Flying Lessons & Other Stories(23)

But I forget all that when I see that the car is stuffed with all our things.





FEBRUARY 7


“You smell like you been smoking.” Angel Atkins leans toward me and sniffs. She wrinkles her nose, which makes her look even uglier than normal.

“Maybe I have,” I tell her. Mama, Charlie, and I have been in room number 109 at the Sleep Inn for three weeks, and it still smells like cigarette smoke.

“Well, you can’t kiss Gabi on Valentine’s Day if you got smoke breath,” she says with a smirk. I wish Angel and I didn’t sit at the same table. I wish Sneaky were here instead of Angel, who is nothing like her name.

“I ain’t kissin’ nobody!” I say, glaring at Angel.

“Mr. Dunn, Miss Atkins. Is there something more interesting than the reading assignment? Something you want to share with everyone?”

“No,” Angel says, rolling her eyes. I don’t say anything.

“Mr. Dunn? Is there a reason you can’t focus on your work?”

“I’m focusing on my work,” I say, and I start reading the stupid worksheet she gave us and answer the questions at the end. Daddy’s stories are way more interesting than this.

After lunch, Angel passes me a note. It’s a really bad picture of me holding a cigarette and Gabriella running away. I ball up the paper and throw it right at Angel’s big head.

“Isaiah Dunn!” Mrs. Fisher jumps from her desk and is in my face in a second. “What has gotten into you? We do not throw things at other students!”

“She was messin’ with me, Mrs. Fisher,” I try to explain. “And it was just a piece of paper.”

“Isaiah, you apologize now, or you go to the principal’s office. Do you understand?”

Maybe because it’s Friday, or maybe because Angel’s grinning like she’s so smart. Maybe it’s just because it smells like something died in Mrs. Fisher’s mouth, but the next thing I know, I’m sayin’, “Yeah, I understand that you don’t need to be all in my face with your breath smellin’ like that!”

Mrs. Fisher’s mouth drops open, and so does Angel’s. The class is dead quiet, until a few kids start laughing. I glare at Mrs. Fisher and she points to the door.

“Go to Mr. Tobin’s office! Now!”

I leave the classroom and walk down the quiet hall to the principal’s office. Inside, Mr. Tobin lectures me about respect and kindness before giving me detention, which I don’t mind because it means less time at Smoky Inn. But my day gets even worse, because as soon as I climb into the car, Mama lets me have it.

“You betta cut out all this foolishness, Isaiah,” she says. “I’ve been waiting a whole hour for you!”

“Sorry,” I mumble, buckling my seat belt. I don’t say anything about me having to wait at the library, or my clothes always smelling like smoke. The way I see it, Mama’s kinda the reason I had detention in the first place.





FEBRUARY 10


“I’m always interrupting your reading, aren’t I?”

“Huh?” I look up from Daddy’s notebook and see the library guy heading over to my table.

“You like to read?” the guy asks. I know he works here, but he doesn’t seem like a librarian to me.

“Sometimes,” I say.

“Sometimes is better than no times,” the guy says. He holds out his hand for a fist bump. “We haven’t officially met. I’m Mr. Shephard, youth services librarian. What’s your name?”

“Isaiah,” I say.

“Cool.” Mr. Shephard glances at the notebook. “So you’re a writer?”

“Not really,” I say. “But my dad is.”

“Oh yeah? Well, you’ll have to tell him about our short story contest. Hold on a second and I’ll get you more information.”

Mr. Shephard heads over to his desk before I can tell him that my dad only used to write. When he comes back, he hands me a green flyer.

“The literacy council holds a writing contest every February. The deadline’s in two weeks.”

“Thanks,” I say, taking the paper.

My eyes get big when I read that the grand prize is $300! Daddy’s stories are way better than Blue Harbor, the book we’re reading in school. I bet he could win the contest!

Even after they flicker the lights and announce that the library is closing, I just keep reading how to enter over and over again.

An idea starts forming in my mind, and I wonder which story Daddy would enter if he were here. One thing’s for sure, I don’t have a lot of time to figure it out.





FEBRUARY 14


It’s Valentine’s Day. Mama makes pancakes using what she calls a hot plate. The pancakes are supposed to be heart-shaped, but they look like circles with little dents. We don’t even have farting syrup this time, so we have to eat them plain.

“Isaiah, I want you to wash the dishes and sweep up,” Mama says after breakfast. She climbs back into bed and closes her eyes. “Then maybe you can take Charlie outside for a little while so I can rest.”

“It’s freezing out there, Mama,” I say.

“Just for a little while, ’Saiah!” she says.