We were in fourth grade. I had gotten creative the night before, borrowed my mother's driver's license, and made such a presice replica--even pasted a little photo of me on it--that when I showed it to David Hartman in Mrs. Bush's class, he screeched. Out loud. In the middle of class.
"She has a license, Mrs. Bush! She can drive!!!! Look! Look! (turning to me) show it to her!"
I stuffed it in my pocket and looked innocent.
David got yelled at and I was glad I had my license.
