Read Online Sorry You're Lost by Matt Blackstone - Free Book Online Page B

it over the stained carpet to my desk, where I sit down and jot,
    Dear Mrs. Q, I’m sorry my inappropriate behavior got in the way of the Learning Zone. You’re a good teacher, a very good teacher, and very good-looking .
    I cross off that last line because it sounds terrible. The whole thing sounds bad. I crumple the letter into a ball and throw it across the room toward a small wastepaper basket and miss, of course. Air ball. Like the rest of my day.
    I start over:
    Dear Mrs. Q, Sorry for interrupting your very fascinating lesson on mathematics. I can’t wait to use these tools in the very near future. You deserve many awards: teacher-of-the-year, rookie-of-the-year, and best-looking-lady-of-the-year. You are an inspiration. You’re my inspiration. So keep up the good work. I really am sorry.
    I think of walking into the kitchen to show my dad the note. Maybe he’d be proud of me for manning up and apologizing. Maybe he’d tell me I used sound judgment in apologizing and that I should do the manly thing and give it to Mrs. Q. No, he’d probably just nod his head, which I hate because I’m not a mind reader, and hand me back the note. And then later, if I eat with him and he works up the courage to ask me questions, we’ll do the same song and dance we’ve done so often I’ve memorized it:
    Dad: “Uh, hello, Denny.”
    Me: “Greetings, Dad.”
    Dad: “Yes, uh greetings.”
    Me: “And salutations. Greetings and salutations.”
    [Dad fiddles with his thumbs.]
    Dad: “Right, salutations.”
    [Two minutes of silence.]
    Dad: “So, what’d you learn today?”
    Me: “Nothing.”
    [Dad drops silverware on his plate. The clang hurts my ears.]
    Dad: “Why didn’t you learn anything today?”
    [I shrug.]
    [Dad glares at me. Then stares at his plate.]
    Me: “How was your day, Dad?”
    Dad: “Fine.”
    [Two minutes of silence. Cycle repeats.]
    So, yeah, I’m not showing the letter to my dad. For these reasons, and another: The second letter is just as inappropriate as the first one. Best-looking-lady-of-the-year? I’m about to rip this one up, too, when the phone rings. An actual working one. It rings four times before my dad answers it, which means he’s showing wonderful social skills in wiping his hands on toilet paper instead of rubbing grease on the phone. My dad hollers down the hall: “Denny, it’s Manny. Let’s talk when you’re off the phone.”
    Sure we will.
    I put the phone to my ear.
    â€œDonuts, prepare yourself. We begin tomorrow. Key word being ‘we.’”
    â€œManny, wait, what—”
    He hangs up and doesn’t call back.
    My dad must have schooled him in how to have a conversation.

 
    THE PLAN, REVISED
    â€œAloha, goddess of mathematics! Your earlobes look magnificent!”
    I can’t say this because I’m banned from class. As Mrs. Q puts it, “You can return after a parent comes in for a conference.” In other words, I’m banned for eternity. (No way the Natural Schmoozer’s coming in. No way will I let my friends colleagues see him and hear him and … no thanks.)
    Mrs. Q breaks the news to me outside her door the day after my desk surfing.
    â€œBut, Mrs. Q ,” I protest, “I wrote you a letter of apology. I really did. I’m sorry.”
    She clenches her teeth. “Give it to me at the parent conference.”
    â€œBut, Mrs. Q, what will Mr. Softee—I mean, Mr. Soffer—say to this lifetime ban from the Learning Zone? I am a willing and able learner who has got to get in my zone. What would he say to you stunting my academic growth and banning me from my zone?”
    â€œHe needs to—he will support it. The decision is final.” You can tell she’s trying to sound tough, but her voice lets her down. It shakes like branches in a storm, rustles like pom-poms. “Come