’s to pick up the poetry paper, although by now school was over. I don’t remember any more to the story — I assume I turned it in the next day, and Ms. Wells was wildly inspired? I assume Valerie spoke to me again, even though I showed her the back of the police car? I mainly remember how sad and frustrated and tired we were, and how glad I was that I wasn’t alone.

Thanks for being truant with me, Valerie. You were a great friend.