Every teacher Chuck had had since then was sure it was Chuck who was stupid.
And after Daddy died, Chuck had to eat his “make everything better” ice cream alone.
Chuck ate a lot of ice cream. Then he moved on to heaps of meat loaf, mounds of mashed potatoes, bushels of beans, dozens of doughnuts. . . . No matter how much he ate, it was never enough to make everything better.
Sometimes Chuck was almost glad Daddy was dead and Mom was away most of the time, because that meant neither one of them had to know how stupid he was. How worthless.
So what was he doing now, telling Mom?
“Chuck—,” Mom tried again. Her voice sounded wobbly. Chuck thought about how she stood in front of thousands of people every night, without getting nervous at all. But he was so pathetic, she couldn’t get even two words out, talking to him.
Lori came over and leaned against the wall behind Mom.
“It’s true,” she said matter-of-factly. “People make fun of him a lot. But Chuck’s not really that stupid. Lots of kids at school are even dumber. Even a lot of the ones who tease him all the time.”
Chuck couldn’t believe his ears. Was Lori defending him?
But she wasn’t done.
“Chuck’s just different,” Lori continued. “You know. Chuck doesn’t talk about cars or hunting or girls or tractors. He doesn’t know a gasket from a gearshift. He likes art. He’s been sneaking out to art museums this whole trip. And drawing. He’s really good. Want to see?”
Nobody answered, but Lori walked over to Chuck’s suitcase, anyway, and pulled out his secret notebook. Chuck’s jaw dropped. How had she known? Lori flipped the notebook open and laid it on the table in front of Mom, like some lawyer on TV, presenting evidence to the judge.
Chuck felt naked. What else did she know?
“May I look?” Mom asked.
At least she asked.
Chuck managed to nod. Mom began flipping pages. There was the copy he’d made of the van Gogh painting, where he hadn’t gotten any of the perspective right. There was the Rembrandt portrait, where he’d had to erase the nose fifty times, and still hadn’t gotten it right. There was the drawing he’d made of Mom speaking. He’d done a great job drawing the podium, but she was flat and lifeless, with none of the sparkle she carried in real life.
“Stop!” Chuck yelled. He yanked the notebook out of Mom’s grasp. Clutching it with both hands, he started to pull in opposite directions. He’d rip his pictures into shreds. He wasn’t an artist. He never would be.
“No!” Lori and Mom shouted together. Chuck was so surprised to hear them agree on anything that he hesitated. Mom slipped the notebook out of his hands and held it shut on her lap.
Chuck couldn’t look at Mom or Lori. Everyone was so quiet, the air conditioner’s hum sounded like a roar.
“You don’t have to show these to me,” Mom said softly. “Or anyone. You have a right to privacy.”
“I—,” Lori started to protest. Chuck lifted his head in time to see Mom silence her with a look.
“But don’t destroy them,” Mom said. “They are good.”
“You’re just saying that,” Chuck said sulkily. “I can’t do anything right.”
It was true. He couldn’t divide quadratic equations to save his life. He couldn’t dissect a frog without ripping all the vital organs. He couldn’t plow a single row without getting distracted and going crooked. He couldn’t keep a baby pig from squirming long enough to give it a rhinitis shot. And it was like Lori said: He didn’t know a gearshift from a gasket. He didn’t care. None of those things mattered to him.
But drawing did. Why couldn’t he be good at that?
“Chuck,” Mom said gently. “You haven’t had any training. Pickford High School doesn’t have any art classes, does it?”
Chuck shook his head.
“Then we’ll find someone to give you private lessons,” Mom promised. “Just don’t give up on yourself. Ever. About anything. Okay?”
Chuck found himself nodding. And nodding.
Mom handed him back his notebook.
“Lori, you stay out of Chuck’s suitcase. You hear?”
Chuck hugged his notebook to his chest, tighter and tighter.
It was still dark when Lori awoke the next morning. Mom was up already, tiptoeing around. Lori watched through half-closed eyes as Mom pulled on sweats and tennis shoes and slipped out the door.
She’s running away from home, Lori thought drowsily. Nah. She already did that.
Lori closed her eyes. It was easier to go back to sleep than to think about Mom or Chuck or anything that had happened in the past week and a half.