Dear Ms. Gardner,

Remember in third grade when I won the math contest in your class and was rewarded with a picnic-in-the-woods lunch with you (I had a nice ham sandwich, like a good little Jew), during which we talked about your boyfriend, Mr. Wilbur, and how you were going to be Mrs. Wilbur soon, and the whole time I fantasized about how when I was as old as you were, like 23, I would wear turtlenecks and plaid miniskirts and chunky shoes with buckles and have long brown hair and longer pale legs too?

Well, I cheated.

Sorry,
J.

And now ... the prequel:

Time is up, pencils are down, and papers are turned over. Miss Gardner, our third grade teacher, tells us to exchange math quizzes with a "neighbor", so I hand mine to Ellen on my right, and Ellen hands hers to me on her left. We try not to smile. Best friends, we know what to do: what we always do.

I already have my broken-off pencil point concealed beneath my curled fingers, ready to turn Ellen’s "3"s into "8"s, her "1"s into "4"s, if needed. And she's ready to reciprocate.

Ellen's loyalty yields me the highest score in the class.