Trying to Float Read Online Free PDF Page A

our places on the stage. But instead ofsitting quietly, some of the solids, including me, began to cry, which became infectious, and our parents (many of whom were themselves solids) yelled curses at Pippi from the darkened room.
    My mother had brought a couple of her friends from the Chelsea Hotel, and they added their own insults. My father meanwhile was using the chaos as an opportunity to sneak out the door in search of an espresso. “Michael!” my mother screamed as she tried to console some of the sobbing children. During this attack, the chosen kids danced.
    Pippi’s moment as a choreographer of avant-garde elementary school recitals did not last more than a few days. For reasons unknown, Pippi was gone from the school for the next few months. When she finally returned, she leapt from office to office, classroom to classroom, attempting to explain herself. But she stumbled badly on the unhappiness she had sewn, and no one was willing to help her up.
    A modern dance.

EYES
    MY MOTHER WAS waiting for me when I returned from school. She watched from the doorway as I put my backpack down in the entrance and started to root around the kitchen for a snack.
    â€œDo you know why Ms. Markowitz called and asked to schedule a meeting at school?”
    Though Ms. Markowitz had said nothing to me, I knew what this was about.
    Following the example of other teachers at the school, Ms. Markowitz was undoubtedly preparing to give out an award to the best student in her class. A lot would go into the decision—­class participation, attendance, tests, and helping those who struggled with their homework.
    I would never have admitted this to anyone, including my parents, but there really wasn’t any question as to who would get the award.
    I imagined that at the meeting with my parents, Ms. Markowitz would explain the importance of the award and goover the speech which I would be expected to deliver to the school when I received the honor.
    The meeting took place a week later. As soon as Ms. Markowitz entered the room, I began to talk.
    â€œMs. Markowitz, I’ve already planned my speech and it will make you very proud. Also, I shall have a few comments on how I think the school could be improved.”
    â€œWhat are you talking about?”
    â€œI shall suggest some additions to the library. Marx Brothers screenplays, for example.”
    â€œIn an elementary school, Ms. Rips?”
    â€œWhy not?! We must raise the bar in public elementary schools, and not allow ourselves to fall behind!” I replied with enthusiasm.
    My dad clapped me on the back.
    â€œMs. Rips,” Ms. Markowitz interrupted, “may I remind you that you cannot read.”
    Heavens!
    â€œWhich is why I’ve asked your parents here today. This school cannot possibly allow you to advance to the next grade unless you can read, and at this point, you are the only one in the class who can’t.”
    Father shifted in his seat. That a school might insist that a student know how to read took him by surprise.
    I must confess, though, to being his accomplice. From the few hours I’d devoted to reading, it became clear to me that it was going to be a tough go, and having inherited Father’sdislike for hard work, I was not inclined to put in the effort. In addition, the books my dad read to me were worlds more interesting than what they were giving me at school (“Pat makes a cake. Pat eats the cake.”). By the time my childhood quirk blossomed into certifiable illiteracy, I also showed a disturbing disdain for what only I considered “too easy.” So there it was: father and daughter, tobogganing off the steep cliff of ignorance.
    My mother, who had indulged my father’s theories of early childhood education, now felt the need to intervene.
    â€œBe assured, Ms. Markowitz, we shall work with her all summer. Just sign her up for second grade, and if she isn’t able to read by the end of the