Absolutely Almost(58)

one word.




            I was leaving math club when Mr. Clifton stopped me. “Stay for just a second, if you would, Albie. I want to ask you something.”

            So I stayed.

            Mr. Clifton waited until the door had shut behind the last student and then he said, “Is everything okay?” I looked up at him. “You’ve seemed a little down the last few days.”

            I frowned.

            “Anything you want to talk about?” he asked me.

            I shrugged.

            I thought Mr. Clifton was going to let me go, but he just waited, like he thought I’d say something eventually. The bell rang, even, and he still kept waiting.

            I guessed I better say something.

            “This one kid,” I told him, “keeps calling me names. ‘Dummy.’ Stuff like that.”

            That wasn’t the only thing I was sad about, but it was one of the things. I figured it would be a good thing for Mr. Clifton. Teachers always liked to help with that sort of stuff.

            Mr. Clifton nodded for a while before he said anything. “Let me ask you something, Albie,” he said at last. “Would it bother you if this kid called you a three-toed yellow featherbed?”

            I didn’t mean to laugh, but I did anyway. A little snot came out of my nose, even. “No,” I said, wiping my face with my sleeve.

            Mr. Clifton reached behind him without looking and handed me a Kleenex. I took it. “And why not?” he asked me. “Why wouldn’t that bother you?”

            “Because I’m not a three-toed . . .”

            “A three-toed yellow featherbed,” Mr. Clifton finished for me.

            “Yeah.” I blew my nose. “I’m not one of those.”

            He nodded, like that made sense. Then he said, “So why does it bother you when someone calls you a dummy?”

            I stopped blowing my nose.

            “Look,” Mr. Clifton said. There were kids at the window in the door, waiting to come in for the next math club, I could see them, but Mr. Clifton held up a hand to tell them to wait. “I’m not going to say that other kids can’t be mean sometimes. Sometimes people say things that are just awful.” I looked down into my Kleenex. “But you know who you are, Albie. You know what you’re worth. At least I hope you do.” I folded the tissue over on itself once, then twice, then three times. “And you get to decide what words are hurtful to you. If you ask me, ‘dummy’ shouldn’t hurt you one bit.”

            When I couldn’t fold the tissue anymore, I unfolded it.

            “Does that make sense, Albie?”

            I nodded. “Can I go back to class now?” I asked.

            • • •

            On my way back to class, I thought about what Mr. Clifton said. I wasn’t sure he was right, that I got to decide what words hurt me. Because some words just hurt. But I let myself think about it anyway. Because Mr. Clifton was smart, so what he said was worth thinking about.

            Dummy, I thought to myself as I walked down the hall. Dummy dummy dummy. I thought about that word. I thought about the way it sounded, the m sound and the d and the end like in Albie.

            One little word.

            It did hurt when I said it in my head, no matter what Mr. Clifton told me. That word dummy poked me in the brain, in the stomach, in the chest, every time I heard it.

            Dummy.