Capri Wars: Revenge of the Sik

One of my job duties as an after school babysitter/tutor is to provide snacks for the children. The logic is that by the time 3:00 rolls around, the little rugrats are jonesing for some nutrients. My job is to provide those nutrients in the form of salty, dry pretzels and sugar-filled Capri Suns.

(Side note: Capri Suns have become much easier to drink though out the years. When I was a kid it was nearly impossible to put straw through the pouch. Back then the plastic was made of some indestructible material that also could be used to protect the gold in Fort Knox. It took a tremendous amount of force to piece the pouch, which–if not aimed correctly–would often lead to bent straws. My mom would often to use a hole punch because the pouches would not welcome the penetrating straw. Heck, often the easiest way to drink a Capri Sun was to flip it over and stick the straw in the bottom [feel free to draw your own conclusion from this perverted metaphor]. Sure, you had to hold the drink because then it wouldn’t be able to stand up on its own–but at least you got your juice. Today’s kids have it so easy: looks like somewhere over the past 30 years Capri Sun decided to do some R&D to simplify the process.)

Where was I?

Oh yes, the kids. Every day I give the kids a handful of pretzels and one juice packet.¹ I pack up the remaining juices in my push cart (along with other crucial babysitter/tutor supplies) with plans to distribute them the following day. I don’t keep a formal count of how many juices I have left, but lately I have been noticing like I was short. I initially noticed because I stashed one fruit punch²–my favorite–for myself to drink after class. But when class ended, I had no fruit punch–only strawberry kiwi³ (which is easily the worst one).

Last week, I figured out where the juices were going. Not that it was hard to deduce–I saw a group of sixth graders rummaging through my cart and pocketing juices while I was working with other students. I know I can be–how shall I put this–a little morally ambiguous. I lie. I cheat. I steal. But I don’t tolerate crimes against my fellow man. I lie to the government. I cheat on my taxes. I steal cable. Okay, this is starting to reflect poorly upon me. Maybe I should just erase this part–I can be mortally ambiguous. I break laws that are pointless (such as stop signs and forgeries). But I would never steal someone’s property. That’s just screwed up.

When I caught the little punks red-handed, I gave them a good scolding. I think one of them wet himself. I would have called their parents, but I don’t speak a lick of Spanish, so it would have been a pretty fruitless phone call. I could see they were all scared, but it didn’t feel like enough to me–I wanted more.

As a teacher, I’m probably not supposed to be vengeful. But lessons can be learned through serve punishment. And the more creative the punishment, well, the more fun it is for me. I spent the evening plotting my revenge (err, their punishment) and put my plan into action the following day.

I told my sixth graders they would not be receiving juice that day because I had no extra juices. They drank their juice yesterday, so they would not be getting juice today. However, since they weren’t stealing pretzel they were still entitled to a handful of snacks. And as I distributed the pretzels, I gave them more than I typically would. I gave the little bandits two or three times the amount of pretzels they were use to eating–two or three times as much salty, mouth-drying, juice-craving pretzels. Kids aren’t stupid. They notice when they’re getting extra food. They didn’t know why they were receiving the extra treats, but judging from the looks on their faces they all knew that they were getting more pretzels than they normally did.

It didn’t take long. As they gleefully chowed down on the salt treats, the kids grew thirsty. They begged me to reconsider giving them juice, but I insisted I had none. “Professor Nerd, can I please go get a drink of water,” I was asked.

“No, you cannot. This is tutoring time,” I said coyly. And for good measure, I added: “We aren’t allowed to let you go to the water fountains–that’s why we bring you juice.”

It must’ve been an awful 90 minutes for those kids. All of them foolishly devoured their pretzels without realizing it was the source of their excessive thirst. I could see their dry mouths from ten feet away. They licked their lips. Their speech was muffled and stutter filled. I don’t think they’re smart enough to realize what happened. I don’t know if this will prevent them from ever stealing again. But it doesn’t really matter. I got a kick out of watching thirsty, beverage-craving thieves getting justice that only I would be twisted enough to come up with.

¹ contains no actual juice

² contains no actual fruit

³ contains no strawberries or kiwis