Code Toad

Hey! Did you know that if you give me a number between 1-26, I can instantaneously tell you what letter of the alphabet it corresponds with? I can do it the other way, too: give me a letter, and I'll tell you it's matching number.

G? 7!
14? N!
W? 23!

You'll have to trust the fact that I was able to spit these answers out quickly and without any assistance. After all, the only thing more dorky than bragging about having this nearly pointless talent would be if I were to be secretly consulting a chart and only pretending to possess this ability.

The reason I have acquired this skill is because in my younger years I loved codes. Since one of the most common codes involves a simple number to letter conversion, I had to have that down cold so that I could hastily move on to whatever came next in my spy activities.

Sometimes, this ability worked against me, however. For weeks, I was excited about the premiere of Ghostwriter, a television show about a group of racially diverse teens solving mysteries through their superb literacy abilities. During the first episode, a code was flashed on the screen, which I quickly copied down. Since I knew basic codes, I was able to decipher the secret message immediately, and had solved the mystery before the first episode was even halfway complete. Unfortunately, it took five more weeks before the Ghostwriter gang figured it out. Though I came to love those kids, they really tested my patience by putting off solving the code for so long. It would seem to me, if you have a code that could pinpoint the perpetrators of the big petty theft ring, your top priority would be to sit down and hammer out some code possibilities.

In third grade, I was so obsessed with codes, while simultaneously being so frustrated that there were no secret codes appearing in my life that required my spy skills, that I decided to force the issue. Rather than waiting for someone to slip me a code, I made some up and delivered them to Brian, Robbie, and myself. Because I didn't have the means to slip the code in each of their lockers, desks, or something equally sensical, I instead handed the sheets to them, explaining that I had been informed by the "Code Toad" to give these to them. Obviously, my excuse wasn't too solid, thus earning accusations of being the "Code Toad" all along. "But I got one, too!" I showed. Being a sloppy answer, that didn't hold for long either. An older student on the bus wanted me to prove that it wasn't me by comparing handwriting. Since the notes were, in fact, written by my hand, I wanted to avoid this, but the mob had spoken. I went about demonstrating how I wrote my letters, all of which I penned in lowercase, so as not to match the "Code Toad"'s all-uppercase letters. Fortunately, this devious plan worked - the letters did not match, and I was cleared of suspicion. With quick thinking like that, I convinced myself I would make an awesome spy. Alas, my fear of eventually being exposed so worried me that the Code Toad went into early retirement. Somedays while teaching, though, I find myself daydreaming more than my students, imagining working elsewhere and solving codes.