Absolutely Almost(33)

            I wished I could sneak out the door.

            “You have a D in spelling,” Dad told me before the door was even closed. “A D. How hard is it to spell a couple words?”

            “Richard,” Mom said.

            “I study every Thursday,” I said. My voice was so soft even I could barely hear it. “Calista helps me. We make flash cards. The problem is Mrs. Rouse picks new words every week.”

            “Well, perhaps you should study every Wednesday too,” Dad said. “And Tuesday and Monday. D’s are not okay in this house, Albie.”

            Mom sighed, but she didn’t say anything. She went into the kitchen and opened the fridge.

            She didn’t take anything out.

            “I expect you to get a perfect score on your next spelling test, Albie.”

            “Perfect?” I said. “But that’s ten whole words!” How could I get ten right when I could barely get four?

            “It’s not up for debate, Albie. Any son of mine should be able to spell. Do better.”

            After Dad left the room, Mom closed the fridge and looked at me sitting at the table.

            “Time to get ready for bed, okay, Albie?” she said.

            I went to my room and changed into my pajamas, even though I hadn’t taken my shower yet. But no one seemed to notice.

            I hated parent-teacher conferences.





studying.




            I started studying for my spelling test the very next day, Tuesday, which was two days before I normally started.

            “Well, aren’t you the model student?” Calista said when I told her I wanted to make flash cards early.

            Simple. S-I-M-P-L-E. That one was simple. “Rhymes with pimple,” Calista said while we drew pictures on the back of the flash card. That made me laugh.

            Brain. B-R-A-I-N. That one was a little harder, because there were so many ways to make the long-a sound. “Albie has good grades on the b-r-a-i-n,” Calista said.

            Especially. E-S-P-E-C-I-A-L-L-Y. That one was impossible. “Especially is an especially stupid spelling word,” I said.

            We studied and studied and studied.

            And the more we studied, the more I knew I’d never be able to get all ten right. No matter how hard I tried, I wasn’t ever going to be a perfect speller.

            I wondered how such a perfect speller like Dad could end up with a son like me.





what’s wrong with my brain.




            As soon as Mom hung up the phone with the counselor, I could tell something was wrong. Her eyebrows were all crinkly.

            “What?” I asked her.

            Mom didn’t look at me. She set her phone down on a stack of papers and opened up the cupboard with the mugs. “That was Ms. McPhillips,” she said, and she peered inside one of the mugs like there was something dirty in it, then put it in the sink. She took out another one. “With the results of the test you took last week.”

            “Oh.” As soon as she said that, I knew it was something real bad. “Did I do something wrong?” I asked. I was always screwing up on tests.

            “Oh, Albie, no,” she said, setting the mug on the counter. But she still didn’t look at me. She was searching through another cupboard now, the one with tea and rice and stuff. I thought if she was really mad at me for screwing up the test super bad, she’d probably be yelling at me, but I was confused too because when I do good on tests, she always gave me a big hug and told me how proud she was. And she wasn’t doing either of those things.