Ms. Stewart seems to believe me when I say I was trying to do a good deed by diving after the money.

“Don’t try so hard,’’ she says. She also says, “Both of you to the office!”

We have to wait a few minutes to see Mrs. Mead, who’s in a meeting. When she’s done, she calls Derek and me into her office.

“What happened?” she says.

“He went crazy is what happened,” Derek says.

“He called me a retard,” I say.

“Aw, it’s just an expression,” Derek says.

“Not to me,” I say. “Not to the person being called it.”

“He was going crazy over our ecosystem,” Derek says. “Everyone in our group agreed on our observations, and I was all set to write them down when he shoved the desk into my stomach.”

I don’t answer this right away, so Mrs. Mead steps in.

“Is that true, Gabe?” she says. “Did you shove the desk into his stomach?”

“Yes, but. . . .” I explain as best I can, but somehow I only end up looking more and more guilty. No wonder people have the right to remain silent when they get arrested.

Derek, on the other hand, could be a lawyer, he’s so good at explaining and clearing things up, making himself look good. After Mrs. Mead tells him that it doesn’t help her understand the situation if he keeps saying I went “crazy,” he moves in a different direction. Suddenly he begins to analyze me, he goes inside my head—he becomes my shrink.

“I think maybe Gabe was frustrated at how quickly I made my scientific observations,” he says. “So instead of believing I can work that fast—some of us can—he became angry. I also think Gabe was frustrated because he hasn’t gotten a Hug all year. So, both types of frustration came out in inappropriate ways. It would be better for everyone if he could just chill out.”

At this point, I’d like to chill out Derek’s face. What does he know about me and what I might be frustrated about? Who came and made him Chief Child Psychologist of the sixth grade?

Maybe Mrs. Mead agrees with me. “Derek, why don’t you tell me about your part in this instead of guessing about what Gabe might be feeling?”

The young lawyer shifts again, smooth as a finely geared racing bike. “I had looked at our ecosystem before class. So I had already analyzed the stuff in our tank. No one but Gabe argued with me about it. I was just trying to save us time so we’d have longer to work on the graphs we’re supposed to make to go along with our observations.”

And so Derek rests his case. I, basically, have nothing to add. I mean I do, but I could never get it out so well, so I just stop trying. Mrs. Mead talks to us about teamwork and cooperation, and she reminds Derek that words can hurt as much as fists, and then we’re done. As Derek and I are walking out the door, she calls after me. “Gabe, would you stay for another minute, please?”

Derek gives me a smirk and keeps walking. Sighing, I turn and go back into Mrs. Mead’s office and take a seat. She closes her door. I hate when that happens.

“Is there anything else you want to talk about?” she says. She’s looking at me carefully.

I look back. What does she want me to say? “Uh—not really,” I say.

“Nothing? You’re ready to walk back into class and start cooperating with Derek and the others?”

I lean forward in my chair. “I hate being called a retard,” I say. “And I hate being called crazy.”

“I understand,” Mrs. Mead says. “Those are thoughtless things to say. And words can hurt.”

“I hate it,” I say again.

“I hear you,” she says. “Why do you hate it so much?”

I feel the tears building up around my eyeballs, but fight them back. “I just do.”

“There’s always a reason, Gabe.”

“Because maybe it sort of runs in my family.”

Mrs. Mead looks at me carefully. If I wanted to get touchy about it, I could say that she looks at me like I’m crazy. But I know that’s not really what’s going on. She’s just looking at me.

Then Mrs. Mead taps some keys on her desktop computer. “Let’s look at your last report card.” She waits a few moments for the information to come up on the screen.

“All As and Bs,” she says. “You earned those grades, Gabe. You’re a very good student. You must know you’re as far from mentally retarded as can be.”

I know she’s right, but still—what is it with me? Okay, I shouldn’t say I’m retarded. I know I’m not, and some kids really are, and I would never make fun of them, unlike certain people I know, named Derek. Okay, so I’m not retarded. But sometimes I feel like I’m—something. Something a little weird. I mean, I dream about doing great and exciting things, about following in the footsteps of great people, but I’m so far from knowing enough, from knowing anything really, that I must be crazy even to have those daydreams.

There’s no way I can explain this to Mrs. Mead, so I say, “I hate being called crazy. I know what kids are thinking when they say that—that I’m crazy like Jake. That Jake is a crazy retard and so am I.”

Mrs. Mead is shaking her head, but before she can disagree with me, I keep going. “And the same with Maxie. When he’s a little older and the crazy things he does don’t seem so cute anymore, then we’ll all be called crazy retards.”

Jake is my older brother. Maxie is my younger brother. Jake graduated from Franklin Elementary School last year, and now he’s in seventh grade at the middle school. Maxie and I both go to Franklin—me in sixth grade; Maxie in first.

For as long as I can remember, Jake has had problems in school. When he was in second grade and I was in first grade, I would see him sitting in one of the “trouble chairs” outside Mrs. Mead’s door nearly every day when my class walked by the office on the way to the cafeteria. He just couldn’t focus on his work, so he was always bothering other kids—making noises, touching them, getting up and walking around the classroom. Halfway through that school year, Jake went to see a special doctor. That doctor, a psychiatrist, met with Jake and my parents a bunch of times. Later, the doctor gave Jake a prescription for medicine that works on his brain to help him focus and be less antsy. He still takes that medicine and has regular appointments with the psychiatrist.

The doctor gave my parents some names for Jake’s problems. The big name is Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder—ADHD for short. But what makes school even harder for Jake is that he also had LDs, learning disorders. Basically, that means he doesn’t learn the same way other kids do. When he hears a teacher explaining something in school, he doesn’t get it right away. It’s like the information goes in his ears, and he hears the sounds just fine, but the information takes detours before it sinks in his brain. Same thing with reading—and that LD has its own name, dyslexia. For his LDs Jake gets extra help in school.

It turns out that Jake’s pretty smart about most things, but it’s hard for him to prove it because of the ADHD and his LDs. He’s also better in school than he used to be, and he probably won’t have to take medicine in a couple more years. The only thing is, now instead of being fidgety, sometimes Jake will space out on you for no apparent reason. “Earth to Jake,” kids say when they notice that he’s drifted into his own world. I think it’s because he’s thinking so much about how to turn the world into pictures or sculptures or other types of art. Jake’s not only pretty smart, he’s also a pretty amazing artist—although I have to say, some of his pictures look to me like the wild insides of a crazy person’s head.

As for Maxie, I’m afraid he’s on his way to craziness, although no one else seems to notice. For example, two weeks ago he came home with a note from his teacher complaining of his “inappropriate laughter in the rug area.”

“What is this, Maxie?” Dad asked when Maxie showed him the note after dinner.

“She’s trying to control my life!” Maxie said. Then he went on to explain that his teacher makes them stay totally quiet whenever the class is in the rug area, where they gather for the Pledge of Allegiance, review the day’s schedule, and get homework assignments.

Dad said that the teacher needs to be in control of the classroom if twenty-five children are to get anything done. He talked about his own office, where he and the rest of the salespeople have to be quiet when the boss calls a meeting, even though they’re all grown-ups.

The problem is Maxie and quiet don’t get along. See, everything makes Maxie laugh. Not just cartoons and jokes, but goofy things like flashing lights and music and probably even the Pledge of Allegiance. So that morning Dad told Maxie that no matter what, he must try very hard not to laugh in the rug area.

“Even if someone makes a funny face?” Maxie asked.

“Even if it’s a really funny face,” Dad said.

“Even if it’s a really, really funny face?” Maxie asked.

“Even if it’s really, really funny.”

“Even like this?” And Maxie made a really, really funny face.

Dad laughed. I didn’t.

And I’m not laughing here in the principal’s office. Neither is Mrs. Mead. She’s frowning. “Oh, Gabe,” she says, “you and Jake and Maxie aren’t crazy retards.” Just saying that—“crazy retards”—makes her flinch. “You and your brothers have the normal share of ups and downs, nothing more and nothing less. I hate to tell you, but you’re not so different from most other families. Can you try really hard to believe that?”

I shrug, mutter “okay,” and head back to the classroom. As I’m walking, my brain takes over and starts wondering. What would it be like if I believed we were normal—just like everybody else?

Well, I think, that would be a good thing and a bad thing. It would be good to be normal and to get along and to have lots of friends and no more explosions. But it would also be bad because I don’t think the next Jacques Cousteau is going to be just another person, nothing more and nothing less. I hate to tell you, Mrs. Mead.