Andy Malone 
To understand this story, you need to understand the layout of my elementary school. Which is pretty easy to understand: the school was a single, long hallway. The kindergarten rooms were closest to the main entrance, and the further you walked, the older the kids got. Somewhere between second and third grade, a gently sloping downward ramp broke up the journey. After the ramp, the gym was on the left, and the library was on the right. Then, there were more classrooms, third then fourth then fifth, all the way to the back double doors, which the older kids sometimes used to come and go from recess.
During arrival and dismissal, us kids sat alongside both sides of this epic corridor. In the mornings, we waited for our teachers to open the classroom doors. In the afternoons, we waited for our busses to be called. So, twice a day, the entire school, more or less, was out in the hallway, chatting about homework and television and life in general.
Now, on to the story. (It’s a good one!).
One fourth grade afternoon, during dismissal, Hye-jin and Daniela and I were in our classroom, unattended. We should have been out in the hallway, but we weren’t. I can’t imagine why. Maybe we took too long to pack up our things, or maybe we had asked to go back inside, claiming we forgot our homework. We were good kids, so I’m sure the adult on dismissal duty wasn’t concerned.
But there we were, unsupervised in our empty classroom. We relished the opportunity! We saw no need to hurry back to the loud and crowded hallway. Instead, we poked around the room, laughing and joking with one another. We played Hangman on the chalkboard. We spun the globe on Mr. B’s desk, moving our fingers randomly about its surface until it stopped spinning and revealed, prophetically, the city where we would someday get married. We were not nervous about missing our busses, because the loudspeakers could be heard everywhere in the building.
At some point, Hye-jin called us over to Mr. B’s chair. It was a unique and memorable rocking chair, a classroom character in its own right. It had white leather cushions and a unique metal frame, made of aluminum-silver tubes that curved around one another, somehow forming armrests and two big, ovular legs. Mr. B sat in this chair when he read our class novels. Bunnicula, currently.
Hye-jin, feeling bold, asked us if she should sit in Mr. B’s chair. We dared her to, and then double and triple-dared her to, and she did, and we all giggled.
Hye-jin began to rock back and forth. Then, inspired by the moment, she launched into an impression of Mr. B. She mimicked the confusing instructions he had given us for a science experiment earlier that day. She squinted her eyes and deepened her voice and recalled the dramatic hand gestures and quirky words he had used to guide our assembly of some kit. “You SEE,” she said with a drawl, “You connect THIS doo-hicky to THAT thing-a-ma-jig, and then you put THAT thing-a-ma-jig through the liiiiiiiiitle hole on the watch-ya-ma-call…”
Hye-jin’s impression was, quite possibly, the funniest thing I had seen in my life to that point. She carried on, and I laughed and laughed and laughed.
I laughed until I peed my pants.
It happened so fast. I wasn’t peeing; then I was.
Hye-jin stopped, mid thing-a-ma-jig. She looked at Daniela, who looked at me, then looked back at her. Then they both looked at me, their eyes wide. Hye-Jin mustered an “…Andy?”
But there really was no question or answer. There was only warm urine, streaming down my sweatpants.
A scratchy voice came over the PA: “Bus I! Bus I!”
Oh no. That was my Bus. Bus I!
“Can your mom come get you?” asked Daniela, trying to be helpful.
But she knew my mother worked in the city, and that I had to catch my bus to daycare.
“No. I – I gotta go,” I said. I reverted to autopilot. I grabbed my backpack from my desk and walked out into the hallway.
The hallway.
Oh my God, the hallway.
I quickly came to appreciate what was about to happen. There I was, at the end of the hallway, pants visibly soaked with pee. And there, far away, outside the main entrance, was Bus I. And between me and Bus I: two long lines of children, sitting outside their classrooms, already turning their heads and whispering to their friends.
I turned around. Hye-jin and Daniela had come to the classroom door, realizing what I had realized. They turned pale as ghosts on my behalf.
The set-up was strange and cruel, like a scene from Roald Dahl, except without magic, that saving grace of his universe. No Matilda powers for me. And no real options. There was only one daycare bus, which lay at the end of one long hallway, where the entire school happened to be sitting.
See why the layout matters? Thanks a lot, architect. Whoever you are.
I began to walk. Right down the middle. Wet pants and all.
What else could I do?
Fourth grade.
Gasps.
Third grade.
Snickers.
Up the ramp. An eternity.
Second grade.
Eeeeews.
First grade.
Laughter.
Kindergarten.
Pointed fingers.
Almost over.
Main entrance.
Made it.
Behind: A chorus. Gasps, snickers, eeews, laughter.
In front: Bus I. And, for sure, a future as the boy who peed himself in fourth grade.
I boarded the yellow bus and walked toward the back, where my friend Ashley and I usually sat together. I took the seat across the aisle. She didn’t need to ask why. We made small talk at a distance, which I appreciated, taking comfort in the pseudo-normalcy of it all.
When we arrived at daycare, my teacher took one look at me and ushered me to the office, where we found a pair of bright blue replacement sweatpants in the lost and found. They were a bit small, but a blessing nonetheless. I went to the bathroom, cleaned myself up, put the sweatpants on, and went back to class. It was over, for now.
***
I woke up the next morning terrified to face the day. I could only imagine the taunting that awaited me. But, just like yesterday, I had no options. The path forward was clear. I showered, got dressed, ate cereal, boarded the morning bus, and walked into the cafeteria, breath held.
It was, mercifully, not a Dahlian moment. It was almost… normal. Some kids whispered and pointed in my direction. But others sat down next to me, unphased, and asked for my help with their math homework. Hye-jin and Daniela arrived. We talked about Home Improvement. When breakfast was over, an aide called for Mr. B’s class. We got up, then walked down that same long hallway. Yesterday, it had played host to a cinematic nightmare. Today, it was little more than a familiar corridor of linoleum tiles.
The normalcy was startling and suspicious. All day, I waited for the other shoe to drop. But it never did. Still, when dismissal came, I knew I was done for. I knew, when I stepped back into the hallway, the other kids would eagerly recall yesterday’s march of shame. When the PA announced Bus I, I took a deep breath, anticipating whispers and snickers and worse. I began to walk.
Fourth Grade.
Third Grade.
Nothing. Up the ramp.
Second Grade.
First Grade.
Not a glance. Not a snicker.
Kindergarten.
Main entrance.
I made it.
I breathed out and walked over to Bus I. Was it possible that I might survive this ordeal, after all?
I remained skeptical, but more days passed without mention of my pee walk.
The high drama, the deep shame – they really did seem to be over.
Life is like that, I concluded. Some days, you pee your pants where everybody can see. And you just gotta keep walking.
