Mrs. Altschuler sent a report home. Annamae was on track to fail English.
“How could you be failing English?” asked Annamae’s mother.
Annamae, lying on her own bed for once, let out a groan.
“I’m asking a question of curiosity,” said Annamae’s mother. She’d learned the parlance from Mr. T. at parent-teacher night. “I’m genuinely curious about how you, the daughter of a linguist”—the word came out of her mouth as if from a slingshot—“could manage to fail the subject of English.”
That rhymes, thought Annamae. Actually, no, it didn’t rhyme, but almost. It was a near rhyme, which was an actual thing she had learned about from her mother.
“Anomenon. Can you talk to me about what’s going on?”
Annamae, curled on her side, eyes shut, shook her head.
Her mother breathed deliberately. Breathing in, I know I am breathing in, said the app her mother listened to when she meditated. Breathing out, I know I am breathing out. Danny did an impression where he managed to act out both their mother meditating on her little bamboo meditation bench and the man on the recording.
“Okay,” her mother continued, when it became clear she was going to have to keep up both sides of this conversation on her own. “I kn—I believe you’re not failing English because you’re incapable of the work. So. I’m thinking it’s about something else.”
Annamae could feel it, her mother’s thinking. She felt it as a kind of mental scribbling, an invisible pencil sketching geometries in the air.
“Is it a problem with the teacher?”
Vigorous head shaking. Annamae liked Mrs. Altschuler, which made not doing the work more painful. That was the reason she was failing: She wasn’t doing the work. She hadn’t handed in any of the assignments this entire quarter.
“So … you got an A first quarter, an A second quarter, and this quarter you’re on your way to earning an F.”
Annamae understood she was supposed to break the silence. She felt how powerful she was, not breaking it. It was exhilarating and terrible.
“Are you having a problem with any of the kids in your class?”
More head shaking.
A siren went by, avenues away.
“Are you sad, Annamae?”
She shook her head again, not vigorously. Then she opened her eyes, rolled onto her back, and qualified her answer. “I mean, sort of. But that’s not why.”
“Would you say more? I promise to just listen.”
She wanted to say more. She wished it were possible.
Her mother chewed her lip and went to smooth some hair off Annamae’s forehead, which sent Annamae promptly back into fetal position. She listened to her mother inhale deeply and exhale slowly. Breathing in, I notice my thoughts. Breathing out, I let my thoughts go.
Until, unable to let them go, her mother spoke again. “I’d really like to understand, honey.”
Those were the saddest words. They made Annamae so, so sad.