School and extracurricular fundraising is sold to parents as community building.
To kids, it’s a slow-motion stress test wrapped in cellophane and guilt.

Growing up, my participation in after-school activities was largely dictated by one simple rule: my mother did not want to drive around. Anywhere. For anything. If an activity required transportation beyond our block or any level of planning that couldn’t be handled telepathically, it was off the table. This meant my extracurricular destiny was limited to whatever the school sponsored and whatever I could walk to without incident.

Sports were never going to be my thing anyway. I don’t run. I don’t train. I don’t enjoy activities that require sweating, team chants, or the looming threat of leg cramps. I exercise every day, but in the quiet, noncompetitive way that doesn’t require witnesses. Stretching. Walking. Occasionally being dragged by my husky mix, which instantly turns a peaceful stroll into an Olympic dog-sledding event where I am the sled, and he is the entire pack.

So when it came time to pick an activity, band felt… safe. Low impact. Stationary. Respectable. I joined in third grade and chose the flute, an instrument that perfectly matched my personality: lightweight, slightly shrill, and prone to being overlooked unless it’s suddenly very loud.

I played all the way through high school.

In middle school, summer meant marching band season. The band practiced parade routes for fall, and one of those routes passed directly by our house. When we were younger, this was thrilling. The moment we heard the drumline, we’d sprint to the driveway to watch the band march past, all pomp and spectacle.

Then I became a marcher.

That’s when the magic died.

The uniforms alone should have come with a warning label. Black polyester pants. A matching black jacket. In summer. White button-down shirt. A bow tie that looked like it had been designed by someone who hated children. And a hat, an enormous, towering hat, with a red plume so tall it felt like it needed FAA clearance.

We looked like rejected extras from a low-budget Revolutionary War musical staged entirely in a parking lot. Or perhaps ceremonial traffic cones with woodwinds.

Naturally, these uniforms required upkeep. Starch. Cleaning. Maintenance. And thus came the fundraising campaign.

World’s Finest Chocolate.

Every band member received a box of 40 chocolate bars. Milk chocolate or milk chocolate with almonds. Each bar sold for $1. Simple math. Forty dollars. Easy.

Except it wasn’t.

I was barely allowed to walk to the mailbox at the end of the driveway, so door-to-door sales were out of the question. Standing in the street waving candy at strangers like the Misericordia volunteers? Absolutely not. My sales pool consisted of friends, teachers, and anyone unfortunate enough to enter my immediate orbit.

The problem was that I would rather be hit by a train than sell things.

So I brought the box home and set it on my desk. And I told myself this was temporary. That I’d sell them later. That I’d figure it out.

We had one month.

During homework. During studying. During reading. During moments of existential reflection. I would reach into the box, take a bar, and promise myself I’d pay myself back. One dollar at a time. A harmless loan. A victimless crime.

Until one night, seven days before the money was due, I reached in for an after-dinner cordial of milk chocolate with almonds and came up with nothing but cardboard.

I had eaten the entire box.

Forty bars. One customer.

Panic set in.

Telling my parents was not an option. That felt like a direct threat to the safety of my butt. I briefly considered selling a kidney or a limb, but that would require a parent’s signature and raise questions I was not prepared to answer.

So I scrounged.

I emptied every piggy bank I owned. I emptied my sister’s piggy bank. (Not my brother’s, he had already emptied his to mail away for a muscle magazine advertised in the back of Mad magazine so he could get “big and strong.” Different goals.) I checked couch cushions. Junk drawers. The mysterious bowl of coins that everyone’s house had.

I barely made it.

The envelope I turned in was… slightly light. Just a few dollars short. I handed it over and tried not to make eye contact with anyone who could count.

A few days later, the band director told me I was short.

I delivered an Oscar-worthy performance of shock. Confusion. Betrayal. How could this happen?

Because it was only a few dollars, I had to tell my mom.

I got in trouble. I got grounded. Justice was served.

But the truth, the full truth of the single customer and the chocolate-fueled cover-up, is something I will take to my grave.

Now, as a parent watching the fundraising cycle repeat itself, wrapping paper, popcorn tins, coupon books, “optional but strongly encouraged” donations, I understand the purpose. I do. These programs need funding. Kids deserve opportunities.

But somewhere inside every child handed a box of merchandise is the quiet possibility of disaster.

Sometimes fundraising doesn’t build character.
Sometimes it builds a lifelong aversion to milk chocolate with almonds.

And honestly? That feels like enough of a lesson.