A friend posted a quote to Facebook this afternoon that shook loose a memory: “I lost some time once. It’s always in the last place you look for it.”

It’s apparently a quote from Neil Gaiman. Since Mr. Gaiman is famous already, everybody loves his moments of levity. However, the time I used this line, thinking it a piece of original wit, I was conspicuously without fame or, some would argue, much common sense. My subconscious still bears the scars of the aftermath.

The incident happened a very long time ago when I was a tortured high schooler. At the time, I hid my helplessness and anger behind cynical witticisms. If memory serves, my hawk-eyed English teacher caught me sharing my text with a classmate who had forgotten her own book at home. Ms. Teach was furious at this transgression, though only the slightest pretext was needed for her to go off like a firecracker.

The sterling performance Ms. Teach put in equated the act of our sharing a textbook with open contempt for an aged pedagogue. She upbraided my classmate for insincerity and irresponsibility, while I was chastised for the low cunning of concealing my pal’s grave misdemeanor. Toward the end of the tirade came an artful touch of a plot to divide-and-rule. Forgetting books at home, she informed the rest of the class, was part of our sinister plot to bring down the others’ test scores and shoot their academic performances in the knees.

“I can promise you that these two girls — these ‘friends’ of yours — have private tutors waiting for them at home,” she thundered. “They will make up for the time lost here, but you will not. Don’t be surprised if these troublemakers do far better than the rest of you. Instead of sitting there smiling like idiots, like this incident is a big joke, think of what has just been stolen from you by these two.”

The students stared at her in fearful fascination and pondered her vituperative warning. Something had been stolen from them? What magic was this? The girl in front of me absently patted her pocket.

“Time!” exploded Ms. Teach, making the whole class jump. “Those two have stolen your precious, valuable time! Let’s just hope your friends will tell you where they’ve hidden it, so you can put them to good use and pass your exams!”

With that final flourish, she snatched up her bag, her text, the attendance register, and marched briskly out of the classroom.

Several heads swivelled at me. Pairs of eyes shot dagger-sharp accusations.

“Oh, don’t listen to her,” I said with forced lightness, waving my hands dismissively. “Just look for your lost time in the last place you can think of. That’s where us thieves always stash the precious loot.”

I forced out a nervous laugh, for good measure. Heh-heh.

It worked. All around me, hostile looks began to melt into open grins. Everyone loves a winking rebel.

At this very moment of sweet relief, however, the hairs on the back of my neck started bristling. Turning slowly, I saw Ms. Teach, presumed absent, standing a little beyond the doorway. Her eyes cut at me with cold fury.

There is no insult more insulting, I suppose, than the mocking smile of one’s usual prey. The jackal, I imagine, takes the giggling of rabbits very personally.

I’d rather not go into what happened next. Suffice it to say that it will make a very colorful entry in my memoir. But to write a memoir I would have to be famous first, which brings us to the entire point of this story.

Fame makes cheek cool. Everyone else, shut up.

Priyanka Nandy works with structural inequities in public education and public health in India. She blogs at priyankanandy.com/blog and photo shares everywhere.”