Flattened

I remembered those letters, cursive big and little, the dashed line cutting them through. Just over the chalkboard, just like it was for me, for all us kids. Cursive. That's probably the first thing I learned that I ever forgot, that I ever realized, "Oh, I don't have to do you anymore if I don't want to." You forget a lot from school, and most of those thing I don't care about one way or the other. But the cursive, the cursive's one that bothers me. I'll say that's a regret.

"I'm not really sure what you're saying." It was my first parent-teacher conference. Apparently Sam was having some issues in class. This was the first I was hearing about it. "Is he being disruptive?"

"No, not exactly," Mrs... Mrs... his teacher said. Mrs. Harris, I'm fairly sure it was Mrs. Harris. It was a trip being in a room like this again. So many things came rushing back there was hardly room for anything new.

"Well, please explain it to me again, because I'm not getting it."

She scrunched her face, cycling through incidents, compressing them into a single synopsis.

"Sam's too nice."

You forget, looking at the world splayed out on a map, that none of it is shaped the way it's shown. Russia, Alaska, Antarctica, Greenland—and warm places, really every place—what we're seeing on that paper is not what anybody's standing on. You take what's rounded and flatten it you're not seeing what's there.

"He's too nice."

"Yes. It's upsetting the other children. And it's a little unsettling."

 It was the urge every kid ever felt, the urge to yell at your teacher, call her a name, tell her how truly stupid she's actually being. And here I was, finally in a place where I could do it, entirely inappropriate, a grown man yelling at his son's teacher. So I mustered up a courageous, "OK. How? Help me."

But she saw through me, a hint of scorn cutting through her scrunch. "There's no need for that tone, Mr. Wells." She remembered my name and it made me feel bad for a second before I remembered that I hated her. Plus she'd said every student's name in roll call five days a week for the last two months. "He helps other students with their homework, art projects during class. He volunteers to stay in at recess and clean the desks. My desk."

And she took a breath before saying, "And he always has a faint smile on his face."

"I'm not... I'm still not seeing the problem."

"It's hard for the class to believe that he doesn't have ulterior motives."

The cubbies had drawings taped up inside them, nice little colored-in-the-lines animals and rainbows, bright numbers and suns and smiley faces. Picture books. Pencil sharpener. Projector. George Washington. American Flag.

"I have to tell you, Mrs... Mrs—"

"Harris."

"—Harris, I think there are a lot of things about school that are a complete waste of time. But this takes the cake. I'm sorry that my son is volunteering to help you and your students. Perhaps you're not doing a good enough job teaching them and he's filling in the holes, I don't know, it wouldn't surprise me. So unless Sam's horrific faint smile has caused actual blood and protruding bones from little Jimmy and Susie or whatever kids concocted this asinine conspiracy with you, I'm going to kindly ask to be excused." And with that I got up from my tiny chair and walked to the door. But it wasn't enough. I needed more.

"Oh," so I added, "and you should let him clean your desk. It's fucking filthy."