Absolutely Almost(25)

            “You can’t get where you’re going without being where you’ve been.”

            That’s what Mr. Clifton said while I was still staring at his F report card.

            “Huh?” That’s what I said.

            “My grandmother always used to tell me that,” Mr. Clifton explained. “When I was a boy.”

            “Oh,” I said.

            I wonder if Mr. Clifton’s grandmother ever saw that F report card.

            “When I was a kid,” Mr. Clifton said, “I hated math. Hated it. Because I was bad at it, and because I thought it didn’t make any sense.”

            I nodded at that, because it was true. Math didn’t make any sense.

            “So that’s why I decided to become a math teacher.”

            I stopped nodding when Mr. Clifton said that last part. Because that was a thing that didn’t make any sense.

            “What?” I said. “Why?”

            He shrugged. “I figured if math didn’t make any sense to me, it probably didn’t make sense to lots of other people. So I promised myself that if I ever did figure it out, I’d become a math teacher so I could help other people who’d had trouble, just like me.” He reached up and straightened the report card in its frame so it was exactly even to the ground. “It took a lot of hard work, but I’m glad every day that I made that decision and didn’t end up with some super-easy profession, like neurosurgeon.”

            I just stared at him. Because I knew that Mr. Clifton liked to tell bad jokes, but this time I couldn’t tell if he was joking. Who would actually want to be a math teacher?

            “So I can’t drop out of math club, then?” I asked.

            “Not even a little,” Mr. Clifton told me.





stacking

cups.




            Every time we went down to the bodega to get a donut, Calista always ended up talking to Hugo forever. That’s because it turned out that Hugo liked art too. A lot. They would show each other sketches they were working on, and Calista would tell him stories about her art classes, and Hugo would laugh his big, growly old-man laugh.

            At first I thought it was fun to listen to them, because it turns out Hugo is pretty interesting. I never knew that before when I just went there to buy donuts. I guess I never really thought about talking to him about art or anything. But after a while, even art could get kind of boring. Plus I couldn’t eat my donut until I’d paid for it, and so sometimes I was just standing there, staring at the donut in my hand for nine thousand years while I waited for Hugo to take my dollar, and my stomach would get rumbly.

            So on Wednesday when we were there, I started stacking cups. Hugo’s always doing it, taking the long stack of cups out of the plastic wrapper and sorting them into smaller stacks by the coffee pourers. I noticed him doing it all the time when we came in before. So on Wednesday I grabbed the stack that Hugo had set down when he started talking to Calista, and I started counting too.

            Only I realized after I’d been counting for a while that I didn’t know what I was supposed to be counting to.

            “How many do you do?” I asked Hugo over my shoulder. Which I guess was interrupting, because he and Calista were looking at some boring art book he’d brought in to show her, but I didn’t care.

            “Sorry?” Hugo asked me.

            “How many cups?” I asked. “What do I count to?”

            Hugo straightened his back to get a better look at me from the counter. “Well, aren’t you something?” he said, his eyes all smiles. “Thanks, Albie! I appreciate the help.”