fairly truthful

I am stubborn. I have long ago accepted the fact as a fundamental part of my nature. I will be the first to admit that, when I get something into my head, good or bad, I stick to it like a big wad of duct tape. But just because I'm stubborn doesn't mean that I'm not right.
In third grade, my family found a piece of paper at our house that created quite an uproar. I've always prided myself on being a good student; I always do my homework the night that it's given and I promptly turn it in on time, if not early. I never forget. So when my mom held up the paper, the affixed question dangling in front of me, I was almost offended. No, of course the homework was not mine. The question turned next to my second grade brother, Spence. Spence has never been as school-oriented as I. While A's are run of the mill for me, the Hallelujah Chorus breaks out if Spence comes anywhere near one. The recovered English worksheet must be his. He looked at it carefully, then shook his head.
“Nope, not mine, Mom.”
“Well, it has to be somebody's,” she said, “and it needs to be filled out and turned in.”
I couldn't believe it. Spence was either lying or had completely forgotten an assignment. How do you forget a school assignment? Needless to say, the problem of the paper did not stop with the singular incident. It swelled and bloomed into a Venus fly trap that started chomping any time the conversation came to close to the subject. I firmly said, stated, then screamed that the homework was not mine and there was no way in Kentucky that I was going to do it. Spence followed suit and we both lost count of the times we were sent to our rooms for fighting over the paper. I still have the scars.
Finally, Mom had had enough. She dragged me into Spence's room one day, sat me on the bed, and folded her arms.
“I'm going to ask the two of you one more time: Whose assignment is this?”
We both folded our arms and glared at each other. “It's not mine,” I said, and tried to get up to leave. Mom shoved me back down.
“It's not mine either!” Spence was shoved down too.
“Fine. There are only two of you, so it can't be anyone else's. No little homework fairy snuck in and left it on the living room floor. If neither of you are willing to claim it, then we will go to your teachers. Whoever it belongs to will apologize to the other and will buy them a king-size candy bar out of their allowance.” She snatched the paper off the bed and stalked from the room.
A bet! Mom was really serious if she was setting up a bet. We were never allowed to bet. Spence bet me I wouldn't eat a live spider once. When I did, he told Mom and I was grounded for a week after getting my mouth washed out with Dad's old soap. Somehow, Spence wasn't punished. Well, it wasn't my homework, and I wasn't going to lose.
It seemed like an eternity before Mom arrived after school the next day. At last, she marched into the room and up to Mrs. Foster, holding the now rumpled and dirty scrap of homework, Spence trailing behind.
“Excuse me,” she began, “but is this Amy's? An owner cannot be found at my home and I was wondering if you could help us.”
“Hmm...” Mrs. Foster puzzled, “it looks like our grade level, but I'm afraid that I've never seen that paper before. It can't be Amy's.”
Yes! I stuck my tongue out at Spence and grinned triumphantly. I imagined the glorious chocolate that was as good as in my mouth. I smiled as we headed out of the room and to Spence's classroom; Mom had promised to check with both teachers. She approached Spence's slender teacher and asked the question that I already knew the answer to.
“Does this homework belong to Spence?” she asked.
“Hmm...” (Teachers seem to say “hmm” a lot.) “No, I'm afraid that assignment doesn't belong to my class. Perhaps one of the other teachers could help you.”
What? No! It was his! It had to be! My mother's expression echoes my thoughts. The three of us walked stiffly out to the car, too dumbfounded to say anything. What were we supposed to do? Mom pulled out of the parking lot and started down the street. I stared blindly out the car window until we passed a billboard for The Thomas Theatre. It had a picture of a fairy. I pointed it out to Spence and he burst out laughing.
“It's the Homework Fairy!” He exclaimed.
Stupid fairy. I wanted that candy bar. No, I'm not bitter, I just wanted my candy bar, which I never got by the way. Yes, I know, I'm stubborn. I still hate that fairy.