Free Out of Order by A. M. Jenkins Page B

homework.”
    Mom’s in my bedroom doorway. Cass is behind her.
    â€œDid you think I sign your progress cards without reading them?” Mom starts counting off on her fingers. “Biology—seventy-five. Geometry—seventy-two. English—sixty-eight.” Her voice goes up on the “sixty-eight.” “And now you’re asking me how to find the area of a rectangle? Colt, at this point you need any help you can get.”
    â€œNo, I don’t.” I shoot Cass a “piss off” look. “That last English test was hard. Nobody did good. He said he wasgoing to curve it.” Which might be true, Hammond might have said that, I just might not have heard him. “And then he didn’t. And this…” I bend over my geometry book again. “I can figure it out myself. I just didn’t want to take the time.”
    I don’t look up. A couple of seconds tick by. Will Mom buy it?
    â€œWhat about a tutor?” she asks.
    â€œDon’t need one,” I tell her. “I can handle it.” No way I’m going to sit around with somebody who gets paid to find out how ignorant I am. And who—God!—reports on me to my mom every day!
    No fucking way.
    â€œAll right,” I hear her say. I can breathe again. “But there’s a pattern developing here. Every year you put less and less time into your schoolwork. Every semester your grades slide just a little bit lower. A sixty-eight’s not going to cut it, Colt. You’re perfectly capable of passing. Tell me what I can do to help you. What do you need?”
    â€œI need peace and quiet,” I tell her. “So go away.”
    â€œFine. Then I’ll tell you what I’m going to do to help you. I’m going make you a promise.”
    A promise?
    â€œI promise you that if you fail even one class this six weeks, you won’t be playing baseball in the spring.”
    It takes a moment for her words to sink in. “What?” I can’t even yell—I’m so mad, it takes another moment for my voice to get up to full volume. “What’s that going to do? How’s that going to help?”
    â€œDon’t yell at me,” Mom warns. Cass just stands there, acting like she’s real interested in the wall while she soaks all this in, the little leech.
    â€œWhat’s it supposed to do?” I yell anyway. I don’t have the words to tell Mom how awful, how more than awful it would make my life, to take away the only thing I’m really good at.
    â€œIt’ll give you a wake-up call, Colt,” she tells me. “There’s more to life than sports.”
    â€œI almost failed English last spring, too—remember? And I passed, didn’t I? I pulled it out. You just don’t trust me,” I tell her.
    â€œYou barely passed. When I had that little discussion with Coach Kline, you managed to summon the energy to pass. You’re just going to apply that energy a little earlier this time, that’s all.”
    I cheat better under pressure, I want to tell her. But of course I don’t say that. “The state of Texas says I get to play if I pass the three weeks before the season. I’ve got till the end of December—and that’s just to attend practice. To actually play, the state of Texas gives me till the middle of February.” Don’t ask me how come I can’tremember how to find the area of a rectangle, but I remember state law like I’m a lawyer.
    â€œThe state of Texas isn’t your mother.”
    â€œI have no reason to pass if I don’t get to play. That’s the law, isn’t it? No pass, no play. See, I know my history.”
    â€œColt.” Mom’s got that…Mom look. No way Dad would ever say what comes out of her mouth next. “Baseball is a game. I know you like it. I know you do well. I’m very proud of how talented you are. But it’s just a game