After school, I give Mom the note from Mrs. Mead, and she gives me one of those worried looks.

“This makes two incidents in less than a week,” she says. “What’s going on, Gabe?”

As if I knew. “I just can’t get along with other kids,” I say. “They always bother me.”

“Always? I saw Evan Peabody and you getting along just fine over the weekend and after school last week.”

“That’s just Evan,” I say.

“Well, why doesn’t he count?” Mom asks. “Why do you think you can get along with him but not anybody else?”

Jake walks in about then, and I really don’t want to have this conversation in front of anybody, even Jake. Besides, I’m tired of answering questions.

“Mom, do we have to talk about this now? I’d just like to have a snack in peace, if you don’t mind.” I’ve taken my usual—a few slices of American cheese, a heap of little goldfish-shaped crackers, and a bunch of green grapes. I might top it off with a chocolate-chip granola bar or two.

“I do mind,” Mom says, “but we don’t have to do this now.” She looks like she wants to have that talk right now. But I’m happy to take her at her word. She hands Jake a piece of paper with his psychiatrist’s name at the top.

“Jake, you have a doctor’s appointment tomorrow at lunchtime, remember,” she says. “So I’ll pick you up from school at eleven-fifteen.”

Jake nods. Then I hear the sound of flushing water from the hall bathroom, and Maxie comes in the kitchen, drying his hands on his pants.

“I’m glad you remembered to wash your hands,” Mom says to him. “Next time use the towel.”

“Did Gabe tell you about seeing me in the office this morning?” Maxie asks. He seems almost proud.

“No, Maxie,” I say. “I don’t tattle.”

“I wouldn’t care if you told,” he says to me. Then, to Mom: “Ms. Carroll sent me to the office for not sitting like a pretzel in the rug area.”

Mom’s mouth starts to work the same way Mrs. Mead’s did. Lucky Maxie. He’ll get the whole story out, Mom will think it’s no big deal, and then he’ll go play like nothing happened. Maybe he’s not crazy after all. I, on the other hand, can look forward to major conversations with Mom and Dad about “What’s Going on at School.”

I’m starting to think that Jake’s lucky, too, like Maxie. His problems are fixed by taking pills. If he acts different, it has a reason: ADHD. He never seems to have to “float above” anything. He collects his street junk and turns it into art and doesn’t fight with the kids who say he’s stupid and clumsy. Is he too stupid to care or notice? Or is he too smart?

I wonder if they make a pill that would make me calm down, let things go, not be so hard on other people . . . and otherwise improve my soccer game, clean up my room, and, hey, why not contribute to world peace while we’re at it? Actually, I couldn’t care less about soccer. My room is neat enough. And I don’t know why I should joke about world peace. It’s not any more likely to break out soon than I am likely to float above problems.

“I’m going up to make my phone calls,” Mom says. Maxie is gone. A sprinkling of orange cracker crumbs marks his place at the table. Jake is sifting through the stuff in his kitchen junk drawer, a place that Mom has set aside for his collectibles. “Maybe you and I can talk more in about half an hour, Gabe.”

I shrug. After I hear her running upstairs to her bedroom—Mom never walks the stairs, she always runs—I take the flipbook I made during recess out of my back pocket.

As I flip from back to front, I see a boy who looks amazingly like Derek Dempsey fall into a huge goldfish bowl and drown a very bubbly death, after which his corpse is gobbled up in one bite by a giant goldfish. On the last page I also drew in a speech balloon next to the goldfish that says: “Hugs to you, Derek!”

I decide to pass on the granola bars and take my dish to the sink. Mom has left her briefcase on the kitchen counter. It’s small and made of leather—like a large cowhide envelope. Mom usually leaves it unzipped so she can fit more stuff in. There’s usually a psychology or social work book of some sort spilling out of it, and today is no exception. Your Difficult Child is the title of this one.

But Mom doesn’t treat children.

Who’s a difficult child? I wonder. I start reading the inside flap of the cover.

Our children can be different in many ways—many ways that deviate from the norm, the average, the kid next door. One child may be different physically; perhaps she is strikingly beautiful, or unusually tall. Another child’s difference may be his mental abilities; he may have a learning disorder that hinders his ability to read or solve math problems. The list of differences is as long and varied as human characteristics. This book is about a difference in temperament—what you might also call mood. This book is about the Difficult Child.

Who’s a Difficult Child? I ask myself again. And I wonder: Is there really a whole book written all about kids in bad moods by a man whose name begins with Doctor? I open the book and start reading.

Who is a Difficult Child? He is not the child who falls into a bad mood from time to time. The Difficult Child has an in-born temperament that seems to cause him to hit more rough spots on the road of Life than the average person. This temperament may cause the child to be easily irritated, both by people and by environment. For example, many difficult children find certain types of clothing intolerably itchy or uncomfortable. The same in-born temperament can lead to moodiness, wherein the child seems to pull into himself and away from others and is given to feelings of sadness. The Difficult Child may experience her wants, likes, and dislikes with great intensity, and as a result may appear to be unreasonably rigid, demanding, or opinionated. The Difficult Child has trouble adapting to the unexpected and tends to take disappointments hard.

People who don’t really know our Difficult Child may attach labels to him but, like most labels, these may do more harm than good. For example, a Difficult Child who is very easily distracted may be labeled “hyper,” suggesting the hyperactivity that accompanies Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder. But the Difficult Child is not necessarily the ADHD child. The Difficult Child’s distractibility is more likely to stem from his wide-ranging imagination than from his inability to stay on task. Similarly, a Difficult Child may be called “high-strung,” as if she is simply a case of tightly wound nerves. But what the observer may see as mere high-strung nervousness is actually evidence of the Difficult Child’s intense curiosity. She is not so much “nervous” as she is deeply, intensely involved in her world.

Is this me? Is Mom reading a book so she can figure me out? I feel my pulse beating like crazy, right behind my eyes. This is like reading a thriller, a mystery.

Does this prove that I’m crazy? Is this book about me?

I re-read the part about being called “high-strung.” No one’s ever called me that to my face, that’s for sure. But maybe in kindergarten, overhearing the conference between Mom and the teacher . . . I don’t really remember, but it sounds kind of familiar.

This book is about me.

I’m still standing over the kitchen counter with Mom’s book when I hear her footsteps on the stairs.

“You’re still here!” she says, surprised.

I hold up the book. “What kind of a book is this?” I ask.

“What were you doing in my briefcase?” she asks back.

“I wasn’t in your briefcase,” I say. “Your briefcase was open right here on the counter, and I saw this when I came to put my dishes in the sink. Who’s a Difficult Child? Is it me?”

Mom takes the book and her little briefcase and sits down at the table. I follow.

“Is it me?” I ask again. “I thought you said it’s a bad idea to treat your own children.”

Mom flips through the book before answering. “I’m not treating my own children,” she says. “I’m not treating you. I don’t think you need treating. And actually, Dad saw this book in a bookstore, and he bought it and read it. He gave it to me, and now I’m reading it.”

“But you’re not reading it just for fun,” I say. “Is it me? Am I the Difficult Child?”

Mom runs her hand through her hair. “I don’t care much for labels,” she says. “Sometimes we’re all difficult children, including adults. Were we thinking of you when we saw this book? Yes. Are you a Difficult Child as defined in this book? I don’t know. It doesn’t really matter. I don’t think you’re such a difficult person or child, but I know you’re having some difficulty at school and with other kids. I know you have a short fuse on your temper sometimes and you can be impatient.”

I think about my rush to get the fish into my aquarium.

Ouch.

“So, according to this book, I’m a Difficult Child. So now what? Does this doctor say there’s a pill for it? Do I go to special classes?”

I don’t know why I’m mad at Mom. After all, the parts of the book I was reading didn’t make the Difficult Child sound like such a terrible person. This doctor even sounded as if he liked Difficult Children.

“I’m not saying you’re anything. You’re not going to force me to put a label on you, and you shouldn’t label yourself either. This book is saying that we all have certain personalities that we’re just born with, and one type of personality is—”

“Is difficult!” I interrupt her. “So if you’re difficult, that’s just tough luck. You just have to live with it, with everyone hating you and you hating everyone else, too!” I stand up because I’m so mad I can’t sit still anymore.

Mom holds up her hand. “Difficult is just another label. This book isn’t interesting because it attaches a label to certain people. It’s interesting because of what it says is going on inside certain people, maybe even you. It’s interesting because it says that some kids have a hard time getting along not because they’re bad or mean and nasty or stupid or anti-social. They’re intense and observant and smart and creative and not willing to just go with the flow— they’re individuals. Sometimes that can make life hard for those kids, because the people around them demand conformity and smooth edges. But it also makes these kids wonderful.”

Mom’s words have been coming out in a big rush. I’m almost afraid she’s going to cry. But she doesn’t. She takes a breath and asks, “Does this help you at all?”

“Yeah—I’m wonderful. And Jake, he’s so totally not interested in going with the flow that he’s off the wonderfulness chart. Maxie, well, he’s too young to tell.”

Mom purses her lips. “We’re talking about you, not Jake or Maxie. Look, maybe you don’t want to hear words like ‘you’re wonderful.’ You have a terrific imagination, and you seem to think and feel deeply about things. Those are wonderful qualities. If some edginess comes with those qualities, so be it. You’ll learn to live with it, and so will the people around you.”

Edginess. Now there’s a word. Not difficult, not easy, not good or bad. I see myself balancing on an edge—a fence, a rim, a cliff, a rail. On the edge of the deep, dark underwater canyon. Edges don’t scare me. They seem to get my juices going.

“I can live with edginess,” I say, meaning to sound light and funny, but it comes out dead serious.

“I think you can, too,” says Mom. She pushes the book toward me. “Since you’ve already read part of this, you may as well have a look at the chapter about some real-life difficult children. I think you’ll recognize their names.”

I look at the page Mom has open and start reading.

Pablo Picasso. Winston Churchill. Thomas Alva Edison. Albert Einstein. A great artist, statesman, inventor, scientist—and each one a Difficult Child. Winston Churchill, for example, was uncoordinated, badly behaved, and hyperactive as a schoolboy. He grew up to become one of the most insightful, energetic, and focused statesman of modern time. But he didn’t leave his so-called “difficult” side behind entirely. Even as an adult, he could be moody and edgy. He also held onto a child-like love of silly songs and play.

I look up to see if Mom is reading what I’m reading. She’s nodding. “I know,” she says. “Gabe, people are complicated. Life can be complicated. And I mean that in a wonderful way.”

Picasso. Churchill. Edison. Einstein.

Einstein! I have to remember this page next time Derek yells, “Hey, Einstein!” in my face. There definitely are worse insults.

Not that I think I’m going to be the next Albert Einstein or anything. I wonder if Jacques Cousteau was difficult. . . .