Absolutely Almost

by Lisa Graff

It was not good. “That’s what teachers say when they don’t want to hurt your feelings,” I told Calista. Then I grumped, crossing my hands over my chest. I was feeling particularly grumpy.

  Calista glanced at me sideways. Then she leaned in close to look at my drawing a little harder. “All right,” she said after a while. “It’s awful.”

  At first that made me mad, because that was not the thing a not-a-babysitter was supposed to say, especially a nice one. But when I saw the look on her face, a scrunched-up half smile, I couldn’t help but laugh. Because Calista was telling the truth, and I knew it—my Donut Man drawing was awful.

  “It’s horrible!” I said, still laughing.

  “Wretched!” Calista added.

  “Gross!”

  “Putrid!”

  “Terrible!”

  “An abomination!”

  I shook my head. “I guess I’ll never be an artist like you,” I said.

  Calista thought about that. “Oh, I don’t know that that’s true,” she said. “I’ve had a lot more practice that you have. I could teach you a couple tricks, if you want.”

  “Really?”

  “Sure.”

  So Calista took out a fresh piece of paper and gave me a new marker, one where the tip wasn’t all mushed-up used. “We’ll start easy,” she said. And she drew one line, straight down the paper. She told me to draw one just like it, right beside it. So I did. I copied her like that, one little step after another, and when we were done and we pulled our hands from the paper, wouldn’t you know it—Calista had shown me how to draw a whole person. Head, legs, feet, everything. It wasn’t a superhero yet, just a person. Actually it was a little bit like a stick figure, like in hangman, but with more details. Then Calista showed me how to make changes, whatever I wanted, like giving the man muscles or a fat belly, or bending his arms or making him run, or anything. By dinnertime we had tons of people, all different kinds, crammed all up and down and sideways across the paper. I’d even drawn a better version of Donut Man.

  He looked pretty okay.

  “See?” Calista said as she got up to put water on for spaghetti. “I told you you could do it.”

  I looked down at the paper. You could tell which people were Calista’s and which ones were mine, because Calista’s were better. But mine weren’t awful.

  “Do you think I could ever get good enough to be an artist one day?” I asked Calista as she turned the heat on under the pot on the stove.

  “I don’t know,” Calista said. “Do you want to be an artist?”

  I looked at Donut Man some more. For a long time. “I want to be something I’m good at,” I said.

  “Albie.”

  Calista walked over and leaned her elbows on the counter by the table. I looked up at her. She looked more serious than normal. “You should do something because you love it, not just because you’re good at it.”

  I wrinkled my nose, thinking. “But you’re good at art, and you love it,” I told her.

  She nodded. “Did you ever think maybe the love part comes first?” I guess she could tell I was confused, because she kept talking. “Find something you’d want to keep doing forever,” she said, “even if you stink at it. And then if you’re lucky, with lots of practice, then one day you won’t stink so much.”

  That sounded good. But . . .

  “But what if I’m not lucky?” I asked her. “What if I do find something I love, and then I always just stink at it?”

  Calista smiled her thoughtful smile. “Then won’t you be glad you found something you love?” she said.

  And I didn’t really get a chance to answer, because then she said, “I’m too hungry to wait for the spaghetti to boil. What do you say we eat cookies first?”

  That was one thing I didn’t have to think about too hard. Even if they weren’t nearly as good as donuts, I knew I loved cookies.

  the thing

  about the cups.

  Here’s what I figured out about the coffee cups at the bodega downstairs that I stacked after school for free donuts while Calista was looking at art books with Hugo.

  I always ended up with four stacks of them. Always. Every single time. Twenty-five cups in each stack. One, two, three, four.

  I looked on the plastic bag once, and it said ONE HUNDRED PAPER CUPS.

  That’s how I knew that there were four stacks of twenty-five in one hundred. Every time.

  Here’s another thing I figured out. Once I’d counted out three stacks—one, two, three—then I didn’t have to count the last one. Because no matter what, it would be twenty-five in the stack, every single time.

  I figured that out by myself. No one told me.

  I told that to Mr. Clifton, because he asked me what I liked to do after school, so I told him, and he grinned at me and said, “Albie, I think you accidentally did math.”

  “Really?” I asked. I almost didn’t believe it.

  He nodded. “Did it hurt?” he said.

  I thought about that. Usually math hurt my brain, like a tree crashing down inside it over and over. But this time it didn’t hurt at all.

  “Nope,” I said.

  Mr. Clifton gave me a high five.

  I hoped I could accidentally do math some more. It turned out that was the best way to do it.

  change

  of plans.

  There was a storm on Halloween. A big one. So big that Erlan’s family couldn’t go to the Halloween Parade in the Village like they’d been planning, because all the camera equipment might get soaked.

  “Too bad,” Erlan said. But I could tell he wasn’t really upset about it.

  So that was the good part—that Erlan couldn’t go to the Halloween Parade and instead got to go trick-or-treating with me and Betsy.

  The bad part was that the storm was so terrible that Mom called from work and said she was going to be late getting home, because of the subway being flooded. She also said that she didn’t think we should go out trick-or-treating on Columbus Avenue like we always did.

  “Buh they hah the bess candy!” I shouted into the phone. I was already dressed up in my zombie costume—Calista had even put some gross scabby makeup on my face before she went home—and I knew I sounded like a baby, but I didn’t care. I popped my zombie fangs out of my mouth so I could talk better. “That’s where we go every year.”

  On the couch, Betsy looked down at her boots. She was dressed like a rock climber, with a rope around her waist and a headlamp and everything. She was pretending not to listen to me on the phone, but I knew she really heard. Erlan was listening too. He was dressed like a pirate, with an eye patch and a fake stuffed parrot elasticked to his arm.

  “Your father can take you trick-or-treating in the building,” Mom said. “Plenty of our neighbors will be handing out candy. Put your dad on, okay?”

  I didn’t want to, but I did.

  • • •

  After that, I was sure Halloween was going to be awful, but it turned out it wasn’t. I was sure Dad wouldn’t wear a costume to help us trick-or-treat, but it turned out I was wrong about that too. Even if I didn’t get what it was he was supposed to be.

  “I’m a pencil pusher,” he told us, stretching out the cup of pencils in his hand in front of him again, like that would make it make more sense.

  Betsy giggled, but Erlan just said, “Huh?” which was what I was thinking. I didn’t really care what Dad’s costume was, though, as long as I got candy.

  We went trick-or-treating all over our building, starting on the first floor and going door to door, to every apartment with a pumpkin sticker outside. We zoomed up the stairs because that was faster than the elevator. Tons of people had candy. There were tons of other kids too, from all over the building. Some of them I’d never even seen before. Everyone loved my zombie costume and said how great and scary it was. “Brains!”
I told them, which meant “thank you” in Zombie. Erlan started shouting “brains!” too, even though that’s not what pirates say. And Betsy said “trick or treat” twice with no stuttering. I heard her.

  We trick-or-treated for over an hour, even after the lights went out when we were on the ninth floor. Betsy lit the way with her rock-climbing headlamp, and people opened their doors holding candles. And one guy said he didn’t figure he’d see any more kids the whole rest of the night because of the power, so he dumped his whole bowl of candy between our three bags and told us, “Enjoy!”

  The whole bowl!

  After the trick-or-treating, we went back to our apartment, and we sat on the floor with candles all around and split up our candy. Betsy and me loved loved loved chocolate, but Erlan wanted mostly fruit candies, so that was good for splitting. There were lots of Smarties, and Erlan got a record-high nine-Smarties tower on his tongue before Betsy made him laugh and they all spilled on the carpet. Dad couldn’t do any work on his computer because of the power being out, so he stayed in the living room, not in his office. And when Mom finally got home, dripping and soaking from having to walk the whole way from her office in the storm, she let us eat on the floor, on a blanket, like a picnic. We had macaroni and cheese—the kind from the box that was only for weekends—and Mom put some peas in it because “at least we can pretend to be healthy.” And when we were done with dinner, we told ghost stories, even Dad, and Betsy kept screaming and hiding her face in her sweatshirt, but she was laughing too, so I think she was having fun.

  • • •

  Betsy had to spend the night, since her parents couldn’t come get her because of the subway. Erlan could’ve gone home, obviously, since he was right across the hall, but his parents said he could spend the night if he wanted. I’d never had a Tuesday-night sleepover before. This was turning into the best Halloween ever.

  We were rolling out the sleeping bags and blankets on the floor in the living room when Betsy whispered to me, “Hey, Alb-Albie?”

  “Yeah?” I said. Erlan was in the bathroom changing into his pajamas, so it was just me and Betsy in the living room. I tossed a pillow up at the top of the sleeping bag, where my head would go.

  Betsy tucked her chin into the T-shirt Mom gave her to wear as a pajama top. She was wearing a pair of my old pajama pants on bottom, the dog ones. She squeezed a pillow to her chest and looked up at me.

  “This is f-fun,” she told me. She didn’t say anything else, because that was right when Erlan came back into the living room and so she got shy again, but I could tell by the look on her face what she was thinking. I would bet a million dollars that she was thinking that she wished every day could be Halloween.

  That was what I was thinking too.

  gus.

  Calista did have a boyfriend. His name was Gus. I found that out when I asked her about the neon pink streak in her hair, which sometimes you could see if her hair was in braids, but most of the time you couldn’t. When I asked her about it, Calista said, “Oh, do you like it? I’m thinking of getting rid of it because Gus says he hates it.” And I said, “Who’s Gus?” even though I thought I probably knew already. And she said, “My boyfriend. Didn’t I tell you about him?” And I said, “No,” and then she told me all about him, even though I didn’t say I wanted to know.

  Gus was twenty-four, which was three years older than Calista.

  He was from California, just like Calista. They went to high school together. But they didn’t start dating till a year ago.

  Gus could’ve been the valedictorian of their school, because he was so smart. But he never was the valedictorian. Calista didn’t say why.

  She also didn’t tell me what a valedictorian was, but lucky for me, I didn’t care.

  Gus didn’t think Calista should’ve gone to art school. Calista seemed mad about that, even though she laughed when she told me.

  Gus moved to New York City to be an actor, because he was very talented. When I asked what movies he had been in, Calista said, “Well, not much yet. But he goes to lots of auditions.”

  I had a nanny once who went to lots of auditions. She moved to Michigan to be a kindergarten teacher.

  “Do you want to see a picture of him?” Calista asked me. “I’ll show you on my phone.”

  “No, thanks,” I told her. “I’ll wait till he’s in a movie.”

  Maybe Gus would move to Michigan too.

  parent-

  teacher

  conferences.

  Parent-teacher conferences were on Monday. Mom went. Dad too. I had sort of forgotten they were going, but when they came home, I remembered.

  Dad did not look happy.

  “Albie, these grades are unacceptable,” he said, throwing a stack of papers on the table. My grades or homework or something, I guess. I didn’t look.

  “Richard, please,” my mom said. But she didn’t say please what. She dug some money out of her wallet and handed it to Calista.

  “Bye, Albie,” Calista said softly before she snuck out the door.

  I wished I could sneak out the door.

  “You have a D in spelling,” Dad told me before the door was even closed. “A D. How hard is it to spell a couple words?”

  “Richard,” Mom said.

  “I study every Thursday,” I said. My voice was so soft even I could barely hear it. “Calista helps me. We make flash cards. The problem is Mrs. Rouse picks new words every week.”

  “Well, perhaps you should study every Wednesday too,” Dad said. “And Tuesday and Monday. D’s are not okay in this house, Albie.”

  Mom sighed, but she didn’t say anything. She went into the kitchen and opened the fridge.

  She didn’t take anything out.

  “I expect you to get a perfect score on your next spelling test, Albie.”

  “Perfect?” I said. “But that’s ten whole words!” How could I get ten right when I could barely get four?

  “It’s not up for debate, Albie. Any son of mine should be able to spell. Do better.”

  After Dad left the room, Mom closed the fridge and looked at me sitting at the table.

  “Time to get ready for bed, okay, Albie?” she said.

  I went to my room and changed into my pajamas, even though I hadn’t taken my shower yet. But no one seemed to notice.

  I hated parent-teacher conferences.

  studying.

  I started studying for my spelling test the very next day, Tuesday, which was two days before I normally started.

  “Well, aren’t you the model student?” Calista said when I told her I wanted to make flash cards early.

  Simple. S-I-M-P-L-E. That one was simple. “Rhymes with pimple,” Calista said while we drew pictures on the back of the flash card. That made me laugh.

  Brain. B-R-A-I-N. That one was a little harder, because there were so many ways to make the long-a sound. “Albie has good grades on the b-r-a-i-n,” Calista said.

  Especially. E-S-P-E-C-I-A-L-L-Y. That one was impossible. “Especially is an especially stupid spelling word,” I said.

  We studied and studied and studied.

  And the more we studied, the more I knew I’d never be able to get all ten right. No matter how hard I tried, I wasn’t ever going to be a perfect speller.

  I wondered how such a perfect speller like Dad could end up with a son like me.

  what’s wrong with my brain.

  As soon as Mom hung up the phone with the counselor, I could tell something was wrong. Her eyebrows were all crinkly.

  “What?” I asked her.

  Mom didn’t look at me. She set her phone down on a stack of papers and opened up the cupboard with the mugs. “That was Ms. McPhillips,” she said, and she peered inside one of the mugs like there was something dirty in it, then put it in the sink. She took out another one. “With the results of the test you to
ok last week.”

  “Oh.” As soon as she said that, I knew it was something real bad. “Did I do something wrong?” I asked. I was always screwing up on tests.

  “Oh, Albie, no,” she said, setting the mug on the counter. But she still didn’t look at me. She was searching through another cupboard now, the one with tea and rice and stuff. I thought if she was really mad at me for screwing up the test super bad, she’d probably be yelling at me, but I was confused too because when I do good on tests, she always gave me a big hug and told me how proud she was. And she wasn’t doing either of those things.

  “It’s not bad,” she went on. Which made me let out a little breath I didn’t know I was holding. “It’s . . . ,” she said. But then she paused for a second, searching through all the teas in the cupboard—picking them up and then setting them down in different stacks. “You don’t have dyslexia,” she said at last.

  “Dis-what?” I asked.

  “Dyslexia, Albie,” she said, and that time she did sound like she was mad at me, although I couldn’t tell why. “The reading disorder Ms. McPhillips tested you for. Remember?”

  I wanted to say that of course I remembered. I was the one who took it. But Mom was mad, and I didn’t know why, and I didn’t want to make her madder. “I don’t have it?” I asked.

  She shifted another box of tea to look behind it. “No,” she said.

  “So I did good on the test?”

  “It’s well, Albie,” she said, slamming the box of tea down. Maybe she was mad at the tea. “You did well. And it’s not a matter of—” She stopped talking and set the mug down on the counter. She closed the cupboard with a soft click. “You do not have a reading disorder,” she said, looking up at me. “That’s the important thing.”

  “Oh,” I said again. All of a sudden my insides felt twisted, like I wasn’t sure whether I should be happy or sad. Because it seemed like it should be a good thing, that I didn’t have that long-word-x reading disorder, that my brain didn’t mix up letters and numbers on the page. But I could tell from the look on Mom’s face that she didn’t think it was.