The Wonder Spot Read Online Free PDF Page B

tired, as they did when he looked over my report cards.
    Robert rescued me by describing his first day of tutoring Doug Sloane, who’d been held back two grades; Robert imagined out loud how hard that would be.
    It would be impossible, I thought, because you are a genius and Doug Sloane is mentally retarded.
    Jack said that Doug’s older brother, who’d also been held back, was on the football team. This led to a description of a catch that Jack himself had made off of what he called “a long bomb” in practice. He drew a diagram of the play on a napkin we passed around.
    My father turned back to Robert. “So you think it was wrong for Doug to be held back?”
    Robert said, “I feel sorry for him.”
    â€œI can understand that,” my father said. “But didn’t what you learned in fourth grade prepare you for fifth?”
    For a while, they debated how the educational system might best serve Doug, and then Robert turned to me. “You know Doug Sloane, right?” Robert knew I did; he was just trying to include me in the conversation.
    My mother jumped in: “Does anyone have any idea how high the adult illiteracy rate in this country is?” I doubted she herself knew. Like me, my mother didn’t learn facts or acquire knowledge;instead, she had feelings—insecurity about not being knowledgeable, for example.
    She looked around the table; none of us knew how high the adult illiteracy rate in this country was.
    She said, “Seventeen percent.”
    I thought, Eighty-five percent of statistics are made up on the spot.
    . . . . .
    I hardly saw Margie in regular school. Flynn Junior High was huge compared to Surrey Elementary, and we didn’t have any classes together. The first time I ran into her in the hall, she said a solemn, “Shalom,” and I could tell by the way her Fox friends laughed that they thought she was imitating me instead of Moreh Pinkus.
    Once, during her lunch and my math period, I looked out the window and saw her sitting on the high wall in the courtyard; the rest of the Foxes were stretched out single file, sunbathing, their shirts pulled up to get their tan stomachs tanner. Margie stood and said something that sounded like, “Good-bye, cruel world,” and jumped down and landed hard. None of the Foxes even sat up.
    . . . . .
    Unlike the other Hebrew-school teachers, Moreh Pinkus did not give us a break halfway through class; when Margie suggested it, he misunderstood and said, “Please use the restroom whenever you need to.” She left class immediately, and returned only to leave again.
    Moreh Pinkus went through the Hebrew alphabet, but now the class called out each letter’s name and pronunciation without his assistance. I seemed to be the only one who hadn’t memorized the alphabet, the only one who’d forgotten to do the homework, the only one who hadn’t learned the vocabulary words. It was just the second week, and I was already the Doug Sloane of the class.
    When Margie came back to the room, I left.
    In the hall, I heard my name and turned around. It was my first-grade teacher, Miss Bell.
    I was thrilled that she remembered me.
    She told me that she didn’t teach anymore; she assisted the rabbi now. She was on her way to his study, and I walked with her.
    I said, “Do you like your new job?”
    She said, “I miss students like you.”
    When she asked who my teacher was and how I liked Hebrew, I remembered my father’s disappointment in the truth. I told Miss Bell that Hebrew and Moreh Pinkus were great.
    Then she took a left through the temple and I took a right to the powder room. I was washing my hands when the door banged open, and Margie said, “Get a paper towel.”
    On it, she drew the blanks and noose for hangman.
    I didn’t mind playing; what I minded was not having a choice. I was better at hangman than thumb wrestling. Margie