As a fifth grader, we are privileged to help out around the school as a Hall Monitor. And if you’re thinking, “Oh, this is going to go exactly like that SpongeBob episode where he gets assigned as Hall Monitor and all the power goes to his head.” Well then, yes, I’m an inspiration to many.
Anyway, Mr. Lee sits me down in a lonesome chair in the middle of the hall, hands me a menacing-looking incident chart on a clipboard and says, “No kids on the blue carpet at lunchtime.”
And that’s it.
There is no room for follow-up questions, no philosophical discussions on Mercy vs. Justice, and sending me to a leadership conference in Austin is off the table. It’s just me, my clipboard, and my overactive imagination for 45 villain-brewing minutes.
It’s eerily quiet here. Something is up, I can sense it hidden behind the mouth-watering scent of Lunch Lady Rectangle Pizza …. Mmmm …Rectangle Pizza. The culinary rock in my young life. A constant every Friday. I’m so glad this won’t eerily disappear from school cafeterias leaving 32-year-Katie longing for a taste of simple nostalgia.
A shift in the air…What’s that? I snap back from my foreboding state and do a quick perimeter check. Which, since I haven’t taken Geometry yet, is really just a straight line check. When lo and behold, dashing around the corner is none other than my new, tiny nemesis.
I knew just from looking at this kid, that he’d be a top candidate for Student Body Menace. Roughly 7 years old. Big, sparkling eyes. Scooby Doo sneakers. His joyous gait screams trouble, and I am here to put a stop to it.
“No kids on the blue carpet at lunchtime.” I shoot, clenching my pencil, ready to take disciplinary action.
He halts. A look of shock on his face, like he had trespassed these halls every lunch since August and it’s been “fine whatever”. Well, Mr. Fine Whatever isn’t Hall Monitor anymore. This kid’s days of free range mayhem are history. Lady Justice is taking over.
He hesitates as a montage of his short existence plays in his head, contemplating this moral switch point in his life. Proceed with his crime scheme and land his 4-foot self in federal prison or turn around and walk away, allowing peace and civility to tell his story.
“I’m just going to get my stuffed animal.” he squeaks.
So crime it is, then.
Because I am a woman of mercy, I decide to give him one. last. chance. to change his ways.
“No kids. On the blue carpet. At lunchtime.”
A pause. A look. And the next few moments are hallway pandemonium.
Those tiny legs spring into action. The background music erupts with a host of angry violins and frantic drumming as I leap from my chair. He’s fast, but I’ve got adrenaline on my side. My senses are on high-alert. I can’t believe I am here for this. This is the most exciting thing that’s happened in the East Wing since The Sloppy Joe Puke of 1998. The school newspaper is going to have a heyday with this. He sweeps around the corner just as I take a mental picture of the scene.
He’s gone, but he can’t get far. The truth will catch up to him.
I’m still standing at my post, wielding my clipboard and my pencil, heart pounding violently as I scratch out a hasty description on my incriminating chart.
I review my notes, dock my pencil, and sit back down.
When the sketch artist shows up, I’ll be ready. When the criminal is included in a police lineup, I’ll be ready. When I recap this whole drama to my BFF Libby Abrams at recess….
I’ll be ready.