Absolutely Almost(49)

            That’s what he called me on Thursday.

            Moron. Numbskull. Bozo. Idiot.

            Stupid little rat.

            Marblehead. Freak. Dum-dum. Hopeless. Lamebrain. Crybaby. F-minus.

            Dummy.

            That’s what he called me on Friday, and every day since.

            Dummy.

            Dummy.

            Dummy.

            Darren Ackleman doesn’t call me “retard” anymore.

            But I think maybe it’s not words that need to be outlawed.





no more

helping.




            I stopped leaving helpful hints in Betsy’s desk. Not because I didn’t want to hang out with her anymore. I did. Almost more than anything else. I still missed hanging out with Betsy. A whole lot.

            I stopped leaving helpful hints because I decided I didn’t want to make Betsy cool anymore. I liked Betsy the way she was, and if she was cool, I didn’t think I’d like her as much.

            So I stopped leaving helpful hints.

            But I kept hoping that one of these days Betsy would figure out that she liked me again. Because I was pretty sure that she wasn’t just embarrassed anymore. I was pretty sure she was mad. And if I could have turned into a whole different person to make her like me again, I would’ve. But I couldn’t. I was just me.

            So all I could do was hope.





the worst

thing ever.




            The worst thing that happens is always the one thing you thought would never, ever happen.

            “We’re moving,” Erlan told me on Saturday. “We’re getting a bigger apartment. On the Upper West Side.”

            After he said that, I felt like I got whacked in the chest with a rock. Hard. I couldn’t talk. Not for a whole minute.

            “Moving?” I said at last. “That’s all the way across the park!”

            Erlan nodded, staring down at his macaroni and cheese that was only for the weekends. “Yeah,” he said. “But my parents said you can still visit.”

            I nodded too. “Okay,” I told him, because what was I supposed to say? There was nothing good to say when the worst thing ever happens.

            • • •

            Dad said Erlan’s family was probably moving because their show got picked up for a full second season. When I asked what that meant, Mom said, “The TV show, Albie. It got very good ratings.”

            “Oh,” I said. “Good for them, I guess.” But I didn’t mean it.

            I was pretty sure I finally figured out what was so bad about having a famous TV star for a best friend.





one vote.




            I didn’t win vice president. Candace decided she was going to run too, so she won it. I peeked when we were raising our hands for voting, and I only got one vote, and that was from me. No one else voted for me. Not even Betsy.





thoughts.




            Calista was always drawing in her sketchbook, but she wouldn’t let anybody see. She’d show me the pictures she drew with me at the table when we were making superheroes, but not the ones from her sketchbook. When I asked if I could see just one drawing, she said, “Albie, sometimes people need their own private space to think.” Like that was that. But I didn’t see how you could think inside a sketchbook.

            I took a peek one time, when Calista was in the bathroom. I knew I probably shouldn’t, but I just wanted to.