IX

HOMEWORK

Every day after football practice he brings me my homework, as well as his own, and we tackle it together. I help him as often as I can because he struggles, I mean REALLY STRUGGLES, bless his heart, with most subjects. And remember, his teachers are BEYOND generous when grading his work.

 

Now, it’s not that he’s totally hopeless. Not exactly.

From what I can tell, he just panics, easily—like with each new question. Give him a simple true and false, and he’ll go statue-still and stare at nothing with those big, boiled-egg eyes. He’ll think and think, and think some more. He’ll chew on his bottom lip. He’ll furrow his little brow. He’ll make a bunch of sucking-saliva sounds. He’ll be so quiet and so tense that you’ll think he’s bending spoons with his mind. Then a full ten minutes later, he’ll scream out: “FALSE!” Then: “NO, TRUE!” Then: “NO, WAIT, FALSE!” Then he’ll punch himself in the face and call himself an idiot for the rest of the night.

 

It’s on account of the weird DOOMSDAY SCENARIO planted in his head:

He thinks if he gets just ONE bad grade on just ONE pop quiz, then CRASH!—there goes his final grade, and with it his GPA, and then he’ll lose his scholarship, and the whole house of cards will come tumbling down. Suddenly, he’s disappointed everyone who’s ever believed in him. The school. The team. The coach. The fans. His teachers. His parents. And, I don’t know, Santa Claus, Oprah. . . . Doesn’t matter. The end result: He’s a loser and a fake, and he’s responsible for sending his parents to the poorhouse.

 

I think it’s kind of sweet, and I just want to chew that lip for him, LORD, but it must be paralyzing inside his head.