by Greg Pincus
Gregory was not a happy guy right now, and he figured Kelly probably wasn’t that happy either. Which led him to one more thing he didn’t understand about Kelly.
She was moving one hundred forty-four miles away, she knew that he kept blowing his chance to see her this summer, and she knew that she was going to be alone in a new school and town next year … yet she was busy wondering if his father liked his poem. She wasn’t even focused on City Math — the key to Gregory spending time with her this summer. No. She was worried about whether his dad liked his poem, even with everything else. That seemed so amazing to him.
As he turned up the path to his house, Gregory realized that his calf was hurting, and not from the walk. It was a Kelly kick, and he didn’t know why. By the time he got to his front door, his calf was aching so much he was sure he was limping.
“Hi, Gregory,” his mom said as he came inside. “What did you do in school today?”
Grateful that his parents hadn’t spoken to each other yet, Gregory took evasive action: “It was a busy day, and I’ll tell you about it sometime later, okay? I just need to rest.”
Battling through the calf pain like a finely tuned athlete, Gregory made it to the stairs leading to his room. He gladly hurried down to safety, closing the door behind him.
If I had food and water down here, he thought, I could last for days! But the reality was that even if he had provisions, he’d already used his last out for dinner, so he couldn’t stay here long.
He looked around the room, trying to figure out what to do next or what might help him. He literally gasped when he saw the huge pile of notes and books he’d put together for City Math. Whoa!
And then his eyes settled on the Einstein poster over the old fuse box, and for a brief instant, his calf felt okay. So, he lifted the poster aside, opened up the fuse box, pulled out every notebook and scrap of paper he’d shoved back in there, and started going through them all.
Time passed, as it always does, and the next thing Gregory was aware of besides his work was a pounding on his door — dinnertime. “Be right up!” he shouted.
Gregory put down the piece of paper he was reading and grabbed a stack of about twenty-five sheets that now rested on his bed. They were mismatched pieces of paper, at least in terms of size, but they had one thing in common: Each one had a poem written on it.
He grabbed a manila folder, dumped out the organized research notes inside, shoved the poem stack in, then hurried up the steps.
Dinner started off uneventfully. His father said nothing, and Gregory followed suit. He avoided eye contact and chose not to focus on the Weird Wednesday food sights and smells. Instead, he admired the Fibonacci spirals of the sunflower, now in a vase in the center of the table, perhaps the one nice thing that came from class today. Silverware clinked against plates. Water sloshed in glasses. And for once, no one spoke.
“Well, then,” Kay said after a couple minutes, “I’ll tell you about my day. Thanks for asking. I played with polynomials and dry ice.”
“In the same class?” O asked.
“I wish,” Kay replied.
“Gregory taught his math class poetry,” his father said, out of nowhere. Gregory searched the words for hidden meanings, but there was nothing there.
“Gregory taught something????” O asked with eyes wide. Grabbing his heart, O slid off his chair and crumpled to the floor. Kay couldn’t contain her laughter.
“I’m just not gonna say anything and see how long he stays down there,” Gregory muttered.
“Only till dessert,” O said from below eye level.
“We had ice cream sundaes last night, O,” his mother answered. “So nothing tonight. Shall I get your sleeping bag or will you sit up properly?”
O sheepishly climbed back into his chair. Gregory wasn’t sure why, but O getting chastised filled him with energy.
“I thought class was good, Dad. Didn’t you?” Gregory asked directly.
His father thought it over. “You did know a lot about Fibonacci.”
“Fibonacci????” O exclaimed as he grabbed his heart and slid to the ground again.
“Did you like the poem, Dad?” Gregory asked firmly.
“Did I like the poem?” his father answered, as though the thought had never occurred to him. “I’m sorry, Gregory. I don’t really know.”
“No problem,” Gregory said as he pulled out his manila folder. “There’s a copy of it in here. Some of my other poems too. You can think about it.”
“Did you put in the poem about the spaghetti?” Kay asked.
“I did!” Gregory smiled. “I like that one.” He handed the folder to his father.
“Gregory,” his mother said from the other side of the table, “are these all school assignments that you’re giving your father?”
O got to his knees and peeked over the edge of the table to watch and listen.
“No, Mom. I really like writing. So … uh … I write a lot.” Gregory shrugged. “Even when it’s not homework.”
O clutched at his heart again, but before he could fall over one more time, Kay spit out a sharp, “Can it, O!” and O stayed motionless on his knees.
“So you were failing math but you were writing poetry?” His mother asked it as a question, but it felt like an accusation.
Gregory looked at his mom and then at his father, who seemed lost in thought, examining the folder as if it were an alien object. Gregory felt helpless.
“It’s not like that,” Gregory said, as much to himself as anybody else.
“It’s exactly like that, isn’t it?” his father finally said. “You wrote poems while you were failing math.”
“I was trying! I mean … look, I get writing. I get it. Okay? That’s not how I am with math.”
“Math has rules. Math has logic. Math gives you a direct line from A to B, Gregory. And you’ve always loved it.” His father’s tone was not harsh, but Gregory still wasn’t enjoying himself.
“Yeah … uh … welllllllll.” Gregory didn’t know how to reply. He grabbed his fork and started eating again.
“You chose to do City Math, Gregory, didn’t you?” his father asked.
“Yes. But …” Gregory trailed off. This wasn’t an area he wanted to get into. He ate his veggies, hoping that would help.
“Look,” his father said, “I’m glad you taught. I’m glad you’re working. I still think you should do Math Is Magic Camp, and —”
“I want to go to Author’s Camp,” Gregory said before he realized what he’d done. And the moment that thought was out in the open, he noticed something — all his calf pain was gone.
“Author’s Camp,” his father echoed. “A writing camp.”
“Yes, Dad. This summer. With Kelly.” Gregory added that since he knew that everybody loved Kelly. Apparently, though, they didn’t love her enough to change the mood.
Tense silence filled the dining room. When he couldn’t take it anymore, Gregory stood up.
“Can I be excused? I have my City Math project to work on,” he said.
“May I be excused,” his mother corrected, and Gregory actually laughed.
“Will you read the poems, Dad?” Gregory asked.
“Yes. Yes, of course I will. Of course. But I’m curious about one thing,” his father said. “If you love to write so much, why didn’t you ever tell us before?”
“It never seemed important,” Gregory said as he pushed away from the table and fled the room, nearly knocking into Kay’s chair and leaving his own water glass rocking violently on the table. He sprinted through the house, dashed down the hall, and slammed his door behind him as he hurried downstairs.
Later, sitting on his bed in the safety of his room, Gregory wondered why that was the answer he gave his father. It wasn’t a lie. In fact, it had been a genuine emotional response. But there were so many other answers he could’ve given; why did he choose that one?
There was no question that some of the other possible answers might’ve hurt his d
ad’s feelings, and he hadn’t wanted to do that. Some of them might’ve been full-on lies, and he was trying to avoid that too.
Thinking more about it, he was left with another big question in his head: If telling his parents that he liked writing was never important before, what was different now?
As he sat on his bed puzzling over the conversation, he heard a soft knocking on his door. It was rare that he had visitors, and rarer still that the knock wasn’t followed either by loud pounding or a door flinging open with a sibling barging in. This, he knew, was his mother’s knock.
“Come in, Mom,” Gregory said from the bed.
His mom came into the room carrying a small plate of sliced apples and strawberries with a drizzle of chocolate sauce. She placed it on Gregory’s desk.
“I decided we needed dessert after all, so it’s there if you want it.” His mom came over to the bed. She sat down next to Gregory. He leaned into her, letting her wrap an arm around him.
“Thanks, Mom.”
The two sat in silence for a moment, Gregory’s mom gently hugging her son and pulling the tension out of the day.
“You know, when I was a kid, I was always cooking and chopping and baking. My mom couldn’t wait until I was old enough to go to the grocery store on my own so she wouldn’t always have to find my crazy ingredients. I was sure I going to grow up to be the chef at a restaurant, though my parents thought that was ridiculous. And then … well … at some point I started worrying about making a living and having a career that was good and solid and steady like my parents always talked about. I stopped cooking. I hit the books and worked superhard and got a good job. And I love it. I really do.”
“Mom, I’m not —” Gregory was stopped by a motherly shush.
“A couple years ago, I realized I still had a dream of running a restaurant or doing what Kelly’s mom does. That’s why I started trying new recipes here at home. Playing around in the kitchen makes me happy.”
“Ummm, did you always make such … oh, how do I say this … interesting stuff?”
“Oh, Gregory,” his mom laughed, “I used to make everything, and all of it was better!” His mom stood up, kissing the top of Gregory’s head as she rose.
“I bet you’ll get better again,” Gregory said. “And I’ll always try whatever you cook.”
“Deal.” His mom started walking toward the door. “Cooking was always something I loved, not just something I did. I wish I’d realized that when I was your age.”
Gregory watched his mother leave and close the door. He felt pretty good, all things considered. And hungry. Pie would help in all regards, he knew, but his mom’s dessert would do too. He moved over to his desk and ate while looking at the framed photo of him and Kelly in a bounce house at her sixth birthday party. It always made him smile, and today was no different.
That night, when he finally went to sleep, Gregory dreamed about his father taking his poems and covering them with formulas and equations and red pen marks and a big fat F. He dreamed of being back in front of his classmates in math class … and of the interested eyes looking back at him. And he dreamed of a camp where he could spend all day writing, writing, and writing.
And when he woke up in the morning, Gregory rolled out of bed and grabbed a pen.
He had a plan.
City Math was now only three days away, and Gregory realized that it would take a lot of work to get himself ready. Or at least ready in the way he wanted to be ready now that he had a new, improved plan. A plan that, he had to admit, actually got him excited.
He was not, however, looking forward to breakfast. Not because of the food, which could always be doused with enough maple syrup so as to be good. No, he was not looking forward to seeing his father.
His brother and sister were already done with breakfast by the time Gregory made it upstairs. His mother was sipping coffee, enjoying a quiet moment in the kitchen.
“Have you seen Dad?” Gregory asked.
“Early meetings,” Mom said. “He’s gone.”
Relieved, Gregory grabbed an apple from the counter, then dug quickly into the breakfast drawer. Even though his dad wasn’t there and even though he’d had a good conversation with his mom the night before, he figured there was no reason to hang out with a parent too long. You just never knew what might happen.
“Gregory?” his mom said as she put down her coffee cup. Gregory tensed reflexively and wished he hadn’t even come up for food. “Can I read your poems too?”
“Don’t you mean ‘may I’?” Gregory laughed in relief. In the heat of the moment last night, Gregory had never even thought of his mother reading his poetry. She was definitely an easier audience. “Of course you can, Mom. I could write some out for you if you want.”
“I think I can borrow them from your dad. I know where he lives.” Mom returned to drinking her coffee.
Gregory rummaged on and waited for the next shoe to drop. Certainly his mom was going to follow up with a comment about math, wasn’t she?
But she wasn’t, and to Gregory, that was pure poetry.
On the way to school, he joined up with Alex and Kelly. He was excited to tell them about his new City Math plan. Kelly was not easily impressed, though.
“But G,” she said, “you told me the other day that you were completely done. You had a presentation.”
“I’m redoing it. It’s still Fibonacci, though.”
“You never even had one, did you, dude?” Alex said as they walked past the park with the early morning sun making the fields of dewy grass sparkle. “All this time … I believed!”
“Hey! It wasn’t very good, but I really did have something,” Gregory protested. He felt like this wasn’t a lie, as “something” could mean “a thing that is not complete or even passable but which is, nonetheless, a thing.”
“So why are you changing it? You said all you cared about was just having something to present, right?” Kelly asked. She studied her friend, looking for clues in his eyes.
“Because it really wasn’t very good. Didn’t I just say that?” Gregory said, meeting Kelly’s gaze straight on.
“Yeah, but, G …” Alex began speaking and walking very slowly. “You … already … had … it … done. And now … you’re … working? On math? Do you see why, like, we are saying ‘hahahahahahaha!!!’ and stuff?”
“It’s because O put you on the main stage, isn’t it?” Kelly asked. The trio rounded a corner, and Lee Elementary suddenly appeared above them atop its hill, blocking the sunlight and putting them in shadow.
“Absolutely not. It’s because I had a good idea, and I’d’ve done this no matter what,” Gregory said.
“Is it math, dude?” Alex wondered. “Or are you gonna do something like shine really bright colored lights at people so they don’t see you?”
“That’s a great idea too, Alex, but I don’t have any lights. I got something better.” Gregory grinned. “Poetry.”
“Poetry?” Alex and Kelly said together. Gregory took a few more steps before he realized his friends had stopped in their tracks.
“Yeah. I’m writing poems.” Gregory came back to his friends and bounced animatedly as he explained. “Look, we all know I don’t belong with the math whizzes.”
“Or in City Math,” Kelly interjected as the three friends returned to walking up the hill, now mixing with other kids on their way to school.
“So, I came up with something that I can do that no one else would think of. Probably, anyway. Certainly nothing O would think of,” Gregory said. “Poetry isn’t just part of the presentation. It’s the heart of it. It’s not like O’s or my dad’s stuff, and that makes it good.”
“Because there’s no comparison.” Kelly nodded in agreement.
“Because it’s different,” Gregory added.
For once, as he neared the imposing double doors that marked Lee’s entrance, Gregory noticed that he wasn’t filled with math-related dread or tension. In fact, he was amazed to notice he felt totally
relaxed, enjoying the buzz and burble of activity all around him. “Anyway, the way I figure it, I’m good at poetry and telling stories, right? So I’m gonna combine that with math. I only wish I’d thought of this, like, way long ago.”
“I’ll tell you what, dude. You may crash and burn on that stage, but I’ll be there to watch and cheer even if you just start reciting nursery rhymes.” Alex gave Gregory a fist bump, then quickly added, “That’s not a suggestion, G.”
All day long, Gregory stared at the clock, convinced it was moving slower than it had any right to. The school year was winding down. Certainly his teachers were done teaching by now, weren’t they? Why couldn’t they just let him go work?
But they had other ideas, and there was nothing he could do about it.
When the bell rang to end the day, Gregory bounced off to find Kelly. “Let’s hit the Slice!” he said, notebook in hand.
“The new owners are running things there today. Mom’s at home. You can come join us, but you have to understand that Mom’s really stressed,” Kelly said.
“Oh, then I’ll definitely come.” Gregory had learned years ago that when she was stressed, Kelly’s mom baked. A lot. And that meant mouthfuls of yumminess.
They could smell the cookies two blocks from her home.
“Chocolate chip!” Gregory said happily.
“Oatmeal raisin too,” Kelly said, sniffing the air. “And snickerdoodles.”
“You weren’t kidding about her being stressed, were you?” Gregory asked.
“No. She really loved the Slice,” Kelly said.
“Me too,” Gregory said.
They walked the rest of the way to Kelly’s house accompanied only by the sound of their shoes on the sidewalk. When they arrived just in front of her home, Kelly held out her arm to stop Gregory.
“Without you first, please,” Kelly said. She studied the scene, soaking in the way the shingles on the roof made uneven lines, how the porch perfectly framed the front door, how the grass moved in the spring breeze. Then she lowered her arm. “Now with you.”
