My First Forgery

The first time I tried to forge my father’s signature was third grade.

It was some time in the spring of 1990. I kept missing homework assignments, project assignments, and reading assignments. I did not do assignments. Ever. I had made a real habit of never turning in anything. All I heard during parent-teacher conferences, where I was a fly on the wall, was “she isn’t being challenged” and “she’s just bored.” No one asked whether or not I was confused about how to complete assignments. I passed tests with nearly perfect marks. This was enough for teachers and administrators to wave their hands and let me keep progressing through elementary school. Nevertheless, Miss Keating sent the letter home, informing whomever it may concern that I had a big, fat zero for homework and take-home assignments.

Why didn’t I do assignments? I can’t say for sure. I never really learned how to be studious. When our mother was still here, she would help my older sister, Olivia, do all kinds of homework. Olivia is two years older. She was in third grade when our mom left, I was entering first. Literally, she left my first day of first grade. I didn’t go to school that day, I rode in my father’s work van and wished everyone I saw all day was my mom coming to save me from a life without her. My siblings seemed unfazed, but even at six I saw the writing on the wall. So, no, I didn’t do any homework, and I didn’t plan to start now.

A few years later, I sat upstairs in the bedroom I shared with my sister, signing, erasing, signing again, erasing. I was far too naive to pay any attention to the rapidly wearing paper under my work. I could hear Wheel of Fortune on the TV downstairs.

Miss Jean was in the kitchen. She was the one who demanded Pat Sajak and Vanna White while Olivia dutifully did her homework at the dining room table, in plain view of the kitchen. Show off. Upstairs, no one could see me erasing and scribbling. I picked up an old check register from our father’s bedroom to use to copy his signature. At first, I traced over the register paper and onto the teacher’s note, then I’d trace on the note itself in pencil. Somewhere I lost the plot and just kept redoing my work on the same line. I was turning eight. I didn’t know any better.

I turned on the little pink TV in the bedroom. News, news, news, and game shows. This was not going to help drown out the sounds of the game show downstairs. I didn’t know how many times I started over, but I was aware that the paper was wearing away under my wrist and pencil marks. I needed to stop.

When I decided the signature was passable, I packed up my work and quietly went downstairs to watch TV with my siblings. Dad wouldn’t be home for another several hours, and our babysitter, Miss Jean, was still doing dishes in the kitchen.

The next morning I boldly handed the letter to my teacher. She did not react. She was all poker face. When I got home Miss Jean was unable to contain her amusement. She saw nothing but moxie in my subterfuge. My father feigned anger, but he was never good at keeping up any such ruse. He really couldn’t dole out punishment either.

Two years later, when I brought my first permission slip home in sixth grade, my father waved me away and told me to start signing the letters myself, so the school wouldn’t second-guess the signature. He also told me to “use a pen,” and “don’t erase it and start over, even if it’s erasable ink,” because no one ever does that when they sign anything. He even went so far as to tell me to ask my sister for practice guidance because she had been signing his name for years.

Right now, I needed to do this because we were going to Disney World, and I didn’t want my father to have any reason to change his mind. I still believed bad behavior could deprive us of such an amazing treat. I still believed this trip was something optional that our father was giving to us.