My third grade teacher was the most lenient of elementary teachers I'd had so far. She let me out of my chair during recess as long as I promised not to climb on anything. I was permitted on the swings, but only if I didn't attempt to swing over the bar as my classmates constantly attempted to do. For the most part I obeyed her terms, however there were moments I forgot my promises in a sugar rush of M&Ms and Jelly Beans, and I'd race up the jungle gym or allow one of my friends to push me as high as they could on the swings. Then my teacher would revoke my playing privileges and I would spend the rest of recess sitting beside her in my chair.
I was sitting in time out for diving down the slide face first despite being told not to -- twice. While my teacher was occupied with scolding some of my other classmates, I slowly backed away from her until I was just out of her peripheral vision. I sat quietly for a moment, pretending to be interested in a book every time she looked back at me.
Eventually, she had to go deal with a dispute two students were having and left me unattended just long enough for me to make my escape. Quickly, I hopped out of my wheelchair and pushed it toward the school. I hid my chair on the side of the building and dashed toward a large tree that stood between the building and the playground. While she made her way back to the picnic table, I ran to the playground. I watched from under the tower of slide platforms as she noticed my absence and began looking for me.
"Please don't tell the teacher I'm hiding here," I begged my friends who were playing on the platform.
"Okay, but can I play in your wheelchair?" One of them asked.
"Yeah, I hid it on the side of the school," I said.
I watched my friend run over to the building and disappear around it. A few minutes later she emerged, but my wheelchair was not with her. She ran back to the tower. I had climbed up the platform and was hiding in one of the tunnels.
"Your chair is gone," She said.
At that moment, my teacher's voice called out to me, "Come out of there this instant. You are in serious trouble. Where is your wheelchair?"
I slid down the slide.
"I lost it," I confessed.
"What do you mean, 'lost,' where did you put it?" my teacher asked.
"I hid it on the side of the school, but it's not there anymore."
My teacher and I walked to the place my wheelchair was supposed to be hiding and sure enough it was gone. We scoured the playground, but it was nowhere to be seen.
"How in the world do you lose a wheelchair?" My teacher asked in disbelief, "We'll have to call your parents," she said.
I started to panic. My ability to lose things was not uncommon in our household. Not wanting to go to the principal's office, I tried to think of a stalling tactic.
"I have to use the bathroom," I announced.
"Alright," said my teacher, "but then we are going to the office."
I ran to the outside entrance of the girl's bathroom while my teacher gathered up the class to end recess early. I knew my classmates would be upset, but not as much as my parents were going to be when they found out I'd lost my wheelchair. I was about to go in the bathroom when I heard something banging against the inside of the door. A girl was in the bathroom and she was hollering for help. I rushed back to my teacher.
"Someone needs help in the girl's bathroom!" I said, urgently.
My teacher hurried over to the bathroom and tried to open the door. It opened a little way, but not far enough for her to get in. I looked inside the door and saw the girl was stuck inside with my wheelchair. She was crying.
"I can't get out, because the chair is too big and the door won't open!" she wailed.
"Let me help," I said to my teacher, "I know how to fold the wheelchair."
The teacher managed to get the door open wide enough for me to slip in. The girl was sitting in my wheelchair.
"Get up and stand by the sink, I can get you out," I told the girl and she obeyed.
I pulled the seat up. It took a few tries, but finally the chair folded enough for the teacher to get the door open. It was like a game of Tetris trying to work the awkwardly folded wheelchair around the door, but after a few tries my teacher was able to free the chair and us from the small bathroom.
"Why did you take her wheelchair?" the teacher asked the girl once we were outside, "you know better than to play in it."
"I found it. I was gonna give it back," the girl said.
"And you," the teacher turned on me, "I'm sending a note home. Get back in your wheelchair," the teacher said to me, "It's time to go inside."
I just stood there and tears began rolling down my face. "I don't want this stupid wheelchair. All it does it get me in trouble."
My teacher's expression softened, "Tell you what, I'll let it slide today, but you need to listen to me. I give you a lot of freedom and it could get me in trouble if something happened to you. But I know you are capable of doing more than you're given credit for, you just need to learn to listen."
I apologized and got back in my wheelchair. Even though I still felt the injustice of having to use a wheelchair, I began to understand the importance behind the decision. I really liked my teacher and if me getting hurt would get her into trouble, then I'd do my best to be more cautious in the future -- and I did . . . for the most part.
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