The power of a Pen

In third grade I had a friend named "Red". Red had red hair and after bringing home a bad grade from school, vicious red welts on his back and arms. After a test, the paper had to be signed by the parent and turned in to the teacher the following day.
With a look of woe, Red showed me the "F", which looked like a severe beating to me. Now, in Germany in those days, pens were just about a controlled substance. They were rare and children were not allowed to have access to them. The test had to be signed in ink. My Mother, being somewhat irresponsible, habitually left a pen laying around. I had a brilliant idea. I asked Red if he had a sample of his parents' signature. He assured me he did.
My mother worked swing shift and I usually waited until after she left for work before I went home. I might not see her for days, except asleep when I left for school or sometimes she would wake me when she brought home fried chicken or french fries from the Army base where she worked.
Red met me at home and I set to work on the forgery. I was very good at copying stuff. I remember I had once copied a ballerina from a tissue box and she asked me if I had traced it. No, it was a free-hand copy. I don't remember if I practiced serveral times or if I just carefully duplicated the signature.
The next day, the teacher called us up to the front, one by one, to inspect the signatures. I remember Red looking back at me as he walked to the front. He handed the test paper to the teacher, who inspected the signature. There was a hesitation and then the teacher looked at me. He seemed to look for a long, long time. Busted! I squirmed and recrossed my fingers.
Finally, he handed to paper back to Red. Red grinned, relieved, all the way to his desk.