Anatomy (part I)

In fifth grade, each student gets to make a poster for one unit in science. It's so unfair that people who are good at writing get to do it every day, people who are good at gym get to show it every week (plus recess when the weather is good) but people who like making posters only get a turn every few months. And even then, two people do each one because there aren't enough units to go around. I wait and wait until my turn, and finally I am chosen to draw the digestive system. I am thrilled because I know that my poster will be absolutely perfect and everyone will see that I am the best at something, too.

I neglect my other homework the entire week that it takes to create the masterpiece. I select the cleanest, smoothest oaktag from the supply closet and deliberate for hours over whether markers or pastels will create the best effect. I carefully measure the illustrations in the textbook until the proportions on my poster are precisely perfect. The night before it's due, I ignore my parents' pleas to go to sleep and remain sprawled across the living room long after the house has fallen silent -- It is much more important to make sure that each organ is labeled clearly in my best lettering.

I keep my poster securely rolled all morning, and entertain myself through Hebrew class with dramatic visualizations of the teacher's reaction when I unveil my creation. I secretly hope that she will be so impressed that she will ask me to make all of the posters from now on.

When the moment arrives, however, it is woefully anticlimactic. The teacher offers similar compliments to me and the other girl who did this unit, and puts the posters with the rest of her junk behind the desk. A few days later, the other girl's poster appears on the wall. I'm not sure where mine is. I've never liked the science teacher, but now I'm really sure she hates me. And I never get another chance to do a science poster.