The Day My Teacher Shot Me

By Randy Haglund

“I’m going to have to shoot you.”

These ominous words from my eighth grade music teacher sent chills through me, and made me reflect on what had led up to this terrifying threat.

The day before my teacher shot me, I met my friend, Jim, on Five Mile ridge. While my classmates converged on Salk Junior High School on that Monday morning, I had walked right past the doors of the School and up Woodside Avenue to my appointed rendezvous.

Jim waited at Rock of Ages Church, still under construction.  Only the foundation and the wood sub-floor of the sanctuary had been completed. We pretended we were on a rock and roll concert stage, playing “Born to be Wild” on our air guitars for a few minutes. Then we got down to the business of exploring Five Mile Prairie.

No housing developments could be found on the prairie back then. There were a few farm houses scattered here and there and only one house enjoyed a view of the city. But the southeast terrain consisted primarily of forest and scabland with a cool ravine to explore.

We never saw anyone the entire time. Even though it was right on the edge of town, it seemed as remote as if it we were miles from civilization. We fantasized about what it would be like to live out in this wilderness.

“I’m going to build my house right here.”

“Mine’s going to be over here. We’ll be neighbors.”

Best of all, the deserted countryside gave us the opportunity to relieve ourselves wherever we wanted. We marked our territory all day. It was the best day ever.

At three o’clock we parted ways so we’d arrive home at about the same time as we ordinarily would have.

My dad worked the swing shift that day. “How was school?” He made his lunch before leaving for work.

“Fine.”

“Did you do anything interesting today?”

“No, same old thing.” I made a peanut butter sandwich and sat at the kitchen table.

He sat down beside me with a grave expression that made me pause before I bit into my creation.

“I got a call from the school today.”

The jig was up.  He told me someone in the office worried about my health. More likely they had become suspicious. The fact that I had been absent two other times this semester may have caused them to be skeptical.

A girl I knew with excellent cursive had previously written excuses for me:

“Please excuse Randy for missing yesterday. He was home with the stomach flu.

                                                                        Mrs. Haglund”

Someone noticed a pattern developing.

My dad read me the riot act and grounded me before leaving for work.

The next day I had to report to the office before classes. They gave me a “Truancy Card”. Most people referred to it as a “Red Card” because of its distinct bright color. I had to take it with me to all seven periods and have each teacher initial the box next to his/her class. They never explained the purpose of this ritual.

I tried to perform the task without much fuss, but every one of my teachers made a production of it in front of my classmates. Cat calls and “ooh’s” and “Hag got a red card,” and various other exclamations of derision accompanied each signing. I didn’t usually mind the notoriety, but the teachers clearly enjoyed the mockery at my expense.

By seventh period, everyone knew the gauntlet I suffered through. Thick as I was, it finally dawned on me what the true purpose of the red card was.

Humiliation.

The entire staff and student body of Salk Junior High was in on the joke. The red card had become a big scarlet letter on my chest, making me the scorn of the school.

Even worse, I had gym for my last class period. The way the schedule worked I had P.E. and music on alternating days. So I first had to explain to my gym teacher why I had to be excused early; to go to my music teacher to get a signature for the class I had actually skipped. Two roasts for one period.  Great.

I walked to Mr. Luke’s music classroom which convened in a portable on the west side of the main building. When I arrived, I found the door locked. Standing on the stoop, I could see a class in session through the window, but I couldn’t get inside. I knocked.

The music teacher tipped open a window next to the locked door.

“Haglund! What do you want?”

Mr. Luke was a popular teacher because he was nice. Usually. I hoped he might take it easy on me.

I spoke quietly. “I need you to sign something.”

“Sign something?” Grimacing, Mr. Luke spoke loud enough for everyone to hear. Apparently he hadn’t caught on to my cue that I was trying to be discreet. In fact, I got the distinct impression someone had tipped him off. “What am I supposed to sign?”

I could see several members of the class peering over his shoulder with wide grins. I pulled the scarlet ticket from my pocket and stretched it toward him.

“A red card?” Scattered chuckles and guffaws arose from the classroom. Mr. Luke frowned. “You skipped my class?”

“No,” I said. “I skipped all of them.”

“I see.” He peered over his glasses.  “What if I don’t want to sign it?”

“You have to.”

“I don’t have to do anything.” Hunched over, his head protruded out the window. I stood there, not knowing what to say.

“You know what I do to students that skip my class?”

My stomach turned sour. “No.”

“I shoot ‘em.”

Laughter exploded from behind him.

Summoning all the courage and wisdom I could muster at such a pivotal moment, I managed to choke out, “Huh?”

“I’m going to have to shoot you.”

To my horror, Mr. Luke produced a black pistol from below the window sill. He pointed it straight at my face and pulled the trigger.

Twice.

At point blank range. In front of witnesses.

Okay, so it was a squirt gun. He had commandeered it from a student moments before my arrival. Just a water pistol, yet I wished for something more lethal. The repeated abasement from eight separate classrooms had its desired effect. I felt sorry for myself, and I wished I had just gone to school.

At last he opened the door and let me in to greet the full frontal assault of the class. I averted my wet-faced gaze from the congregation he had worked into an evangelistic frenzy.

He led me to his desk, snapped the card from my hand and initialed it with a flourish. As he handed it back to me, he said “I hope you enjoyed your day off.” You could’ve scraped the sarcasm off the wall.

I skulked out of the room like a dog that’s been caught stealing food off the table.

I got over my chronic stomach flu problem, and it was the last time I skipped school.

At least in the eighth grade.

***

Did you ever skip school or get in trouble? What was it like? We want to hear.