Absolutely Almost (16 page)

W
ednesday at school, Darren Ackleman got in trouble for saying “retard.”

“We don't call anyone retarded,” Mrs. Chilcoat, the chorus teacher, said, while I did my best to shrink into my chair. “
Retard
is a bad word.” She told Darren and everybody that they weren't allowed to use it. Principal Jim even talked about it the next day on the morning announcements, so I guess Mrs. Chilcoat told him about it too.

“From here on out,” Principal Jim's voice boomed from the intercom, “the word
retard
is outlawed at P.S. 183.” Everyone in Mrs. Rouse's class stared at me the whole time, and I wished there was a secret trapdoor in my seat that would open up, and down below there'd be a lion who would swallow me in one gulp.

But Darren Ackleman doesn't call me “retard” anymore.

Moron.

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.

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.

T
he 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.

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.

C
alista 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.

There weren't any thoughts in there. It was all drawings, like I figured, mostly of people. I flipped through and saw people on the subway, people in coffee shops, even people I recognized from going to the park. They were really good drawings.

Then I saw one of a boy that made me stop flipping. I smoothed my hand across the page. He had his hair cut short, cropped above his ears, and the drawing was in pencil so you couldn't tell what color his eyes were, but they were dark, and wide, and sad. You could tell he was sad, even though he was just a drawing, not a real boy you could talk to. The boy was looking off, far away, looking like there was something he wanted, real bad. I wondered what it was. I wished I could get it for him so he'd stop looking so sad.

Then I noticed the tiny speck, a mole, right above the boy's left eyebrow, which is exactly where I have a mole—right above my left eyebrow.

I snapped the sketchbook shut and put it back in Calista's purse before she came out of the bathroom. All afternoon, I wanted to ask her why she'd draw a picture of a boy with a mole just like mine, being sad.

But I didn't. And I didn't look in her sketchbook anymore either. I figured maybe she was right. Sometimes people should be left alone to think their private thoughts.

A
new family moved into Erlan's apartment. Now when I looked through my kitchen window, I didn't see Erlan in his bedroom. I saw some baby.

I bet it would take that baby at least two years to learn the Vulcan salute.

I
told Mom I didn't want her to get me any cupcakes for my birthday, that I didn't need any cupcakes, that I didn't like cupcakes as much as donuts, that my birthday wasn't till Saturday anyway, that I didn't even
feel
like celebrating my birthday at school. But she just said, “Nonsense, Albie. Everybody likes celebrating birthdays.” And then she took me early to the cupcake place on Lexington and got me two dozen mini cupcakes in a big white box, enough for everyone in my class. There were all different sorts—chocolate with chocolate frosting, chocolate with vanilla frosting, red velvet, Oreo flavor, peanut butter, sprinkles, caramel. Everything. Mom hailed a cab to get to school instead of walking like we normally did so none of the cupcakes would get smooshed. Sitting there in the back of the cab with that big white box on my lap, those cupcakes sure did smell good. The sugar and chocolate and caramel scents were all floating out of the box, landing in my nose, and even though I'd eaten breakfast, my stomach gurgled. I started to get just the littlest bit excited about my birthday. I couldn't wait to eat those cupcakes. I couldn't wait to see everyone's face in my class when they saw how good they looked.

“Have a wonderful day, Albie,” Mom told me when the cab stopped outside my school. “I love you.”

“I love you too,” I told her. She gave me a kiss on the cheek.

Maybe it was going to be a good day-before-my-birthday after all.

That's what I thought.

But when I walked into Mrs. Rouse's class and sat down at my desk with my huge white box, the first thing that happened was that Sage poked me in my side.
Hard.

“What is that?” he asked me.

I turned around in my chair to look at him. But I was careful not to knock over the cupcakes.

“They're cupcakes,” I told him. “For my birthday tomorrow.” I smiled at him. Sometimes Sage could seem mean, but I figured he had to be nice to me if he knew it was almost my birthday.

Sage did not seem to be happy that it was almost my birthday. And he didn't do anything nice either. What he did was start screaming, “Mrs. Rouse! Mrs. Rouse!” and running toward the front of the room. Which I thought was weird.

There was a poke in my other side. I turned around in my seat that way.

It was Darren. He didn't seem happy about my almost-birthday either. “Don't you know that cupcakes have
eggs
in them?” he asked me.

“What?” I asked. Because I thought that was a weird question. And I was confused.

Sage was still shouting, “Mrs.
Rouse
! Albie brought
cupcakes
into the classroom!”

I looked back at Darren. “What's wrong with cupcakes?” I asked.

Darren rolled his eyes at me. “Sage is allergic to eggs, dummy. That's why there's a sign on the door.” He pointed to the door and the sign with the crossed-out egg. “It's been there all year.” I
knew
it had been there all year. Darren didn't have to tell me that. He didn't have to call me “dummy” either. That was just mean.

Then it seemed like everyone was up out of their seats, shouting or talking or coming over to see what was going on. Mrs. Rouse was flicking the lights on and off, but it wasn't helping any.

“Why'd you bring eggs in the classroom?” Nicole asked me. “Did you want Sage to get sick?”

“Mrs. Rouse gave all the parents a letter, remember?” Tia said. “You don't remember?”

“Albie, you know you're supposed to leave outside food in the cafeteria.”

“Why'd you do that?”

“What's
wrong
with you?”

I wanted to tell them all that I just forgot. That I thought cupcakes were different. That I didn't remember about the food rule, because it was my birthday. That maybe I never knew cupcakes had eggs in them, because I never made a cupcake before. Or maybe I did know that, and I just forgot. But everyone was yelling at me, or talking at me, or asking me questions, and the lights were flickering, and I couldn't think. My brain wasn't working. I sat in my desk with those stupid cupcakes in their stupid white box, with everyone around me staring. I just bit my lip and stayed quiet.

I was not allowed to cry.

Finally the lights flicked enough that everyone stopped talking. Mrs. Rouse told everyone to go back to their seats, and they finally did.

“Simmer down, class,” Mrs. Rouse said. “It's okay.”

Mrs. Rouse said it wasn't a big deal, Sage would be fine. “Albie, we'll put your cupcakes in the cafeteria, okay? And then you can pick them up to take home after school is out. Would someone like to volunteer to take them, please?”

I should have paid attention when Darren volunteered to take the cupcakes. I should've known. But I was still biting my lip so hard, thinking about eggs and birthdays and allergies and not crying, and I didn't think about it.

I guess that's something I do a lot—not thinking.

• • •

After school Mr. Paul, the lunch aide, let me into the cafeteria kitchen to get the cupcakes. He pointed to the fridge, and I opened it and found the white box on a shelf. Someone had written my name on the side in black marker so it would be easy to find.
Albin Schaffhauser, Room 317.

“You need help with the box?” Mr. Paul asked me.

“No, thanks,” I said, and I slid it out of the fridge. The box was cold.

DUMMY

That's what was written on the top of the box, in big scribbly letters, so fat I couldn't miss it.

I bit my lip again and then, after I checked to make sure Mr. Paul wasn't looking, I opened up the box.

The cupcakes were still there. Two dozen, lined up in neat little rows.

And every single one had a fat, smooshed thumbprint, right in the middle.

I slapped the lid back closed and dumped the box into the trash can. The whole thing.

“Hey!” Mr. Paul called after me as I stomped out of the kitchen. “Kid! Don't you want your cupcakes?”

I didn't even bother to answer.