I chew my gum and listen to Mr. Patel. Slowly, math begins to makes sense for a few minutes. Too bad it all falls apart whenever I leave this room and have to take a test or do my homework without him talking me through each step.

If it wasn’t for the fact that Mr. Patel is a math teacher, he probably would be my favorite teacher I’ve ever had. He’s patient, unlike Ms. Avery, and even if I judge myself sometimes, he never does.

When I get back to my classroom, just in time for more math, it feels like everyone is watching me as I make my way to my seat, even though I do my best to stick to the walls and not make any noise. Bailey crinkles her nose at me like I smell or something. But if I do, it’s the cinnamon gum I forgot to spit out before leaving the Resource Room, and nothing gross.

As I sit down, I wonder if they know where I’ve really been, or if they think I’m just a regular music student learning about the violin or clarinet or something.

Chapter 10

WORD PROBLEMS

Last year, I used to go to Jude’s house after school. But this year, I’m usually home alone for at least an hour or two until one of my moms gets in. When I get home, the front door is unlocked. That’s when I remember: Gramps is here.

As I open the door, I have this dreamy sort of vision that comes into my mind like a movie: Dewey bounding through the house to come greet me, the sound of her paws scrambling against the floor, her tail thwacking against the walls, and then her jumping up on me, so happy that I’m home. It’s just a flash, and it ends almost as quickly as it came to me, the room returning to its calm, quiet state.

I close the door behind me and call out, “Gramps, I’m home.”

I hear Gramps’s voice from the kitchen yell back, “I’m in here.”

He is making PB&J sandwiches and has three different kinds of bread out on the counter along with the peanut butter and jar of strawberry jelly, and he says, “Pick your poison.” Confusion must show on my face because he adds, “Wheat, rye, or . . . gluten free?” He sticks out his tongue as he holds up the last option.

“Oh. Rye,” I tell him, setting my backpack down and taking a seat at the table.

“Good choice.”