Read Online At-Risk by Amina Gautier - Free Book Online Page A

gone through a whole pile of Blue’s letters. She was working on the second pile, her hand covering her mouth, crying silently.
    After some time, she remembered us. “What do you think?” she asked Peter. “Says he’s back in Brooklyn now. You want to see him? You’re old enough to decide for yourself.”
    â€œI don’t care,” Peter said. Blue wasn’t the kind of father any boy would want to claim. A high school dropout. A heroine addict, a former one if his letters could be believed. A love from our mother’s wilder days, Blue belonged to our distant past. According to Peter, he used to come by regularly. By the time I was old enough to have remembered him, Blue had stopped coming. He’d gone away to nobody knew where.
    â€œWell, he checked himself into that place all on his own. I guess that says something,” our mother said.
    She invited him for dinner, saying that it would do him good to spend some time with his son.
    â€œLook at you,” Blue said, when I opened the door to let him in. He showed up in denim work overalls and a lumberjack shirt, carrying a small leather bag. His overalls were covered in grease spots, his hands stained with car oil. “I remember you when you could barely walk. Cute little thing in your walker, running all over the house, tearing stuff up.”
    I let him in and followed behind him, hoping he would tell memore stories about myself. Blue fascinated me with his skin so black it was blue, his hands so dirty his palms were black.
    â€œWhere’s your mother?” he asked, looking around hopefully.
    â€œIn the kitchen,” I said. “Dinner’s not ready yet.”
    â€œThat’s all right. I need to clean up anyway. I came straight from work,” he said. “Mind if I use your bathroom?” he asked.
    I pointed down the hallway. Blue took his little bag and disappeared into our bathroom.
    Our mother came out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on a dishcloth. “Did I hear the door? Was that Blue?” she asked.
    â€œYeah.”
    Peter came out of his room and joined us.
    â€œWell, where is he?” she asked me.
    Peter said, “I bet he’s in the
bathroom
.” He said it slowly, enunciating each word. He and our mother shared a look, but all she said was, “Hmm.”
    Blue stayed in the bathroom over twenty minutes. Peter timed him. He was relaxed when he finally came out and sat down to eat with us. Both our mother and Peter watched him guardedly, as if waiting for him to vanish.
    â€œSo how’s school?” he asked Peter.
    â€œDon’t get this boy to talking about school. We’ll be here all night. That’s all he do. Eat, sleep, and breathe school. Read everything he can get his hands on. I can’t get him to take his head out of the books sometimes. He scores the highest out of everybody in his grade at that school. They’ve already skipped him twice.” The way she said it was a complaint. Because he scored the highest on all the standardized tests and finished assignments in five minutes that took the other kids more than an hour, Peter was what teachers called “gifted.” He’d skipped two grades, tested into an enrichment program, and was about to receive a full scholarship to a private school in Manhattanfor the following year. These things did not make her proud, only perplexed. Our mother didn’t like a lot of fuss. She’d wanted to raise a normal boy, not a gifted one.
    â€œBut that’s good,” Blue said, impressed. “It’s important he gets a good education.”
    â€œYou think it’s good. I’d like to see how you feel when you’ve got to take off work to go up to his school because every time you turn around some teacher’s calling you to come and get him!” she said.
    â€œYou fighting in school, boy?” Blue asked him.
    â€œI wish,” our mother answered. “That I