Sandy Supposes....

A Book Report is Lost...

PROMPT: In an ironic twist, a dog really ate your homework. When you try to explain this to your teacher she says, "Come on, you can do better than that excuse." Instead of arguing, you take that as a challenge and come up with an elaborate story as to what happened to your homework. Let us hear it.

          Well, I tried, I really did. The idea of a dog eating my homework is far more believable than what actually did happen. For a brief moment, I'd even thought to claim that my house burned down, but, hey, this is a small town, and I know for a fact that my English teacher drives right past my driveway every morning. Now that I remember, her son is a fire fighter, too. Whew, I'm glad that stupid idea slipped away like smoke from my ears. She's actually pretty sharp for an older lady. I guess she didn't forget my speech from a few months ago, the one in which I embarrassed myself by crying real tears. I sorta talked about my dog dying...

          The thing is I was kinda desperate this morning. My mind went blank when I was asked where my book report could be. Mrs. Buckley even suggested I hadn't bothered to read the darn book, or bother to create a report. This was so unfair, and so just not true at all. I had struggled through that terrible tome, and I'd sweated putting my opinion down on paper. I had to defend myself, and I panicked. I said the first thing that came to mind, and, yep, it was a pretty lame excuse. My dog, a dog that's been certifiably deceased for a while now, ate my homework, What's that old movie line? "You can't handle the truth." My truth was stranger than fiction, and I'm not so sure there are any reliable witnesses.

         It's actually Mom's fault, no, really, it is. I know she's always moaning and complaining when I get in trouble 'cause she suspects people will blame her, but this time it is all her big mistake. Mom works an overnight shift at the local group home. Most of her clients are handicapped, and require supervision and assistance. Mom likes to joke that she gets paid to sleep, but before she does she preps the residents for bed. She noticed my finished book report on our kitchen table, and she snatched it up on her way out the door. She hoped it would provide her with some light bedtime reading. She also considers herself to be my official proofreader. Mom still doesn't trust me to discover my own spelling errors, as if.

          Anyway, I wasn't particularly worried. What could possibly happen to my ungraded book report? Sure, Mom would probably pan it, and offer her suggestions. but it was ready, and I liked it fine just the way I wrote it. Mom could be trusted to return it in the morning before I left for school.

          My first realization that something seemed odd the next morning was when Mom wouldn't look at me. She stared past me at the ceiling, or the floor. As I stuffed things hurriedly into my knapsack, I asked her for my book report. Sighing, and squaring her shoulders, Mom finally turned to me. I couldn't believe my ears. She blurted, "I don't have it." What? "Come on Mom. This isn't funny. I need that homework, it's due today. Where is it?" I reached for her purse, but Mom snatched it. "I'm telling you. It's not in there." There was no grin, or even a hint of a smile on Mom's face.

          As I glared at her, she indicated that I should sit down. Pacing about the kitchen, my upset parent waved her arms in the air. "Okay, I think I know where your book report is, but it can't be retrieved. It's complicated." She could see my frown, and she continued. "Do you remember meeting Little Betty at the group home?" I shrugged, "Maybe, why?" "Well, she has an interesting condition,no, two of them. She has this uncontrollable compulsion. Betty can't help herself, she really can't. She seems to have a constant appetite, and she'll eat anything. I've caught her stuffing her face with, well, the stuffing from the sofa. She is why we lock all the food cupboards and the fridge. Now the garbage pail has a lock, too. She's been diagnosed with Pica, and Prader-Willi Syndrome. She is such a handful. She is determined to sneak whatever she can get her hands on." "What? So, what does this have to do with my book report? Nah, Betty didn't eat it. It's paper. No way."

          Mom nodded. "I put your book report down, just for a minute, on the counter. Okay, I admit I was distracted. Breakfast time is hectic at the group home. There are bibs to find, and tie. Betty has to be sitting at the table before I can unlock the fridge. I never noticed it was missing at first. She is surprisingly quick. I heard her gag, and cough a bit. When I turned to look at her, she swallowed. Betty signed that she wanted a drink." I was flabbergasted. This was inconceivable, unbelievable, ridiculous. Little Betty ate my book report for breakfast? As I shook my head, Mom began to giggle. "Poor Betty must have been so thirsty. I read your book report last night, and it put me to sleep. It was a tad dry."