Absolutely Almost by Lisa Graff

we found an old couple, sitting on the couch. We could tell they were watching TV by the way the light flickered off their faces. We guessed what show it might be until they turned off their TV two minutes later, and then we changed the channel again.
    We watched a teenager sitting outside on her fire escape, talking on her cell phone, her feet dangling over the edge to the street below.
    We watched a father helping his son brush his teeth at the bathroom sink.
    We watched a man hang a bicycle on hooks high on his living room wall.
    We watched two women arguing across a dinner table. One of them was crying.
    We watched three different people typing at laptops, right in their windows, and not one of them ever looked up to catch us spying.
    We even watched a lady give a boy a haircut.
    When it was time to get ready for bed, Calista told me she’d help me take the cardboard TV to the recycling, but I said I wanted to keep it up a little longer.
    It was sort of nice, to be able to change the channel whenever I wanted.

tuesday.

    W hat kind of insect is good at math?”
    That’s the joke Mr. Clifton said on Tuesday. No one knew the answer.
    â€œAn account-
ant
!” he told us.
    That was a good one. We told Mr. Clifton to use it for the math club kids next year for sure.

caring &
thoughtful
& good.

    M ost nights Calista was the one who was there for bedtime. She always made sure I had my book and Norm the Bear, even though I didn’t need a teddy bear. But I could tell she knew I liked having him anyway. Then she would say good night and close the door and go out to the living room to draw in her sketchbook.
    That’s what Calista always did at bedtime.
    But when Mom was there for bedtime, she tucked me in, even though I was way too old for tucking. She almost always forgot about Norm the Bear, but that was okay. I didn’t need a teddy bear anyway. But the thing she never forgot, not once, was that she would lean over and kiss my forehead and say, “I love you, Albie.”
    â€œYou do?” I would ask, every time, even though I knew the answer.
    â€œYep,” she’d say. “I do. You are caring and thoughtful and good.”
    Caring and thoughtful and good.
    I liked when Mom was there for bedtime.

johnny
treeface.

    A lbie.”
    When I looked up, Calista was holding my reading log from school. The way she’d said my name wasn’t happy. More like the disappointed way of saying “Albie.”
    I think I liked that way to say my name the least of any of them.
    â€œWhat?” I asked, like I didn’t know what she was about to say next, even though I was pretty sure I did.
    â€œWhy is your reading log empty this week?” Which, yep, was pretty much exactly what I’d thought she was going to say. “You told me you’ve been reading at bedtime. Did you forget to mark it down?”
    I didn’t even look at the paper. I already knew what was on there. Pretty much nothing, that’s what was on there. Same as last week’s—all blank, except at the top, where Mrs. Rouse had written, “What happened to all your great reading?”
    â€œAlbie . . . ,” Calista said slowly. Which I guess was supposed to make me want to start talking, but it didn’t. “What’s going on? Did you run out of Captain Underpants already? Should we go to the library again?”
    I shook my head. “Captain Underpants is for babies,” I said at last.
    Calista raised an eyebrow at that. “I thought you liked Captain Underpants,” she said.
    I didn’t answer.
    â€œAnd last I checked,” she went on, “you’re not a baby. Or . . .” She tapped her chin. “Wait, did you start wearing a diaper without telling me?” She stuck her nose down near the seat of the chair I was sitting in and pretended to take a big sniff. “Do you need to be changed, Albie?”
    I scooched my chair away from