I sit on my chair watching the class celebrate. The Big Goofs—that’s what I call Kyle, Brian, and Seth—chuck erasers at one another. Other kids huddle in groups talking loudly about who knows what, or jumping around like they have jumping beans in their shoes. I sit by myself, watching them.

I was the only kid who didn’t vote on whether we should tell the principal our incredible news. And I stuck out like a giant nose pimple, one giant unpopped nose pimple. I should have voted. I should have raised my hand high and voted for keeping quiet.

It’s funny. I hate raising my hand because I don’t like being noticed. But this time I was noticed because I didn’t raise my hand. That’s called irony.

Irony is when the opposite of what you expected to have happen ends up happening, anyway. Like when the teacher asks a question and you try to slink low in your chair so she doesn’t see you, but then she calls on you simply because she saw you slink low in your chair.

There’s a thin line between not being noticed and being noticed for trying not to be noticed. It’s an art to blend in, keep quiet, and keep your head down, while avoiding obvious eye-catching and unintended ironic slinking.

Kyle chucks erasers at just about everyone, although mostly Brian and Seth. That’s the good thing about blending in. No one thinks to chuck erasers at you.

Still, I worry about our class secret. I see nothing but potential problems.

Who will sit in on our parent-teacher conferences next month? Who will give us grades and report cards? Who will line us up for lunch?

Our principal—and if not him, then someone—is going to discover our secret, and when he does, we’ll all be in a giant mountain of mess.

We’re going to get caught. We’re going to get in trouble. We’re going to be punished.

Man oh man, are we going to be punished.

We’ll get detention for a year. Be kicked out of school. Be forced to eat beef nachos every day for lunch, a food I’ve never actually eaten but looks frightening in the cafeteria lunch line. I bet even the lunch ladies have never tried it. I think some crabby old man lurks in the back of the cafeteria inventing the worst foods he can imagine and then serves them to us kids, with beef nachos his crowning achievement.

I’ve heard rumors that the beef in the beef nachos is made from frog meat. That’s probably not true, but I’m not taking any chances.

I should write a story about the beef nachos. It would be a horror story.

An eraser hits Jade on the shoulder. Madelyn sings. Cooper looks through the supply cabinet, probably searching for our teacher’s secret supply of snacks. I take out my notebook to write a story.

One of the best things about writing is you don’t have to talk to anyone or worry about doing something stupid. As soon as your pencil starts moving, you’re lost in your own brain, where you can write anything you can think. And if you make a mistake, no one knows and no one cares. You can just erase what you wrote and start over again.

I start to write about beef nachos, but then quickly change my mind and begin writing a short story about a classroom just like mine. I call it “The Flower Children.”

In my story, kids goof off and never listen to their teacher, Mrs. Brick. She tells the kids to pay attention, but they ignore her. Finally, Mrs. Brick has had enough. No one knows that she’s a witch! She raises her wand and turns all the students into flowers.

All the loud kids are loud, colorful flowers. The big kids are giant flowers. But one kid, a quiet kid who no one ever noticed, is a small, dull, nothing stem.

Later that night, the principal walks into the class and spies flowers growing next to each desk. Those will make a beautiful bouquet for my wife, he thinks, and picks them.

The large and bright flowers quickly get picked. But the principal doesn’t even notice that one boring plant.

The next morning the spell wears off. The quiet kid wakes up at his desk. The other kids wake up in the principal’s house next to a broken vase and a small puddle of water that ruins the carpeting. Their principal refuses to believe they were flowers and suspends them all from school. Only the quiet kid avoids trouble.

I look up from my story and gaze around the classroom. I was so busy writing that I lost track of what everyone else was doing.

Adam draws on his desk. Emmy and Eli write on the whiteboard. Jade and Madelyn dance on their desks. They’d better be careful that they don’t get hurt—there’s no way they can go to the school nurse without our secret leaking out.

With a wad of paper and a trash can, Trevor and Gavin play basketball. They both wear matching basketball jerseys every day, so I guess they love the sport. Maggie and the brains thumb through the teacher’s files. Cooper eats a candy bar and burps. I think part of the bar has melted, since his hands are covered in chocolate. He wipes his fingers on his desk.

Everyone is breaking about a dozen class rules.

Or rather, they are breaking our old class rules. There are no longer any class rules to break. Not anymore.

“I’m going to open the door!” announces Ryan. She wears a baseball hat, which is against another rule: No wearing hats in school. Or rather, that was a rule. “It reeks in here.” As she walks, she spins in circles, like a dancer.

The volcano vinegar fumes cover the room in a blanket of gag-creating stink. I forgot about the smell while I wrote, but now that Ryan mentions it, the odor bombards my nostrils.

I pinch them shut.

But before Ryan can open the door, Kyle yells out, “Wait!”

Everyone stops what he or she is doing and turns to stare at Kyle.

“It’s just … ,” he begins. “It’s just that I bet the smell will keep teachers away from our class. We should keep the door closed and let the smell stink people away, at least for a few days. It’ll just seep through the crack under the door and last longer that way.”

I would have thought Kyle was incapable of a good idea, but he’s right. We should keep the lingering smell if we want to be safe. No one wants to enter a room that reeks of vinegar.

It’s a pretty big idea from a Big Goof. I’m surprised. I didn’t know the Big Goofs ever had big ideas.

Ryan spins back to her seat, leaving the door closed, and Kyle hurtles an eraser at her feet. It appears that Kyle is back to being a goof.

I wonder how long we’ll keep the secret, though. Someone is going to spill it.

But I know I won’t say a word to anyone. After all, I find it easy not saying a word to anyone.

I am not a colorful flower. I will remain quiet and planted—right on my seat.