Free Sean Griswold's Head by Lindsey Leavitt Page A

bother with something like discipline, let alone caring about my grades. But this one is going on the fridge, even if I’m the only one who’ll look at it.”
    â€œWell, good for you.”
    â€œYeah,” he says, his eyes flashing a bit before they crinkle into a smile. “Well, as exciting as discussing my lack of academic direction is, I have to swing over to Coach Jarvis’s office and ask him something about swim. See you later, Gritas.”
    â€œLater,” I say as Sean walks away. But I don’t want later, I want now. Now with Sean next to me, so I don’t have to face the Grade Goblin alone.
    â€œI like to bike,” I blurt out, sounding like I’m reciting from an I-can-read book. See Spot. See Spot Say Stupid Stuff.
    Sean cuts back across the cafeteria until he’s looking at me face-to-face. “Uh … that’s great.”
    â€œNo, I mean … maybe we can go on a bike ride sometime?”
    â€œI didn’t know you ride.”
    â€œI don’t. Well, I do. Like around the neighborhood and stuff.” I straighten my back. “But I’m looking into getting into like, real bike riding. Maybe.”
    Sean breaks into a smile. “How I ride … it’s pretty intense. I don’t know if you can handle it.”
    I smile back, mostly to cover the fear that creeps up my neck. He gets one Seinfeld reference and calls me brilliant and suddenly I’m asking to ride with him? So much for scientific objectivity.
    â€œTry me.”

TEN
    Ms. Callahan’s outfit burns my eyes as she greets me outside the office door. Orange skirt with a floral brown top. Pointy burgundy shoes that match her poorly applied lipstick. And hair weeping for some product. I really must save this woman.
    â€œHow has your week been?” she asks with a warm smile that exposes lipstick-covered teeth.
    â€œFine.”
    â€œI called you in because I took the liberty of checking your grades. I know you’re a bright student. Have you ever gotten a C before?”
    â€œYes.” In second grade. On a spelling pretest.
    â€œDo you want me to talk to any of your teachers? Make them aware of … things?”
    â€œNo. Just bombed a test. It happens.”
    â€œYes.” Ms. Callahan folds her arms across her ample chest. “But does it happen to you ?”
    I stare at the pictures of her obese feline crowding her desk. So she spends all day giving kids too much attention and spends all night giving her cat too much food. “Apparently, it does.”
    â€œHow are your Focus Exercises going?” she asks, changing course.
    I almost smile. “Good. It’s … fun. I like the … order of it. And I’m learning a lot.”
    â€œI thought you would. Keep with it.” She pauses. “Although, next week I want to try something new.”
    My stomach lurches. “What’s that?”
    â€œThe activity is called A Conversation with Dad.”
    I blink. My mouth opens. Closes. My left leg twitches. “My dad?” I croak.
    â€œNot your actual father.”
    My leg—my body—relaxes. “Then who?”
    â€œWell, whomever you like. Someone representing your father. It’s practice for the time when you’re ready to address him face-to-face. So it can be me—”
    â€œNot you.” I’m not about to pretend my chubby, Afroed guidance counselor is my bald, cheerful father. “Can I … invite a friend?”
    â€œIf that’s what would make you most comfortable.”
    â€œI’ll ask my friend Jac. But can I still write about Shha—I mean, my Focus Object?”
    Ms. Callahan cocks her head to the side, a peculiar look on her face. “Do you think this Focus Object is really helping you gain introspection?”
    â€œUh-huh.”
    â€œThen, yes, whatever helps. Just make sure you don’t focus too much on this object. There will be a point where