Lies

 Lies

Noel Laflin

12-13-22

I remember quite distinctly a whopping lie that I presented to Mr. Wilson my senior year in high school.

The outright lie was the forged absent slip I handed over to my history teacher when he caught me in the hallway, demanding why I had missed his class. I had missed five classes that warm spring day as the beach was calling. I had only returned to the end of classes to retrieve some books from my locker – I think a history assignment was due the next day.

It was pretty obvious to us both that I had been at the beach as sand fell from my pocket while I retrieved the forged document. I was also pretty sunburned. And a damp outline of my swim trunks was clearly visible through my jeans. The absent slip was also damp and encrusted in sand. More sand fell from my hair as I stood mute and stoic before my captor.

The forged signature was that of my journalism teacher, who at one time had told us (newspaper and yearbook crew) that if we ever needed his help, to come seek it.

My smug history teacher marched me to the staff break room, found my journalism instructor, and shoved the forgery under his nose and demanded, “Larry, is this your signature!”

Larry Quillie set down his cigarette, looked at the handwriting that was clearly not his, looked at me, then looked at Mr. Wilson, and lied: “Yes, it is.”

“You’re lying, Larry!” Wilson cried out. "You're always protecting those writing brats of yours." And with that, he stomped off.

Mr. Quille looked at me with sad hound dog eyes – a trademark feature that I have never forgotten all these years later, took a drag on his smoke, and simply said: “You need to work on my signature, kid.”

I loved my journalism classes and my three years with Mr. Quille.

But History class was a little testy for the rest of the year.