I think she likes to read it and go, ‘Whew! Thank goodness I have one good kid.’ You probably shouldn’t touch it.”
“I won’t hurt it,” I said. “I’ll be careful. Let’s read it when we get home.”
Margaret looked worried—like she was trying to think up something and couldn’t—but then she shrugged a third time and said, “Sure, okay, sure, I suppose.”
So when we got home, we rode the elevator down to my apartment to say, “Hi-Mom-bye-Mom-I’m-going-to-Margaret’s-okay?-okay,” to my mother. Then we rode the elevator up to the fifth floor, where Margaret’s apartment is.
Margaret went straight over to the shelves next to the fireplace. She clasped her hands in front of her, admiring the rows of trophies and awards she had won.
Because we do this every time we’re in her living room, I knew she wanted me to admire them, too.
So I clasped my hands and we stood there having a moment of silence, staring at all the proof of how great Margaret was at everything.
There sure was a lot of it. Three whole shelves of “Best at This” and “Blue Ribbon for That” lined up all neat and tight like groceries in the supermarket.
I am really good at math and drawing. But nobody gives out trophies for those things, which is unfair.
So all my parents have is a stack of math tests with stars on them, and some drawings taped up on the wall. They never put up a shelf in the living room for all my awards. Which is good, I guess, because it would be empty.
