Peter P.

When I was in the third grade, I forged my father’s signature.

It was on a note I was to bring home, informing my parents that I had been particularly naughty and come up with an alternate—and to this day I contest, much funnier—wording for the acronym “B.F.G.” (after reading the Roald Dahl book of the same name).

Some kid overheard my profanity and snitched on me to the lunchroom patrolwoman, Connie. I was issued what those of us who attended “Gifted and Talented” schools called a “Stop, Think, and Plan.”

I diligently signed—in just-learned cursive—my name at the top of a sheet with a large ditto-machined “STOP!” sign. I explained my heinous misdeed in the “Think” section, and mapped out a “Plan,” which involved “never swearing ever again,” or something to that effect. My teacher signed off—then explained I was to bring the document home and have my parent/guardian sign it as well.

My heart sank. I had to tell mom and dad that I… swore?

No way, I thought. I can’t let mom and dad know I swore. That’s like the worst thing ever.

So I did what I had to do. I did what any good, stupid, third-grade kid would do in that situation.

I grabbed a pencil and wrote my mom’s name on the line.

But I kinda screwed it up. The first time. And the next twenty or thirty tries.

Then, a stroke of genius: My dad’s name is waay easier to write. I excitedly expunged my crude facsimile of mom’s John Hancock and pressed the pencil down hard. Over what had already become a large grey smudge, I traced the letters, in the finest cursive I could manage:

Peter P.

I sat back and admired my work. That looks just like dad’s. It didn’t. No one’s ever going to know. My teacher totally knew. I am the smartest kid on the face of the earth.

What an idiot.