Our senior year homeroom teacher, Ms. Dixon, was notoriously unfair. If a boy came to her with a request for a day off, no matter how outlandish the reason, she’d sign off on it. But for girls? She’d subtly undermine you, imply you were overly sensitive or playing weak. She’d suggest you were just looking for an excuse to goof off. One time, I had a searing pain in my stomach. Appendicitis, it turned out. I approached her, doubled over. She didn't even lift her head. "Just a stomachache, isn't it?" "What's the big deal? Drink some hot water, you'll be fine. Do you really need to take time off for that?" "Besides, who's to say you're not just faking it?" 1 Ms. Dixon finished speaking, her voice light and dismissive. She crumpled my permission slip into a ball and tossed it directly into the trash can. "Out. Don't put on a show in here." With that, she picked up her phone and resumed scrolling through short videos. Clutching my stomach, I tried to straighten my aching back. "Teacher, I'm genuinely unwell. My family has already contacted a hospital for me." The words had barely left my lips when Ms. Dixon slammed her hand on the desk, standing abruptly. "Amy Hayes, are you informing me? Or are you asking for permission? What do you think 'asking for leave' means? I haven't even agreed yet, and you've already made hospital arrangements? What the hell do you need permission for then?" I stared, completely bewildered by her outburst. Going to the hospital when you're sick—wasn't that normal? Ms. Dixon sneered, giving me a sidelong glance. "I've seen countless girls like you. Always looking for an excuse to miss school, whether it's a real issue or not. And the reasons? Always 'it's my period' or 'my stomach hurts.' Next time, come up with something a little more original, something with actual effort." At this, a memory clicked. My deskmate, Sarah, had warned me: if a girl complained of a stomachache, Ms. Dixon would never approve the absence. Sarah herself had once tried to get out of physical education due to severe menstrual cramps. After a few sarcastic remarks, Ms. Dixon had called her into the office. Sarah thought it was to sign the permission slip. Instead, Ms. Dixon had verbally abused her for an entire hour. Finally, she’d said, in that passive-aggressive tone, "I detest girls using stomach pain as an excuse. Each of you puts on quite a convincing act. Oh, it's your period, is it? Well, come on, strip down and show me if you're truly on your period." Sarah had been so humiliated, tears streamed down her face. Ms. Dixon, still harping, sneered, "What are you crying for? Got exposed, did you? Look at the boys in this class. Not a single one of them is as dramatic as you girls." That day, Sarah didn’t get her leave and had to run a grueling half-mile, clutching her stomach. I later asked her, "Why didn't you just do it? Pull out your pad and fling it in her face! Maybe even get some blood on her. Let her see if you were faking it then." But I knew Sarah's timid nature. She was far too shy for such a defiant act. Stripping down and pulling out a pad? She’d never be able to do something like that. I still didn't understand why getting a day off was so difficult for girls in our class. Couldn’t she tell if someone was genuinely ill? I gasped, a fresh wave of pain washing over me, and pleaded again. "Teacher, I really am unwell. If you don't believe me, I'll have my dad call you." "Don't think dragging your parents into this will make me compromise. Let me tell you, I don't fall for that trick. I'm the homeroom teacher, responsible for so many students. If you take a day off today, and she takes one tomorrow, then no one will study, everyone will fail their exams, and I'll be the one getting criticized and punished. Get out! No one gets a day off before the exams, not on my watch!" I persisted, swallowing my pride. "Ms. D., don't worry, I'll study hard while I'm in the hospital. I absolutely won't drag the class down on the exams." "Don't call me 'Ms. D.', don't try to be chummy! I can't stand it when you girls try to play mind games, thinking a little bit of flattery will get you a day off. Let me tell you, no chance." Ms. Dixon had just finished her tirade when a loud shout came from the doorway. "Coach D., permission to miss class!" 2 We both turned simultaneously. It was Jake, the sports representative. He leaned against the office doorframe, a cheeky grin on his face. "Coach D., can I get a pass? My ankle hurts; I want to go home and rest for a couple of days." I expected Ms. Dixon to explode, to launch into a furious lecture. Instead, she giggled, a playful scolding in her voice. "You impudent monkey, is two days enough?" Jake raised an eyebrow. "How about three, then?" Ms. Dixon signed the slip quickly, without a moment's hesitation, and even reminded him to eat well and recover at home. Jake grabbed the slip and hurried out of the office. Ms. Dixon called out to him again. "Silly boy, don't walk so fast with a sprained ankle. Wait for me, Teacher will give you a ride on her scooter." "No, no, I wouldn't dream of troubling Ms. Dixon!" "Pfft," Ms. Dixon let out a hearty chuckle, her mouth stretching into a wide grin. I was utterly dumbfounded! Why was it so easy for Jake to get time off? Didn't he have exams? Why wasn't she complaining about him dragging the class down now? I couldn't hold back. "Why does he get a pass, and I don't?!" Perhaps my voice was too loud; several other teachers in the office looked up. Ms. Dixon spun around, her face dark with fury. "What are you yelling about?! Are people all the same? He sprained his ankle and can't walk, that's why he's taking time off. And you? You're shouting so loudly, does your stomach not hurt anymore? I just can't stand you girls, always looking for trouble. I'm not a man, so don't try to play weak in front of me." Another wave of pain shot through my abdomen. I was so angry and in so much pain that I sank to the floor, weeping. Ms. Dixon looked at me with disgust. "Still acting, are we? Do you think a few squeezed-out tears will make me soft? Don't forget, I was a student once too. All your little tricks? I perfected them years ago." Seeing that I hadn’t gotten up for a while, another teacher from the office came over to intervene. "Ms. Dixon, I think the child is truly unwell. Perhaps you should let her go to the hospital." Ms. Dixon didn’t respond. She pulled a box of pills from her drawer and tossed them at my feet. "Here. Stomach ache, right? Just take a few pain relievers. Now, hurry back to class. Given your grades, Teacher is only thinking of your own good." I picked up the box. It was ibuprofen, and it was expired. Ms. Dixon continued her incessant nagging, complaining that girls were always so high-maintenance, taking a day off for everything from periods to sneezes, and were simply not as tough as boys. I finally understood. Whether or not she signed the permission slip wasn’t about whether you were genuinely sick. It was entirely up to Ms. Dixon's mood. If you were a boy, a scraped finger was enough to get you sent home to rest. But if you were a girl, even if you broke your leg, you’d still have to stay at school, confined to a wheelchair. All, supposedly, "for your studies." But everyone knew the truth: some boys just took days off to play video games. Yet Ms. Dixon believed them unconditionally. Deep down, she saw girls as dramatic, overly sensitive, and untrustworthy. To put it nicely, Ms. Dixon favored boys. To put it crudely, she was a male-worshipping, woman-hating hag. I didn't want to talk to her anymore. The surgery was happening regardless. Whether she signed the slip or not was entirely her problem. I struggled to my feet, pulled another permission slip from my pocket, and slapped it onto Ms. Dixon's desk. "The slip's here. Sign it or don't. I don't care." Clutching my lower abdomen, I hurried out of the office. Behind me, Ms. Dixon's furious curses echoed. "Insubordinate brat! How dare you slam something on my desk! What's next, wiping your feet on me?! Little girls scheming to find excuses to get out of school, who knows which wild boy they're trying to meet! I don't believe it for a second. Without my signed slip, you won't get past that school gate!" 3 At the school gate, I pleaded with Mr. Peterson, the old gatekeeper, to open the door for me. He looked at me, his face etched with worry. “Sweetheart, why are you so pale?” I gasped in pain, my words coming in ragged breaths. Before I could finish, Mr. Peterson began to curse under his breath. "That idiotic fool, what kind of simpleton has sh*t for brains? Sweetheart, call your family immediately. Get your folks to come pick you up." The words had just left his mouth when the phone in the gatehouse rang. Mr. Peterson, hard of hearing, put it on speaker. Ms. Dixon's voice blared through. "Old Man Peterson, I've got a defiant little girl from my class here who doesn't have a signed slip. You absolutely cannot let her out of school. Don't say I didn't warn you. If you let her go and something happens, you'll be in deep trouble." Our school had a rule: art students could enter and exit with their special passes. All other students required a permission slip signed by their homeroom teacher to leave campus. There was a time when students would forge Ms. Dixon's signature. On some evenings after study hall, ten or twenty students from each class would claim they had permission to leave. Someone reported it, and the school clamped down. Now, when a student needed to leave, the teacher had to immediately file a record at the gatehouse. Students could only leave with both the signed slip and a matching record. Both were indispensable. Mr. Peterson remained silent, rolling his eyes. Ms. Dixon continued to screech into the phone. "Old Man Peterson, I'm talking to you, did you hear me? If you dare let her out, I'll go straight to the Principal. Then your job will be gone, and you'll have nowhere to cry." "What? What? What did you say? Speak up!" "Ugh, can't hear, can't hear…" Mr. Peterson hung up the phone and handed me a cup of hot water. "That woman's crazy, isn't she? We're asking for a day off, not for her life. Look at her, acting like an absolute idiot. Don't worry, sweetheart. I'll open the gate for you in a bit." I called my dad several times, but no one answered. Just then, Ms. Dixon stormed over. She grabbed me roughly. "Still acting, are we? Where's all that bravado from when you slammed the table? Come on, back to class with me." Mr. Peterson stepped in front of me, shielding me. "Look at this girl, she's so pale. What's the harm in letting her go get checked out?" "You old gatekeeper, what do you know?! If she fakes illness for a day off today, then everyone else will tomorrow, and my class will turn into chaos! Are you the homeroom teacher or am I? Stand back, don't interfere with me educating my student." Mr. Peterson spat on the ground. "Pfft, I'm not the homeroom teacher, but I'm a human being." Ms. Dixon put her hands on her hips, ready to launch into another tirade. Then her phone rang. It was Dad. 4 I quickly handed the phone to Ms. Dixon. "Teacher, let my dad talk to you." Ms. Dixon refused to take it. I put it on speaker. Dad spoke respectfully. "Hello, Ms. Dixon. I'm Amy's father. The situation with the child is quite urgent. We've already booked a hospital bed, so could you please approve her leave? She needs surgery, and it will likely require five days." "Parent, you really have the nerve to ask! Five days! A whole five days! Can you even imagine how much knowledge she'll miss in five days? Besides, I can't approve that many days. You'll have to find the grade-level head, or the Principal. We have to report it step-by-step, with approvals at every level." My dad chuckled apologetically. "I'm truly sorry. Could you perhaps put in a good word for us? We'd like to take the leave first, and then we'll follow up with the full process and all the signatures. Amy's condition truly cannot be delayed." Ms. Dixon's face remained stern, unyielding. My dad continued to apologize. "I should have met with you in person, but Amy's mother is also currently hospitalized, and I'm busy with her at the moment. Once Amy is discharged, I'd like to treat you to a meal, and we can chat face-to-face." Ms. Dixon squinted, letting out a cold snort. "Oh, how convenient!" My dad didn't pick up on her sarcasm, continuing. "Yes, yes, everything happened at once. Please let the child out; I'll be there to pick her up shortly." Ms. Dixon looked annoyed. She neither agreed nor disagreed. From the other end of the line, a doctor's voice could be heard. My dad quickly gave a few instructions, telling me to wait by the school gate and not wander off, then hung up. Mr. Peterson pulled me aside. "Sweetheart, sit inside the gatehouse and wait. I'll call you when your folks get here." I was about to stand up when Ms. Dixon sneered. "Hmph, so many tricks, aren't there? How much did you pay these actors?" I stared, baffled. Ms. Dixon continued to ramble on. "I don't believe it for a second. You in the hospital, your mom in the hospital? Why don't you just say your whole family is in the hospital?! You can just find anyone to pretend to be your parent and call me. Do you take me for a three-year-old?!" A person truly does laugh when utterly speechless. I asked her, "What exactly will it take for you to believe me?" "Go on, prove it. Prove your dad is your dad!" Oh, for God's sake, this woman has a screw loose. What you're asking, I can't prove. But I can prove that you're an absolute idiot. I trembled with rage. Spotting the large megaphone on the table, I snatched it up. Running, I shouted: "Help! I'm sick, I'm dying!" "But Ms. Dixon won't approve my leave!" "Why do boys get days off, but girls don't?!" "Why?! Why?!" "Don't stop me! Nobody stop me! I'm going to the lake, I'm going to the rooftop! I don't want to live!" I ran, and she chased. My voice echoed wildly. Before I even reached the Principal’s office, a searing cramp tore through my abdomen, and I blacked out.
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