I was in tenth grade when I decided to stop being good.

All my life, I’d done what my parents told me to do, what the teachers told me to do, what anyone in authority said. I couldn’t dump my submissiveness overnight. So I confined my rebellion to religious school.

I started small. And passive.

I stopped paying attention during class. I wrote letters in prim blue ink on lined notebook paper folded into quarters and held on my lap, under the cover of my plastic desktop the color of mashed bananas.

One day the teacher called me on my behavior and threatened to tell my parents. I talked him out of it on the grounds that I was a “good kid” who didn’t cause problems. I wasn’t like the boys who shot spitballs, drew pictures on their desktops, and talked about raiding their parents’ liquor cabinets. I didn’t disrupt the class by chatting with other girls. How could I? I didn’t have friends in class. My few Jewish friends went to the Conservative temple on the other side of town, not the Reform temple within walking distance of my home.

I was a bit more discreet after that. But I grew impatient. Why was I wasting time on a school that didn’t offer me any spiritual relief, friendship or anything else positive? And clearly my parents didn’t care about religion. They never attended services other than on the High Holy Days. They were perfect examples of what we called “Revolving Door Jews,” who only honored the most sacred holidays. I started walking to school with my brother, then wandering off with a book.

The dumb thing was, I hung out around the temple with my book. So eventually I got caught by one of the rabbis, who outed me to my parents. I had to finish out the year of religious school, but then I was done.

What really made me mad was that my brother, who was one year younger than me, also got to finish his religious education that year. He didn’t have to stick it out as many years as me.

You can read more about “good.”