Free Edge by M. E. Kerr Page A

you’re wrong. I’ll give you an example. I was wrong when I said you couldn’t have an allowance or TV or use of the computer, etcetera. I was angry and I just blew! That was wrong. It wouldn’t have made it any easier for you while you’re trying to get a passing grade in math. So I was wrong! I apologize and I take it back.”
    â€œHow come?”
    â€œHow come? Because I’m sorry. I thought about it and it bothered me. I’m a hothead, and I don’t like that about myself. Okay?”
    â€œYeah.”
    â€œMaybe that’s what’s wrong here.”
    â€œWhat’s wrong where?”
    â€œBetween us.”
    â€œIs something wrong between us?”
    â€œScotty, I’m trying to talk with you. About us. I want to work things out so we get along better.”
    â€œYeah.”
    â€œSometimes I do or say rash things.”
    â€œYeah.”
    â€œI always feel lousy after.”
    â€œOh, yeah?”
    â€œDo you understand? I shouldn’t take things out on you. That’s petty. Life is hard enough. We don’t have to be mean and spiteful with each other. Agreed?”
    â€œYeah.” I was thinking about the time our dog didn’t come home one night. I couldn’t sleep. I even prayed. When he got back all muddy the next morning, I broke into tears and told him, “Now you’re making me blubber like a baby!”
    Dad was still on my case.
    â€œScott, I want you to think about why Mrs. Whitman flunked you.”
    â€œI just told you: she doesn’t like me.”
    â€œAre you really convinced that you’re good at math but the reason you failed was because she doesn’t like you?”
    â€œMaybe.”
    â€œIs she a good teacher?”
    â€œShe never smiles. She’s got these tight little lips and these ugly freckles.”
    â€œSo she’s not a good teacher?”
    â€œI can’t learn from her.”
    â€œDid you study hard?”
    â€œI studied. Sure. I studied.”
    â€œHow many others flunked math?”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œHow many others flunked math?”
    â€œNo one.”
    â€œSpeak up.”
    â€œI said, I’m the only one.”
    â€œSo others learn from her despite her tight little lips and ugly freckles?”
    â€œI guess.”
    â€œScott, who’s to blame for your flunking math?”
    â€œOkay,” I said. “Okay.”
    â€œWho is to blame?”
    â€œMe. Okay? I didn’t study that hard.”
    He sighed and said, “There. Good. You’ve accepted the blame. … How do you feel?”
    â€œI feel okay.” I really didn’t, though. I was thinking about that dumb bulldog running loose somewhere, and about Mrs. Whitman worried sick now that she thought Gloria’d been dognapped.
    Dad said, “I think we both feel a lot better.”
    We sat around in the waiting room at Saturn.
    Dad read Sports Illustrated, but I couldn’t concentrate on the magazines there or the ballgame on TV. I was down. I knew what Dad meant when he’d told me he felt bad after he “blew” and that he didn’t like himself for it.
    I kept glancing toward the pay phone. I stuck my hands in my pants pockets. I had a few quarters.
    â€œI’m going to call Al and see what he’s doing tonight,” I said.
    Dad said, “Wait until you get home. We’ll be leaving here very shortly.”
    â€œI’m going to look around,” I said.
    I didn’t know Mrs. Whitman’s number. I’d copied it down from one of the Lost Dog signs and ripped it up after I’d called her. I hadn’t planned to follow up the call, get money from her: nothing like that. I just wanted to give her a good scare.
    I went over to the phone book and looked her up.
    Then I ducked inside the phone booth, fed the slot a quarter, and dialed.
    â€œHello?”
    â€œMrs. Whitman? I don’t have your dog. I was playing a