My first class that day was math. Last year was the year I’d been promoted from third grade to seventh, and I’d been doing well in everything but math. Math in seventh grade was algebra, and the only thing I really understood about algebra was how to spell it. Up until my birthday, I’d gotten only Cs and Ds in math, and every time I got a C or a D, I would cry, and my teacher, Mr. McM., would try to comfort me by saying, “It’s not the end of the world,” and then he’d also remind me, “You’re not in third grade anymore, Miller.” Mr. McM. was just one of the many things about math that I found confusing. Anyway, Mother had been home to wish me happy birthday that morning, but my dad hadn’t. He’d already left the house, Mother had seen him go, but she didn’t know where he had gone. This depressed me, my dad not being home to wish me happy birthday first thing in the morning, and it doubly depressed me because he’d gone out somewhere the night before and hadn’t been around to put me to bed, either.
