I Wrote That My Dad Drops Bombs For A Living 2014 The School Evacuated Three Classrooms
Part 1
I wrote that my dad drops bombs for a living.
The school evacuated three classrooms.
It all started with an incredibly basic career day worksheet.
A gloomy Tuesday morning in early October had settled over the school.
Fluorescent lights hummed softly above our heads.
Mrs. Miller walked down the aisles handing out thick stacks of paper.
She wore a heavy knit cardigan and smelled faintly of peppermint and anxiety.
The assignment seemed utterly harmless.
We just had to write one simple paragraph about what our parents did for work.
Most kids in my class had totally boring answers.
Their parents were accountants, dental hygienists, or insurance adjusters.
Grabbing my yellow number two pencil, I got straight to work.
My answer was going to be infinitely cooler than anyone else’s.
The paper soon stated that my dad drops bombs and blows up buildings.
This was a completely factual statement.
Adding a detailed sentence about how he was the absolute best in the entire city at doing it felt necessary.
Carefully tracing my letters made sure they were completely legible.
Pride swelled in my chest over my excellent penmanship.
Standing up, I carried my paper up to the front desk.
Mrs. Miller took it without even looking up from her massive pile of grading.
Walking back to my seat left me feeling a profound sense of accomplishment.
A few minutes later, a strange, choked noise erupted from the front of the room.
It sounded precisely like someone had just stepped directly onto her soul.
Looking up from my desk, I saw something terrifying.
Her face had lost absolutely all of its natural color.
Wide eyes were locked onto my jagged handwriting.
Trembling hands gripped the edge of her wooden desk.
The wooden chair screeched violently against the polished linoleum floor as she stood up.
She speed-walked toward my desk like someone reading a detailed death threat.
Snatching my paper off the table with lightning speed, she didn’t waste a second.
She ordered me to follow her immediately.
Not a single thing was explained.
Maybe I had misspelled a difficult vocabulary word.
But the sheer panic radiating off her rigid posture suggested something much worse.
It felt like a federal felony had been committed with a simple writing utensil.
We marched quickly down the empty, echoing hallway.
The rubber soles of her sensible shoes squeaked aggressively against the floor tiles.
Bypassing the front reception desk entirely saved time.
She pushed open the heavy wooden door to the main administrative office.
Principal Jenkins was already sitting behind his massive mahogany desk.
He looked up over his spectacles as we barged uninvited into his sanctuary.
My worksheet was practically shoved into his hands.
She treated the paper like it was covered in toxic radiation.
He adjusted his glasses carefully.
Reading my paragraph once took only a few seconds.
Slow blinking followed as the color drained from his own face.
He read it a second time just to be certain.
His stare made me feel like someone confessing to a major crime on live television.
Folding his hands together on the desk, he took a deep breath.
He asked me to explain exactly what my father did for a living.
Understanding why this was causing such a massive disruption was impossible.
A simple shrug of my shoulders was my only defense.
My voice remained calm while telling him my dad drops bombs and blows stuff up.
I proudly added that he has been doing it my entire life.
A heavy bead of sweat was wiped from his receding hairline.
He swallowed hard.
The next question was about where exactly my father did this kind of work.
Answering him honestly seemed like the right move.
I told him it happens wherever the specific target is located.
Mentioning that he mostly works right in the middle of downtown felt important.
The second that particular word left my mouth, Principal Jenkins grabbed his office phone.
Spinning his large leather chair around left his back completely facing me.
Frantic whispering into the receiver lasted for several excruciating minutes.
It felt incredibly rude and extremely unprofessional.
Swinging my sneakers under the hard plastic chair kept me occupied.
About twenty agonisingly slow minutes passed in complete silence.
The heavy office door finally swung open again.
Two tall, broad-shouldered men in dark tailored suits walked into the room.
They were definitely not substitute gym teachers.
Neither did they look anything like the regular local police officers.
One of them pulled up a chair and sat directly across from me.
Introducing himself as Mr. Cole, he offered a painfully fake smile.
His partner stood silently by the closed door like a statue.
Mr. Cole said he just wanted to ask me a few simple questions about my father’s hobbies.
A slow nod was my only reply.
This entire situation was getting exceptionally weird.
He asked if my father usually worked alone.
My head shook vigorously in response.
I told him my dad has a whole dedicated crew.
Estimating the size, I said it was around twelve guys in total.
Mr. Cole leaned slightly closer to me.
He asked what the crew did together on these jobs.
Explaining the process, I said they always set up all the heavy equipment first.
They have to make sure everything goes off at the exact right time.
Deciding to quote my dad directly seemed smart.
I said that timing is absolutely everything, because if you mess it up, innocent people could get seriously hurt.
Furious scribbling filled his little leather-bound notepad.
He shot his silent partner a deeply concerning look.
My stomach suddenly felt like it was trying to escape completely through my spine.
A loud clearing of his throat broke the tension.
He asked if my father had mentioned any specific locations he was planning to work on soon.
Eager nodding showed I was happy to share the good news.
I told them there was a huge one coming up next week.
Both grown men went entirely still as the frantic writing stopped instantly with a pen hovering frozen above the paper.
A low whisper asked if it was a hotel.
Confirmation was given quickly.
I told them he had been actively planning it for several months.
It was going to be the biggest one he had ever done.
I added that the whole thing was coming down.
His partner immediately stepped out into the hallway without a word.
Frantic, highly urgent phone calls echoed through the door.
No earthly idea what I had done wrong crossed my mind.
Literally every single word I had spoken was the complete and absolute truth.
My dad really does blow stuff up on a regular basis.
Specific targets are definitely required for his jobs.
A massive hotel was absolutely coming down next week.
Lying about a single solitary detail never happened.
Mr. Cole leaned so far forward he was practically sitting in my lap.
He asked me exactly which hotel it was.
A frown touched my face while trying to remember the details.
I told him I didn’t know the exact name.
Mentioning the old abandoned one down by the river seemed helpful.
I said my dad had even shown me the detailed blueprints on our kitchen table.
That was the exact moment the intercom clicked on, and Principal Jenkins ordered an immediate evacuation of our entire wing.
