“What do I always tell you girls?” My mother’s angry, interrogative voice rang out in the uncomfortable silence that hung over our car. My sister, Peyton, and I sat silently, our innocent faces wretched with guilt. “Who’s head do we use?” our mother asked. “Our own,” came the sheepish reply from the backseat. With tear-stained faces and in between sobbing gasps, we mustered our apologies. I was perhaps five at the time, and Peyton was three, but we still knew better than to do what we did.

Just half an hour earlier, both young sisters were laughing and playing with the other children at their school: a lively mix of kindergarteners and day care kids, all jumbled together during their favorite part of the day, recess. Maybe Peyton and I were going down the slide; maybe we were on the swings; maybe we were climbing across the monkey bars. Or perhaps we were engaged in an activity loved by all children at the school: collecting ants in paint buckets. I don’t really remember, looking back now. But, I do recall a friend of mine, Shelby, whose mother worked at the school and who had been playing with us at the time. Somehow—by means of either powerful persuasion or who knows what—that girl convinced Peyton and me to follow her into the empty building. “To play” I think was the idea. However, we didn’t quite realize, as we walked inside behind her, just what a terrible decision we were about to make.

You see, because everyone was outside, the building was completely empty, and its hallways, abandoned, lay dark and ominous. One little girl, an evil plan already beginning to form in her head, walked down one such hallway, and two other young girls followed in tow. That was Peyton and I. We didn’t see anything wrong with what we were doing; we were just going along with Shelby. So, in a way, I suppose we were a bit oblivious to the situation, but our little hearts were still pumping with adrenaline at the prospect of sneaking around. I think we’ve often been what you might call “goody-goodies,” so this was a new experience for us. We headed down the hallway, tiptoeing softly and with muffled steps before rounding a corner and arriving at our desired destination. Once there, Shelby quietly opened the classroom door and we slipped inside. After the three of us had filed in, we sighed a small breath of relief before high-tailing it to—where else?—the teacher’s closet!

There is only one thing that pre-schoolers love more than collecting ants at recess, and that is… shaving cream. Such wonderfully light and fluffy stuff, shaving cream can be shaped and smeared between many a child’s small, excited hands. And our school kept a good supply of it. Often, teachers would produce a bottle from the depths of their forbidden closet and squirt, squirt, squirt a dollop for each little boy or girl to enjoy. It was a privilege, of course, and certainly did not occur frequently, yet here we were, standing before the forbidden closet, with bottles upon bottles at our disposal! Shelby knew the building well, and she knew where to find these things. She also knew that a 5-year old like myself could never refuse! Certainly, how could I have refused such a pleasure? And Peyton… she was just following what seemed to be a good example set by her older sister! So, there we were, having a grand old time, as the shaving cream gradually made its way from the bottle, to our hands, our faces, and (most likely) the walls. There was no harm in that! Or, at least it seemed… until we were greeted by three completely dumbfounded teachers who’d come to retrieve their missing students! They’d followed us in, surely, after noticing we were missing from the playground. So, what did I do at that point? Turn around to face them as I proudly wielded the shaving cream beard on my face and the empty bottle in my hand? Freeze out of sheer horror and drop everything? Knowing the type of person that I was, I most likely burst into tears at the thought that I, Reagan Wheeler, had gotten into trouble. And Peyton surely followed my example once again, as that’s something she seems to be good at.

In the end, despite the tears (for there were many shed), our teachers weren’t terribly angry. They were actually quite surprised to have caught the—
seemingly sweet—little Wheeler girls breaking into the school! It was our mother who was most upset with us. She’d come to pick us up in a good mood, ready to present her beloved daughters with packages of mini M&M’s. But then, when she learned what we had done, her smile gradually faded, and she was at first surprised, and then angry, as she was sent home with a car full of delinquents. We weren’t worthy of M&M’s that day, unfortunately, but that was the first and last time I have ever gotten into such trouble at school. I know now I have to “use my own head” as my mom teasingly reminds me with each given opportunity!