Megan Rible	
The Evidence

I decided to throw away the evidence.  The trashcan I chose was identical to all the others strewn 
about the asphalt playground, an innocuous block of cobblestone cement topped by a green 
plastic lid.  The flap was missing, the interior dark and promising.  It stood at one end of a line of 
shady picnic benches, whose new coat of dark green paint was already accented by the purple 
olive stains and gray and white bird droppings that decorated everything in the schoolyard.  It 
was recess and children swarmed around me, yelling and laughing, each unfamiliar face adding 
to my anxiety and guilt.  I looked for the hundredth time at the plain white envelope in my hand, 
the letters blurring through a mist of fearful tears, and then back at the stubbornly silent trashcan.  
A small part of me knew that this was a bad plan, but I was scared and desperate and the recess 
bell would ring at any moment.  I glanced around furtively, sure that someone had seen me duck 
out of the line at the last minute and run to this corner of the playground, shivering with the 
shock of my own audacity.  Sure that the starched white blouse, scratchy blue plaid jumper, and 
squeaky black and white shoes that my mother had dressed me in that morning could not hide 
my bad nature, and my cowardice.  Sure that when my parents came home that night and found 
the envelope unopened, they would know I had disobeyed them and would be disappointed in 
me.  The trashcan remained impassive, refusing to offer advice.  Suddenly, the shrill sound of the 
bell shattered over me and I jumped toward the trashcan, fresh fear overriding caution, and 
dropped the envelope into the gaping maw.  In that second I knew that I would never be able to 
lie to Mommy and Daddy as I had planned, that when they came home smiling and asked about 
my first day of school I would cry and admit I didn't buy lunch like they told me to because it 
was pizza and I don't like pizza and I was scared and I didn't want them to know, and then I 
would have to explain what had happened to the little white envelope, "Megan's Lunch Money - 
$1.50."  The envelope clanked accusingly as it landed out of reach; the trashcan laughing cruelly, 
having ensnared its prey.