don’t know why.
I climb off the bed and study myself in the full-length mirror. I wonder what the kids would think of this version of the perfect Catherine Westfield. Then I wonder, did I even like being perfect?
I admire the girl staring back at me. She seems confident and determined, and not afraid to say what’s on her mind. She doesn’t take crap from anyone, not her friends, not her parents. This girl would walk into the school office and demand a new note-taker, someone who could write past the fourth grade level, someone who could organize the critical points of the lessons.
Does J.D. even write in complete sentences? I flop back onto my bed and glance at his notes.
His handwriting is surprisingly neat and he’s drawn pictures in the margins, a timeline of sorts. There’s a drawing of a person sewing a dress with a circle around it and a line slashed diagonally across the circle. Beside it is a drawing of a machine spitting out the same dress. Next on the continuum are ships and trains and the words, “steam power fueled by coal” followed by a drawing of a man shoveling coal into a train’s boiler.
So…the power of steam makes the trains move and the coal makes the steam power. The fog lifts. I’m getting it.
Thanks to J.D.
I jump off the bed and pace around my room. Sure, I want to excel in my classes and prove to everyone I’m worthy of AP track. But not with J.D.’s help. I don’t want to depend on him or be grateful to him.
For anything.
Then I have an idea. I’ll accept notes from both J.D. and Greg and pretend to use Greg’s. No one has to know the truth: without J.D.’s help I’ll likely fail all my classes.
“Damn him.” I race out of my room, aiming for the kitchen and a chocolate chip cookie. Halfway down the stairs I stop short at the sound of Mom and Dad fighting. Their angry voices echo down the hall from the kitchen. I sit on the stairs and listen.
“How could you let that happen?” Dad accuses.
“I didn’t. It was a misunderstanding.”
“Hasn’t she suffered enough? Haven’t we suffered?”
“Adam, keep your voice down.”
“Don’t tell me what to do!” he shouts.
I grip the wooden spindles of our banister with white-knuckled fingers. I don’t remember Dad ever sounding like this, so angry, so desperate.
“Sweetheart, it’s not my fault. It’s not your fault,” Mom soothes.
“Stop saying that. It’s his fault. That kid should be locked up. It’s bad enough he lives across the street, but now he’s her note taker?”
“I’ll call the school first thing tomorrow,” Mom offers.
A door creaks open, then slams shut.
“Please put that away,” Mom says, her voice trembling.
A snapping sound makes my shoulders jerk. I’ve heard that sound before. Prickly shivers crawl down my spine.
“I’m going to put an end to this,” Dad says in a deep, threatening voice.
Footsteps pound down the hall and I can see Dad as he approaches the door…
Gripping a shotgun in his left hand.
“Adam, stop acting crazy,” Mom says. “Shooting that boy isn’t going to change anything.”
Dad spins around and glares at her. “I’m not going to shoot him. I’m going to scare him the crap out of him. I’m going to tell him to stay the hell away from my girl.”
Mom shoulders her way to the door, blocking him from leaving. “You’ll be arrested and thrown in jail.”
“Get out of my way.”
“Honey, think about this.”
“I have. I’m protecting my family for once. Now, move!”
This is my fault. They’re fighting because of me. Dad will threaten J.D., the cops will arrest him, and he’ll go to jail.
Because of me.
“Daddy?” I stand, my fingernails digging into the wood railing.
Dad freezes, his hand on the doorknob. It’s scary quiet and I think he might ignore me. Instead, he slowly turns.
An angry, feral sheen sparks in his eyes. They look like J.D.’s dad’s eyes in the HULU. But my dad is not abusive or mean. He’s the guy who
I climb off the bed and study myself in the full-length mirror. I wonder what the kids would think of this version of the perfect Catherine Westfield. Then I wonder, did I even like being perfect?
I admire the girl staring back at me. She seems confident and determined, and not afraid to say what’s on her mind. She doesn’t take crap from anyone, not her friends, not her parents. This girl would walk into the school office and demand a new note-taker, someone who could write past the fourth grade level, someone who could organize the critical points of the lessons.
Does J.D. even write in complete sentences? I flop back onto my bed and glance at his notes.
His handwriting is surprisingly neat and he’s drawn pictures in the margins, a timeline of sorts. There’s a drawing of a person sewing a dress with a circle around it and a line slashed diagonally across the circle. Beside it is a drawing of a machine spitting out the same dress. Next on the continuum are ships and trains and the words, “steam power fueled by coal” followed by a drawing of a man shoveling coal into a train’s boiler.
So…the power of steam makes the trains move and the coal makes the steam power. The fog lifts. I’m getting it.
Thanks to J.D.
I jump off the bed and pace around my room. Sure, I want to excel in my classes and prove to everyone I’m worthy of AP track. But not with J.D.’s help. I don’t want to depend on him or be grateful to him.
For anything.
Then I have an idea. I’ll accept notes from both J.D. and Greg and pretend to use Greg’s. No one has to know the truth: without J.D.’s help I’ll likely fail all my classes.
“Damn him.” I race out of my room, aiming for the kitchen and a chocolate chip cookie. Halfway down the stairs I stop short at the sound of Mom and Dad fighting. Their angry voices echo down the hall from the kitchen. I sit on the stairs and listen.
“How could you let that happen?” Dad accuses.
“I didn’t. It was a misunderstanding.”
“Hasn’t she suffered enough? Haven’t we suffered?”
“Adam, keep your voice down.”
“Don’t tell me what to do!” he shouts.
I grip the wooden spindles of our banister with white-knuckled fingers. I don’t remember Dad ever sounding like this, so angry, so desperate.
“Sweetheart, it’s not my fault. It’s not your fault,” Mom soothes.
“Stop saying that. It’s his fault. That kid should be locked up. It’s bad enough he lives across the street, but now he’s her note taker?”
“I’ll call the school first thing tomorrow,” Mom offers.
A door creaks open, then slams shut.
“Please put that away,” Mom says, her voice trembling.
A snapping sound makes my shoulders jerk. I’ve heard that sound before. Prickly shivers crawl down my spine.
“I’m going to put an end to this,” Dad says in a deep, threatening voice.
Footsteps pound down the hall and I can see Dad as he approaches the door…
Gripping a shotgun in his left hand.
“Adam, stop acting crazy,” Mom says. “Shooting that boy isn’t going to change anything.”
Dad spins around and glares at her. “I’m not going to shoot him. I’m going to scare him the crap out of him. I’m going to tell him to stay the hell away from my girl.”
Mom shoulders her way to the door, blocking him from leaving. “You’ll be arrested and thrown in jail.”
“Get out of my way.”
“Honey, think about this.”
“I have. I’m protecting my family for once. Now, move!”
This is my fault. They’re fighting because of me. Dad will threaten J.D., the cops will arrest him, and he’ll go to jail.
Because of me.
“Daddy?” I stand, my fingernails digging into the wood railing.
Dad freezes, his hand on the doorknob. It’s scary quiet and I think he might ignore me. Instead, he slowly turns.
An angry, feral sheen sparks in his eyes. They look like J.D.’s dad’s eyes in the HULU. But my dad is not abusive or mean. He’s the guy who
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