Forward Progress, Still No Dog

“Nope. I walk. And my friend’s going to be here any second, so I’ve got to run.” He wolfed down the last few bites as his grandfather watched, in silence. He thought about picking up the bowl and slurping the rest of the milk, but then thought better of it as his grandfather picked up his napkin and patted gently around his mouth. Andy noticed how thin and veiny the skin on his face was. You could almost see through it. Andy got up. “So I guess I’ll see you later,” he said, although he suspected he would not. His grandfather had requested dinner on a tray in his room the previous evening, which Andy had thought would please his mother—no change in routine—but instead had seemed to annoy her. There was no reason to think tonight would be any different. And besides, he was pretty sure he wouldn’t have time to eat dinner. He’d need to be doing his project.

As soon as he reached the curb, he could tell that Mia was distracted. She barely looked at him as they started walking toward school. It was chilly for March, and their breath made little clouds in front of their faces as they walked. For a few seconds Andy just watched the puffs of breath form: gas to solid, sort of, he thought. That was a science project, wasn’t it? No. “So?” he finally said.

“So what?” said Mia, quickening her pace. Andy felt his chest tighten a bit.

“My project? Do you have an idea for me?” Mia stopped walking, abruptly. Andy stopped too.

“No, Andy,” she said, speaking very slowly, as though he didn’t speak English and she was trying to give him directions to somewhere important. “I do not have a project for you. I guess you are just going to have to do the work yourself this time.” Andy’s face felt hot, in spite of the temperature. Mia was so rarely annoyed, he didn’t know what to do, how to react. For a moment he forgot all about the science project. They started walking again, even more quickly than before, thanks to Mia’s pace.

“Okay, okay,” he said. “What’s going on with you? You sound, well, a little weird.” Mia gave him a look he couldn’t quite decipher.

“I’m fine,” she said. “Nothing I feel like talking about.” The school appeared in front of them then, an old-fashioned brick building with odd, 1970s additions in dark wood with slanted roof panels. Andy flipped open his cell phone. They had two minutes to get to homeroom.

“If you change your mind—“ he said, letting the sentiment drift off.

“Yup. Whatever,” said Mia. “I’ll see you at lunch.” She adjusted her backpack and ran into the school ahead of him. Andy stood on the courtyard for a moment, letting hurried students and teachers stream past him, occasionally knocking into him with a bag or a book. For once, the cockeyed, friendly building seemed ominous. At the very last second, as the last bell chimed, he ran in, too. It was unavoidable. Skipping out would just make it worse.


By the time sixth period rolled around, Andy had worked himself into a state. He waited until everyone else had filed into the classroom, then slipped in at the last possible second, into the seat by the radiator that nobody ever wanted to sit in, as it sputtered hot water and hissed periodically, making it hard to hear Mr. Gallagher, who believed in “notebook checks,” meaning that one actually had to take notes. Good ones. But the seat had one distinct advantage. It was in the back right corner of the classroom, about as far as it was possible to sit from Mr. Gallagher’s desk at the front of the room by the door.

“So today,” Mr. Gallagher began, “I’m going to go over the checklist for your invention projects. You should be basically done, but there are a few details I want to make sure we’ve reviewed, and of course, I will also take all of your last-minute questions. I don’t need to remind you how important this project is. It will be 75% of your grade this semester.” A few students opened their notebooks. Everybody took out the project instruction handouts. Claudia Dragun, the best student in the class, immediately raised her hand.

“Mr. Gallagher?” she began. Andy rolled his eyes. Claudia was so predictable. This would be the question designed to show how on top of things Claudia was. He and Mia had once decided that Claudia was the kind of person who would, ten years down the road, sit in job interviews telling people that her negative trait was being “too much of a perfectionist.” “I was wondering if you wanted our bibliographies to be annotated.” Even Mr. Gallagher looked taken aback. Andy was pretty sure most of the class didn’t even know what that meant. He did, because Mia had taken a class at the community college during the summer and had explained it to him. But even Claudia knew that annotated bibliographies were not generally required of junior high students.

“A regular bibliography, per the handout, should suffice, Claudia,” Mr. Gallagher said, sounding—was it possible—a little bit weary. Andy surveyed his classmates. There was nobody in the room, he knew, who did not have a finished, or nearly finished, project at home. There were no slackers in this group. It was a fast track class, the “smart kids,” as the other kids called them. Claudia may have been the most annoying, but she wasn’t the best student, the most organized, the most eager to please. Andy’s chest felt even tighter. He was doomed.