I (Kurt) can still remember the name of the teacher’s pet at the beginning of my sixth-grade year: Andrew. All the teachers loved Andrew. But to the rest of us students, it seemed like Andrew never got in trouble and he always got a break when the rest of us would have been busted for something. Andrew was the first one to volunteer to pass out papers. He was the first one to volunteer to pound the chalk dust out of the erasers. He was the first one to ask a question at just the right time, making it seem like he was really interested in whatever the teacher was going on and on about. Yes, the teachers loved good ol’ Andrew, but nobody else did.
While most kids simply disliked Andrew, my feelings for him bordered on hatred. (I don’t like to admit that, but it’s true.) What did Andrew ever do to me? Nothing. Andrew was a good kid whose only mistake was trying way too hard to get on the teachers’ good sides.
One day I couldn’t take it anymore. Something had to be done! Now, I’m not much of a tough guy—not now and certainly not when I was in sixth grade. So even though something had to be done about Andrew, I had no idea what that “something” should be. But one day as we were walking between classes, I saw Andrew and I saw my opportunity. I quickly walked up behind him and grabbed his comb out of his back pocket. (Back in those days, guys would actually walk around with big combs sticking out of their back pockets—totally goofy.) As soon as I grabbed the comb, I realized I had no plan for what to do with it next. So I just chucked it onto the roof of the school. Like I said, I’m not much of a tough guy.
The tardy bell was about to ring. So I took off running in one direction, and Andrew took off running in a different direction. It wasn’t until about halfway through my next class that I learned in what direction Andrew had run. He’d gone to the principal’s office, and now I was about to take a long, slow walk in that direction myself. The principal expressed how disappointed he was in my decision to throw Andrew’s comb onto the roof. He ordered me to go to the custodian’s office and get a ladder so I could climb up and find the comb. But first I had to call my parents, let them know what had happened, and then ask for permission to climb a ladder.
So what’s the point of all this? The point is there will always be kids who work a little harder to win their teachers’ affection. Sometimes it’ll work and sometimes it won’t. Our advice—WHO CARES? Seriously, don’t get worked up worrying about how other kids relate to your teachers. Teachers are smarter than they look, and they can usually tell when somebody is being fake or doing dumb stuff to win their attention. You don’t need to worry about it because worrying about it may end up causing you to do something dumb yourself.