education assignment. "Okay. We have to list our greatest liabilities now."
I take a long swallow of my root beer while I absorb this information. The last thing I want to tell Gusty about is my dark side. "How do you always know what we're supposed to do for character education?" I ask as a way to keep the subject impersonal.
"The bulletin board. Where we found out who our partners were? Don't you check it?"
"No."
"I'll go first, okay? This shouldn't be too hard." He pulls a pen out of the spine of one of his notebooks. "Me. Hmm. Well, I'm not very good at schoolwork. I get too bored. I let my teachers think I'm slow because then they don't expect much from me and they leave me alone."
"Good strategy," I tell him. I honestly admire him for this. He's an underachiever, but he's very good at it. My opinion of his smarts just shot up like ten points.
"I should try harder, but I'd rather read about things I find interesting, like animal behavior and ecology. I like marine biology, too. Shark behavior. Stuff like that."
"Got it." I take the pen from him and start writing. "What else?"
"I'm shy, so I'm not very good at confrontation. My sense of humor is really zany, so most people don't get it and they just act embarrassed for me. Also, I don't have the greatest table manners, my mom says. My room is really messy because I never fold my laundry until it sits on my bed for about five days and gets all wrinkly. Also, I skateboard with a total disregard for human life. My own, mostly. How many is that?"
"Six."
"Okay. I'm mean to my sister sometimes. And I hate my mom. I shouldn't, but I think she's really selfish. She won't let me have a dog, and she ignores everything my dad says because she makes more money than him, and she's bitter about being the breadwinner. So I just ignore her, which is probably why I'm bad at confrontation. Let's see. Oh, I'm lazy. Lazy in my mind. Not my body. Is that ten?"
"Yes."
He nods, suddenly quiet. "There's one more. One more I should tell you, Kristi." He's holding a tortilla chip, but he puts it back on the plate and folds his fingers together. "You know it. You know what my greatest fault is."
"What? You had a zit five years ago and you haven't gotten over the shock?"
He half smiles, but it's an effort. His eyes flutter at me, and I know whatever he has to say is hard for him. "I'm a coward."
"No you're not."
"Yes. I am." He looks infinitely sad, as if he's remembering a terrible regret.
"Well, you already have ten, so we don't have to write it down. Okay?"
He seems disappointed, or frustrated, or confused. I don't know what he is. I'm tempted to listen to his thoughts to find out, but the last time I did that I found out how he saw me, and I couldn't take that again. It's too painful.
"Now you," he says as he piles a tortilla chip with a tower of beans, cheese, guacamole, and sour cream. The process seems to engulf all his concentration, and I think he must be using this activity to conquer a feeling he has inside himself. Once he has piled on more toppings than any tortilla chip should ever be asked to bear, he somehow opens his mouth wide enough to eat the whole thing in a single bite. Through the mess he says, "Your faults."
I look at him warily. I really don't want to do this, but he did it, so I can't hold back. It wouldn't be fair. Maybe if I start with the worst thing, the rest will be easier. "Well, you know those practical jokes I told you about?"
He nods.
"They're kind of mean." With a pang I remember that poor woman's bloody knee. "I'm cruel sometimes. For no reason. Other than to make myself laugh."
He writes this down without seeming to judge it and waits, his pen poised over the paper.
"I hate my mom. My dad left because of her."
He writes this down, too.
"I guess you could say I'm a misanthrope. I just don't really like people, you know? I distrust their motives."
"That's why I like dogs. They don't have motives."
"That's only three," I say with dread.
I take a long swallow of my root beer while I absorb this information. The last thing I want to tell Gusty about is my dark side. "How do you always know what we're supposed to do for character education?" I ask as a way to keep the subject impersonal.
"The bulletin board. Where we found out who our partners were? Don't you check it?"
"No."
"I'll go first, okay? This shouldn't be too hard." He pulls a pen out of the spine of one of his notebooks. "Me. Hmm. Well, I'm not very good at schoolwork. I get too bored. I let my teachers think I'm slow because then they don't expect much from me and they leave me alone."
"Good strategy," I tell him. I honestly admire him for this. He's an underachiever, but he's very good at it. My opinion of his smarts just shot up like ten points.
"I should try harder, but I'd rather read about things I find interesting, like animal behavior and ecology. I like marine biology, too. Shark behavior. Stuff like that."
"Got it." I take the pen from him and start writing. "What else?"
"I'm shy, so I'm not very good at confrontation. My sense of humor is really zany, so most people don't get it and they just act embarrassed for me. Also, I don't have the greatest table manners, my mom says. My room is really messy because I never fold my laundry until it sits on my bed for about five days and gets all wrinkly. Also, I skateboard with a total disregard for human life. My own, mostly. How many is that?"
"Six."
"Okay. I'm mean to my sister sometimes. And I hate my mom. I shouldn't, but I think she's really selfish. She won't let me have a dog, and she ignores everything my dad says because she makes more money than him, and she's bitter about being the breadwinner. So I just ignore her, which is probably why I'm bad at confrontation. Let's see. Oh, I'm lazy. Lazy in my mind. Not my body. Is that ten?"
"Yes."
He nods, suddenly quiet. "There's one more. One more I should tell you, Kristi." He's holding a tortilla chip, but he puts it back on the plate and folds his fingers together. "You know it. You know what my greatest fault is."
"What? You had a zit five years ago and you haven't gotten over the shock?"
He half smiles, but it's an effort. His eyes flutter at me, and I know whatever he has to say is hard for him. "I'm a coward."
"No you're not."
"Yes. I am." He looks infinitely sad, as if he's remembering a terrible regret.
"Well, you already have ten, so we don't have to write it down. Okay?"
He seems disappointed, or frustrated, or confused. I don't know what he is. I'm tempted to listen to his thoughts to find out, but the last time I did that I found out how he saw me, and I couldn't take that again. It's too painful.
"Now you," he says as he piles a tortilla chip with a tower of beans, cheese, guacamole, and sour cream. The process seems to engulf all his concentration, and I think he must be using this activity to conquer a feeling he has inside himself. Once he has piled on more toppings than any tortilla chip should ever be asked to bear, he somehow opens his mouth wide enough to eat the whole thing in a single bite. Through the mess he says, "Your faults."
I look at him warily. I really don't want to do this, but he did it, so I can't hold back. It wouldn't be fair. Maybe if I start with the worst thing, the rest will be easier. "Well, you know those practical jokes I told you about?"
He nods.
"They're kind of mean." With a pang I remember that poor woman's bloody knee. "I'm cruel sometimes. For no reason. Other than to make myself laugh."
He writes this down without seeming to judge it and waits, his pen poised over the paper.
"I hate my mom. My dad left because of her."
He writes this down, too.
"I guess you could say I'm a misanthrope. I just don't really like people, you know? I distrust their motives."
"That's why I like dogs. They don't have motives."
"That's only three," I say with dread.
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