One item of “stuff” I’ve kept from middle school is a Tootsie Roll bank, about 20 inches tall, with a coin slot in the plastic lid. I can’t bring myself to throw it out because it’s useful for keeping coins I never actually keep and because it’s tied to a Kodak Moment.

I was in the eighth grade, and my P.E. class was scheduled to be in the auditorium for some kind of presentation. So my friends and I, instead of dressing into our gym clothes, sat at the back of the audience and watched as some low-level television actor talked about raising money for our school—all we had to do was sell, sell, sell… magazines, candy, and whatever other items the company he was representing or sponsoring was distributing.

Then, to get the audience participation going, he decided to choose some volunteers to come up on stage. A bunch of hands went up; he picked a girl and two boys, and he said he needed one more volunteer. Rather insanely, I decided to raise my hand and join the other crazy pick-me!, pick-me! people—only I was very nonchalant about the whole thing, rather than overeager. I was simply thinking, what the heck, it shows some effort on my part, and he will probably not even pick me.

And I was pretty certain I was right. There he was, pointing towards the back of audience, and there I was, looking behind me like the doofus that I was. Bear in mind that there was no one behind me and my friends, and yet I still looked over my shoulder like an idiot.

Naturally, I was confused, and I peered back at him to get a better look at where he was pointing. Wow, I thought. He’s pointing to our side of the auditorium. I looked on either side of me, at my friends and even past my friends to see who had their hands up, but no one had their hand up except for me, and I was even more bewildered.

Meanwhile, practically everyone in the auditorium was looking in my direction, pointing animatedly at me, and yelling, “You! He’s pointing at you!”

And there I sat, like a rabbit caught in the headlights of an oncoming vehicle. “Who?” I asked… because I was still not getting it.

“You! You!” Even the actor was yelling into the microphone, “You! In the white shirt, yes, you!”

I frowned in thought for a second. Oh. And then… Oh!

So I went down the aisle and got up on stage with the actor, the girl, and the two boys, and the first thing the actor wanted to know was our names. So we told him. The next thing he wanted was for us to sing. Yes, to sing.

“Sing?” one of the boys asked.

“Yes,” said the actor. “Sing anything you like.”

So the first boy sang “Mary Had a Little Lamb” like some second grader and got a few laughs and a few people clapping. The second boy sang “Jingle Bells” at about the same level and got about the same response. The girl, who was much more talented than the two boys, sang either the national anthem or “Amazing Grace”—I can’t quite remember which—and got a much better response from the audience.

Meanwhile, I felt jittery and anxious about what I would sing. All the songs I ever knew or sang had already fled my feeble mind, and the only bit of song I managed to retain was a single lyric of a fairly new hit on the radio. So when the actor turned to me with the microphone, I let loose with:

I sa-aw you… and him… walking in the ray-ay-ain… You were holding hands, and I… will never be the same…

And for some strange reason the whole room cheered, hooted, and rang with catcalls from strangers and friends alike. I was stunned. So was the actor, actually. In fact, he liked my audience response so much, he said I was a sure winner and had us all sing again.

The boys, naturally, sang “Mary Had a Little Lamb” and “Jingle Bells” again and got the same half-hearted response from the audience. The girl, much smarter than the two, changed tactics and, following my example, sang the popular “We Are the World,” which got her a much better response than the last time. In fact, it was on the same level as the response I’d gotten.

By this time, everyone was expecting me to best the other three again. The actor looked at me as though I were the next hot thing to come on the scene, and the expression on his face said to me that he thought I would top all of the performances and bring the house down with my fabulous voice and charismatic choosing of song material.

Instead, I did what the boys did and repeated my past acts:

I sa-aw you… and him… walking in the ray-ay-ain… You were holding hands, and I… will never be the same…

The smile on the actor’s face seemed to gel, moving toward that pasted on look as he waited and waited for more from me. But all I had was that one lyric, and all I could do was sing it over and over again. I didn’t even know half of the rest of the song; I couldn’t possibly fake my way through it. The actor obviously wasn’t very good at his chosen profession because I could tell he was disappointed. He coughed a little through his smile and said, “Okay then.”

Amazingly enough, though, people still cheered for me. When he had the audience vote by cheers, the girl and I were tied as winners, and we were each given a big Tootsie Roll bank. The boys were given smaller ones.

That’s why I’ve kept the Tootsie Roll bank all these years; there’s that unusual memory attached to it somehow, like some virus on seemingly blank media.

I will get rid of it though—just as soon as it wears out, or as soon as I forget that damn lyric… whichever comes first.

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