Chapter 9

Rigby brought home his second report card in early December. The first one had been five B’s and one A, in PE. His parents said that was fine, good, satisfactory, but they would like to see some more A’s. Rigby said he would try.

His report card for the second marking period was, he knew, going to cause trouble. He had received a C in math and a C in English plus three B’s and another A in PE. On his way home, he spent his time creating explanations and excuses. He even thought of losing it. He put the folded report on his dresser and did his paper route and then, after supper, he gave it to his father who was reading the paper and smoking his pipe.

Before the war, his father had smoked Lucky Strike cig arettes, the famous brand now in a white package and advertising that its green had gone to war. All the popular brands such as Chesterfields and Camels were seldom in the drug or grocery stores and people lined up to buy two packs at a time when they were delivered. The boy’s father had tried other kinds of cigarettes, had even rolled his own for a while and then gone back to smoking a pipe, which he had done in college. His mother seldom smoked but favored long Pall Malls when she did. Rigby had tried smoking, but it made him feel dizzy.

His father put down his paper, unfolded the report, frowned, read it again, put his pipe aside and then looked up at the boy. “Well?” he said, glasses low on his nose and eyebrows raised.

Rigby sniffed and cleared his throat, standing before his father’s chair, hands behind his back. “I’m having trouble in math. It’s finding unknowns mostly, that and proofs. Lot of people are doing worse than I am. And in English its mainly the weekly spelling tests. Oh, and one paper I kind of forgot about.”

“You’re starting algebra, eh. Well, I think I can help you with that, show you some things, ways of solving problems, that kind of thing. I can check over your homework if that’ll help.”

Rigby nodded.

“As for the other, well, I think that’s just working harder, studying more, getting things in on time. Maybe you’ll have to quit the basketball team.”

“Right, I can do that, work harder. Honest. You’ll see.”

“I’d better,” his father said, handing back the report. “Go on, show your mother. She’s going to be very unhappy.”

The boy nodded. “I know.”

She was.