We’ve all been there, I hope. I remember eighth grade. I brought a book of dirty jokes to school to try to impress the other kids and make them think I was funny.

The book itself was racist, sexist, homophobic, xenophobic—anything phobic. But this was in the early nineties when such jokes were acceptable, I guess. I won’t get into them for the sake of this story.

During recess, I called a bunch of boys to gather around me while I read the jokes out loud. They all laughed until one of the boys yelled, “Hey, come here. He’s got a book of dirty jokes.”

The principal, whose name escapes me, must’ve been patrolling the schoolyard during my presentation because he broke the circle and snatched the book out of my hands. I watched him flip through the pages. My throat was stuck in my chest. The other boys scattered like flies.

After reading just one joke, the principal nodded his head and said, “Come to my office after seventh period.”

He delayed the visit on purpose so I could dwell on my anxiety for that long. It was torture, sitting in fifth, sixth, and seventh period. The students knew about the trouble I was in, so they all looked at me. All I wanted was to be funny and grab their attention, but obviously, it backfired.

When the school bell after the seventh period rang, I jumped in my seat.

The students rushed out of the classroom like bulls.

I sat in Principal _______ office across from his desk.

He watched me for a long time without saying a word, while I just stared at my thumbs in my lap.

He skimmed through the pages of the dirty joke book some more and shook his head. “Why would you bring this to my school?”

“I don’t know, sir,” I said. “I just wanted to be funny.”

“You really think these jokes are funny?”

“No, sir,” I said.

“Well, you know what would be real funny is if I called your parents. Wouldn’t it?”

If my father had found out, Principal _______ wouldn’t have felt like such a threat because my father was the devil of all devils.

The principal picked up the phone slowly and watched me shake in my chair.

“Please don’t do it,” I said. “I won’t bring that book ever again.”

“I’ll make sure of that,” he said.

“I’ll do detention for the rest of the year. Just don’t call them.”

But he did. He dialed the number, but my parents were at work. This was the age of the answering machine.

Principal ______ left a message to call him back at his number and hung up the phone. “I hope this teaches you a valuable lesson. Do you know where this book belongs?”

I knew the answer to that, too, just like I knew Mr. Tomato’s joke.

Principal ______ held the book over his trash can and let it drop right inside like a basketball through a hoop. There went the ten dollars I’d spent buying it. He didn’t have the right to do that.

“Now get out, and I better not have to see you here again.”

When I left, I felt like the worst criminal on earth. My parents would soon find out the truth about me: that I was a filthy kid who didn’t deserve nice things.

Somehow, I didn’t miss the bus ride home. It was a slow burn. Everyone asked me what happened in the principal’s office, but to be honest, I felt as if I’d blacked out through the whole visit. I couldn’t tell anyone.

When Mom came home from her job at the county, she was so bedraggled that when she checked the message from Principal ______, she asked, “What the hell did he want?”

I played dumb and shrugged.

“I don’t have time for this,” she said, and then she began to cook dinner for Dad and me.

I got away with that one, and I would never have to see the principal at junior high again.