In 7th grade, I almost got a detention.

In middle school, a detention was the ultimate humiliation: sitting at a table visible to the entire cafeteria in complete silence, supervised by an uninterested teacher.

One day, I had been returning from the bathroom, completely unaware we were under desk arrest, when all of a sudden my teacher yelled at me from the doorway. I was out of my seat and a hair’s breadth from being sent to the clink.

Being the poster child for good behavior, with a pencil case full of perfectly sharpened Dixon Ticonderogas and no experience being in time out, I started bawling. In my 12-year-old mind, I was going to get a detention and my permanent record would be stained. I was surely on track to becoming a criminal.

Apparently my breakdown was a pitiful sight, because my teacher didn’t make me serve a detention, and, shockingly enough, I never became a criminal. In fact, I became even more cautious and more obedient: the paragon of goody two-shoes-ness.

I managed to navigate my way through three years of high school without ever getting in trouble: no daunting white passes with my name on them delivered during class, no sweaty palms in the principal’s office. The only time I had even met my dean was to interview him. I’ve only spoken to the principal for one North Star matter or the other.

That’s why, when I strode out of the double doors with my keys and a coffee craving, I was more than shocked to see a big, fat orange sticker on the window of my car. Similar to my annoyance with a disorganized closet or an out of place stand of hair, I was irritated by the neon blemish. My high school years had been pristine until someone slapped this trivial imperfection onto them. I stood there, wishing there was an equivalent to the whiteout for parking violations.

Instead, though, I received a pass to my dean. As I walked past rows of lockers, I tried to formulate a way to get out of the consequences that awaited me: it was my first time getting in trouble, I didn’t know I wasn’t supposed to park there, the lot wasn’t labeled well. But when he asked me ‘what happened,’ all I could muster was ‘I parked in the staff lot.’

My dean gave me a lunch detention, and I didn’t give him a hard time about it. I spent a lunch period in The Commons–surrounded by AP text books and my color coded planner– for something as innocuous as unknowingly parking in the wrong row.

All of the stereotypical high school horror stories of teenagers with leather jackets and a knack for back-talking slumped over their desks in lunch detentions didn’t quite get it right. Surprisingly, my detention was productive, short and something I deserved–not because I’m a bad person, but because I could benefit from realizing that if I’m getting it right 99% of the time, I’ve earned some leeway to get it wrong.

When I told my mom I had a detention, she threw her head back, almost in relief. “Good,” she laughed.