Middle School: Impossible – The ADHD Edition

TOP SECRET — FOR PARENTAL EYES ONLY

Every school has 'that' kid. You know—the one who’s mysteriously always in the hall, speed-walking with a random slip of paper like it's the last ticket to Coachella. Well, that was my kid, Kei.

While other students were stuck inside learning about photosynthesis, Kei was starring in his own bootleg version of Mission: Impossible—minus the gadgets and the budget, but with all the dramatic flair. He wasn’t Ethan Hunt on assignment from the IMF… he was Ethan Hunt on a mission from a different acronym: ADHD.

Some teachers convinced themselves he was “helping.” Others knew something was up, but Kei’s school poker face was strong enough to pass for “official business.” Either way, it didn’t stop him from launching covert ops like Operation Cheeto Recon and Mission Migraine.

But let’s be real—his favorite classes weren't math or science. They were Lunch and Hallway Studies 101, which entailed looking busy while doing absolutely nothing.

The ADHD Missions of a Hallway Middle School

Mission Briefing:

Your mission Kei, should you choose to accept it, is to leave the classroom with zero suspicion and teacher's permission. Walk with purpose. Look busy. Carry a slip of paper like it’s the nuclear launch codes. Do NOT, under any circumstances, make eye contact with the vice principal or any other person of authority.

As always, should you be caught, your mother will disavow all knowledge of your actions. This message will self-destruct in 5 seconds.

Kei didn’t wander the halls—he owned them. He had the gait of a kid on a mission, the face of someone pretending to know where he was going, and the improvisational skills of an ADHD brain that lost track of the plan halfway there. He didn't move fast but he did move with purpose.

To the untrained eye, he looked like a lost middle schooler. But in Kei’s head, he was a field agent executing highly classified ops.

• Mission Sharpener Drop 

Objective: Appear indispensable while escaping class for a solid 7 minutes.

– Deliver a pencil sharpener to the math teacher. Because clearly, the fate of Western civilization hinged on sharp #2s.

• Operation Teacher’s Assistant 

Objective: Swap group trauma for solo hall pass glory.

– Volunteer for other random tasks so he didn’t have to do group work.

• Operation Cheeto Recon 

Objective: Risk it all for crunchy, neon-orange survival rations.

– Confirm whether the vending machine still carried Spicy Cheetos. (Spoiler: it did. And yes, he confirmed again the next day. And the day after that.)

• Project Side Door Security Check 

Objective: Test school infrastructure under the guise of “just checking.”

– Ensure the side exit still opened, in case of… I don’t know, hallway emergencies? National security thanks him for his service.

• Operation Locker Ghost 

Objective: Perfect the art of wasting time while looking “productive.”

– Burn 20 minutes “looking” for a missing item that was never missing. Ghost protocol, ADHD edition.

• Operation Hand Raise 

Objective: Trade manual labor for unrestricted hallway freedom.

– Always the first to volunteer when the teacher needed “a helper” to grab supplies. Kei wasn’t helpful—he was on a one-man quest for hall passes.

• Project Lost Book Expedition 

Objective: Burn maximum class time while perfecting the art of looking inconvenienced.

– “Forget” his book in his locker, then turn the retrieval into a full-length feature film.

• Recon Mission: Water Fountain 

Objective: Disguise joyride as hydration.

– Wander three hallways en route to get one sip of water even though your water bottle was literally in your backpack, hanging on the back of your chair.

Honestly, if hallway espionage were graded, Kei would’ve been valedictorian.

The Bathroom Refuge

Mission Briefing:

Your mission, should you choose to accept it, is to disappear into stall #3 for as long as possible. Warning: the smell is toxic, the lock is unreliable, and the floor is a swamp of mystery liquid. But it beats pre-algebra.

This message will self-destruct in 5 seconds. Or at least until someone jiggles the stall door.

The bathroom wasn’t his sanctuary—it was his time-wasting headquarters. A layover where productivity went to die. And despite his gag reflex working overtime, those ten stolen minutes were pure, golden freedom.

Forget learning fractions—stall #3 with the broken lock, buzzing fluorescent lights and a Sharpie masterpiece of SpongeBob puffing a cigarette while perched on some guy’s tallywhacker was where the real work got done.

Kei would wander in, pause for a mirror check, maybe splash water on his face like he’d just survived a near-death hallway trek, then vanish into a stall. Ten minutes later, he’d flush (gotta leave evidence for the witnesses) and strut out with the swagger of a kid fresh off a covert op—mission complete.

Sure, the place reeked of body odor, stinky cheese, and despair, but for Kei it was worth it.

• Operation Mirror Check 

Objective: Look pensive, not suspicious.

– Stare at his reflection long enough to waste 3–5 minutes, maybe throw in a dramatic sigh for realism.

• Project Soap Pump 

Objective: Maximize bubbles, minimize fractions.

– Hit the soap dispenser 17 times because it’s funnier than algebra.

• Stall Lock Protocol 

Objective: Extend mission duration by feigning “digestive emergency.”

– Claim stall #3 with the busted lock and sit there until the coast was clear.

• Mission Paper Towel Dispenser 

Objective: Announce presence loudly enough to pass as actual productivity.

– Pound the lever like it owed him money, then pretend to “fix” it for extra credit.

• Operation Dramatic Sink Splash 

Objective: Leave evidence of effort.

– Return to class with damp hands/face for visual proof of a “serious” bathroom mission.

But even stall #3 had its limits. When Kei needed more than ten minutes of freedom, he upgraded from “toilet breaks” to “medical emergencies.”

The Chronicles of The Nurse’s Office

Mission Briefing:

Your mission, Kei, should you choose to accept it, is to fake an ailment convincing enough to dodge PE, but not dramatic enough to trigger a phone call home. Props may include: limp, groan, or squinting at fluorescent lights.

As always, should you be caught…well, you’ll probably just get sent back to class. Good luck, Agent Kei. This message will self-destruct in 5 seconds.

The nurse’s office was Kei’s luxury hideout. Compared to the dookie-scented bathroom

stalls, this place had cots, dimmed lighting, and—most importantly—time. He had more

“medical issues” than the school nurse had ice packs. Mystery headaches, sudden stomach cramps, phantom sprains—you name it, Kei had faked it.

Some of his most legendary excuses included:

• Operation Ice Pack 

Objective: Secure maximum sympathy and at least one frozen cube of freedom.

– Twisting his ankle five minutes into soccer and limping in like a wounded war hero.

• Mission Migraine 

Objective: Trade cardio for cot time.

– A sudden “brain explosion” that conveniently struck right before running laps.

• Project Nurse Nap 

Objective: Outlast the clock in horizontal position.

– Collapsing dramatically on the cot, recovering just in time for class to end.

• Operation Stomachache 

Objective: Dodge algebra and maybe score a ginger ale.

– The classic “mystery tummy pain” that magically appeared right before a pop quiz.

• Mission Mystery Rash 

Objective: Instill just enough panic to be excused, but not enough to warrant parental pickup.

– Scratching dramatically at his arm, swearing he had “something contagious.”

• Project Nosebleed Alert 

Objective: Trigger an immediate, unquestioned extraction before anyone could call his bluff.

– Announce he “felt one coming on,” despite zero evidence. But thanks to his actual history of nosebleeds, this excuse had built-in credibility.

• Operation Daily Dose 

Objective: Turn a 30-second pill into a 10-minute production, complete with water breaks and small talk.

– Report to the nurse’s office every day to take his meds. A legit mission, but one he stretched out with Oscar-worthy dramatics.

The nurse always knew he wasn’t dying, but since he was polite about his constant “illnesses,” she let him ride it out. Honestly, by 8th grade, I think she considered him part-time staff.

So yeah, the nurse deserved hazard pay for Kei’s greatest hits. Zoom out, and you’ll see—Kei wasn’t ditching. He was hacking the system just to make it through

The Bigger Picture

Looking back, these weren’t just antics. They were coping strategies. Kei’s ADHD brain wasn’t built for stillness, monotony, or sitting through 43 minutes of long division. His missions were his way of carving out novelty, movement, and escape.

Sure, it looked like truancy. But in truth? It was survival training.

Conclusion

So yeah—Kei was that kid. The one perpetually in the hall, face set in concentration, moving like he was smuggling state secrets inside a crumpled hall pass. Teachers may have thought he was “helpful.” Nope. He was on Operation Stay Sane in Middle School.

He might not remember the Pythagorean theorem or what Pi equals, but he does remember how to glide past a teacher mid-mission with the calm, casual confidence of a boy who absolutely shouldn’t be there.

And honestly? That’s a skill Ethan Hunt himself would admire.

Authorized by:

— Tara

ADHD Middle School Mission Handler

Director of Covert Snack Recon, Middle School Division