The Clipboard Catastrophe: A True Sixth Grade Book Report Disaster

When a finger, a clipboard, and a janitor collide in a classroom, one sixth grader learns the hard way that curiosity really can hurt.

Note: This story is based on real events from my sixth-grade classroom. The names of the students have been changed to protect their privacy. The adults are exactly as remembered. No clipboards were harmed in the making of this story—except one. It had it coming.

Paulie Goforth’s droning book report buzzed like the fly battering itself against the bank of windows lining the classroom wall; both of them desperate to escape. The “Hs” were next in line to give their reports, and since I was a Hob, Tyler Hanch and Tim Hightoper would have to go first. My report would be a lot more interesting than theirs would because girls are naturally smarter; stupid, rude boys always picked on the girls.

Idly, I slipped my finger in and out of the hole on the clip of my clipboard. Some of the other girls had drawn flowers and words on their clipboards, and they were pretty, but I liked mine to look clean and new. Mrs. Elsie called Tyler to read his report. The sound of low sighs, rustling papers, and shuffling feet of twenty sixth graders accompanied him to the front of the room.

The fly found a cracked window and escaped to the outside. It was a typical warm day at the end of August, and I was ready to pick up our game of jump rope again during recess. The sun on the windows made it even warmer inside. Over the smell of old books, Mrs. Elsie’s peppermint, and the ammonia used to clean the restrooms between the classrooms were the smells of dried urine on the girl next to me and the sweaty armpits of the stinky boys. If I had not been used to the smell, it would have been nauseating.

The heat made my fingers somewhat sticky, but I kept on slipping my finger in and out of the hole on my clipboard. It seemed odd that the clipboard had a stationary hole, so it could be hung on a nail, and a hole in the actual clip. There was no way to hang it on a nail with the clip part. I turned my head to look at Tyler. My finger caught as I slipped it out for the hundredth time. I wiped my hands on my skirt before continuing to slip my index finger into the hole. Tyler headed back to his desk, and Mrs. Elsie called Tim. I was next.

As I straightened my paper, my finger stuck in the hole. I could not slide it out. I raised up a little and slid the board beneath my butt, pulling my finger hard. I twisted and turned it, but it wouldn’t budge. I spat into my other hand and rubbed the spit around my finger. Still stuck. By now, my finger looked like one of the sausages my dad made after he killed a deer.

Mrs. Elsie called my name. It was my turn to deliver a book report. As I stood up, I twisted my hand at an awkward angle so I could see my report. Fortunately, I could give my report orally, but I was required to take the actual report to the front of the class. Facing the room, my chest heaved as if I had run a race.

“Vicky, put your clipboard down,” said Mrs. Elsie.
“I can’t.”
“Yes, you can. You do not need it to give your report.”
Stammering, I said, “No, ma’am. I can’t put it down, because my finger is stuck.”

One tear rolled down my face.

Mrs. Elsie walked up to me and took my hand, clipboard and all, and led me to the bathroom. She admonished the class to behave and read their library books while she was gone. In the bathroom, she soaped my finger. She ran cool water over it. She soaped it again. Nothing worked. My finger was still stuck.

“Stay right here,” she said. “I’m going to call Tom Foley.”

Mr. Foley was the school maintenance man. He was even older than Mrs. Elsie, and that was something, because she was really old, with solid gray hair pulled into a bun on the top of her head. Her favorite thing to tell the class was, “Spit out your gum, because you look like a cow chewing cud.” Her voice sounded kind, but we sixth graders thought she was mean.

Mr. Foley was thin, with stooped shoulders and wispy gray hair. Next to Mrs. Elsie, he was tall. He could easily reach the top of the blackboard to retrieve hidden chalk. He rather looked like Ebenezer Scrooge and could have been pictured on the cover of A Christmas Carol instead of working at an elementary school.

His voice sounded like the horns of semi-trucks when we pumped our arms to get them to honk on the highway. He was always kind, even though he sounded mad. He often helped students by holding open doors or picking up books we dropped.

While I waited in the restroom, I examined my finger puffed out on both sides of the clipboard. Through the door, the low whispers of my classmates rose into a cacophony of chatter, giggles, and movement, before the tapping of Mrs. Elsie’s shoes was heard coming down the corridor. When she entered the room, the only sounds were the turning of library pages and the sighs of clock-watchers.

Pushing open the restroom door, Mrs. Elsie said, “She’s in here, Tom.”

Mr. Foley walked in, and Mrs. Elsie was right behind him. They both gathered around me, holding and turning my hand to look at my finger.

“Well, young lady, you’ve got yourself in quite a pickle.” His booming voice echoed off the concrete blocks of the room.

On the verge of tears, my voice wobbled. “Yes, sir. It’s stuck.”
“Yes, yes it is.”
“Tom, what can we do?”

Mr. Foley studied my finger. Mrs. Elsie hovered nearby. I waited for someone to say something, anything, other than what came next.

In a calm, matter-of-fact voice, he said, “We’ll have to cut it off.”

With that, I burst into tears, sobbing, screaming, my voice several octaves higher than normal. “No, you can’t cut it off!”

Mrs. Elsie leaned down and wrapped her arms around me. The smell of peppermints and her embrace calmed me.
“Shh. We have to get your finger out. Go to the office with Mr. Foley.” She stood up, pushing me forward.

Putting his hand on the back of my shoulder, Mr. Foley guided me toward the door. Like a stubborn mule, I dug my heels in and refused to move.
“Come along, young lady. Let’s get this over with,” he said as he propelled me toward the door.

Desperately, I looked to Mrs. Elsie to save me. I didn’t want my finger cut off. I could keep the clipboard; I was sure my mom wouldn’t mind. But Mrs. Elsie didn’t bother to glance at me, instead directing Mr. Foley to send me back to class afterward.

In the office, the principal, Mrs. Hazel, checked out my finger while making clucking noises like a hungry chicken. She had me sit at a table and helped position my arm. She placed the first aid kit on the table next to me. Mr. Foley disappeared, and I didn’t know what was happening. Tears and snot were smeared across my face, and I started hiccupping.

The recess bell rang. Outside the office door, kids rushed by in a somewhat orderly manner. I wished I were with them. Mr. Foley interrupted my thoughts as he entered from the maintenance office. He had a saw, bolt cutters, and a pair of wire cutters. In the distance, I could hear a high keening.

“Vicky! Vicky!” Mrs. Hazel’s voice slowly got my attention. “You have to hold still so Tom can cut.”

She gripped my arm so hard there were white marks around her fingers. I pulled, but she was stronger. I screamed and screamed, but they ignored me. I couldn’t watch. My eyes squeezed closed.

I felt them moving my finger, felt the coolness of the peroxide, and heard Mr. Foley say, “There, it’s finished.”

I opened my eyes. The clipboard lay on the table with the clip cut off the board. My finger was still attached to my hand. My face, tight from the tears, stretched as I smiled. The swelling was already going down. Flexing it, I looked at the clipboard.

“I’ll never stick my finger in a hole again.”

Mrs. Hazel gave me a hug. “Go enjoy the rest of recess,” she said.

Walking out of the office, I heard Mrs. Hazel and Mr. Foley laughing. They were laughing at me, but I didn’t care. My finger was free. I hurried to join the jump rope game, hoping nobody had beaten my score.

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