It was third grade English. We were reading Little House on the Prarie by Laura Ingles Wilder when the crime was committed. Specifically the day we were creating a collage of one chapter of the book in class.
My team had been tasked with depicting the moment when Pa confuses a tree stump for a Grizzly Bear. Pa runs towards the stump with an ax in his hand, trying to protect his family. I was tasked with drawing Pa. I executed this beautifully. I was a masterpiece. And then, one member of my team, my arch nemesis, John drew a tuft of grass under Pa’s arm. Ruining my masterpiece. I was mad. I was passive aggressive. I was mean to John.
The other member of my team was my good friend Scott. He laughed. I got mad at him. But I thought it ended there. Little did I know that Scott, the ultimate prankster sought revenge. I thought we were friends. This was a weakness. Scott committed the ultimate crime. The perfect prank on an unknowing victim.
At the end of class, Scott, the perpetrator took a chunk of a purple gluestick and put it in my hair. To this day, I don’t know how he did it. But later that day, I felt something funny in my hair. My brush got stuck in my hair. Scott burst out laughing. I questioned him: What is so funny. He responded. Full confession: Nothing. It’s just that I put glue in your hair. The perfect prank. Confessed in full. Well played my friend. Well played.