The Todd Glass Situation Read Online Free Page A

a new development called Woodgate. Unlike our previous neighborhood, where anything green had been clear-cut to make room for the houses, whoever built Woodgate tried to keep the natural environment intact. We had trees and leaves and a creek that ran next to our house. Compared to Sunshine Road, it felt like we were living in the forest.
    I started fifth grade at Fred J. Stackpole Elementary, where all I wanted to do was to fit in. I wanted to be in a regular class. I wanted to make regular friends. I promised myself that I’d focus harder this time and really try to pass.
    â€œHey,” one of my new classmates greeted me. “Didn’t you used to go to Davis Elementary?”
    â€œYeah,” I cautiously admitted. “In third grade.”
    â€œSo did my friend James Kirkland. Did you know him?”
    I immediately started to panic. I didn’t know his friend, because his friend probably attended regular classes. Now this kid was going to know that I spent the year in the Resource Room. Any chance I had for a fresh start was going to be gone before it even had a chance to begin. I shook my head “no” and quickly shifted the conversation to something else.
    If you smoke cigarettes, it’s kind of funny to look back on your first puff—how you didn’t realize it at the time, but you were beginning a habit that would go on for years. This littlewhite lie was a similar moment in my life—the moment when I realized I could shift conversations away from topics I was trying to hide.
    And so a new habit was born. Over the years I’ve become completely ruthless in the ways I use it. I won’t think twice about faking an injury or spilling a drink on an innocent bystander if it will help me get out of a question that I’m too uncomfortable to answer. I’d pour hot coffee on your baby if you asked me when I was going to meet a nice girl and settle down.
    As it turned out, I was just being paranoid. This kid wasn’t trying to poke holes in my story. My fresh start remained intact. I gutted out the school year, faking everyone into believing that I was learning. And my plan probably would have worked, except . . .
I FAILED FIFTH GRADE BECAUSE OF LUMPY MASHED POTATOES.
    My parents knew I needed help. After school, I’d sometimes visit with a friend of my mom’s, a teacher, who worked with me on my homework. She was great—nice, smart, and surprisingly helpful with my studies. Sometimes she even cooked dinner for me after we were done.
    â€œHow do you like it?” she asked me as I chowed down.
    â€œGood,” I replied. “Except for the mashed potatoes. They’re a little lumpy.”
    â€œLumpy?”
    I wasn’t trying to be a dick. I thought I was being honest. I liked my potatoes fluffy, the way my mom made them, and I told her so.
    â€œYou take that back!” she said.
    â€œWhat?!”
    â€œTake it back, or you’re not getting any dessert.”
    I refused. There was no way I was going to sacrifice my integrity at the altar of lumpy mashed potatoes just to get ahead in life. That was the last time she ever made dinner for me—or helped me with my studies—and I failed fifth grade, all because I couldn’t keep my fucking mouth shut about her lumpy mashed potatoes.
    But what kind of monster ruins a kid’s life over mashed potatoes? I may not have been able to retain any of what I was learning at school, but I had learned an even more valuable lesson:
ADULTS AREN’T ALWAYS THE SMARTER ONES.
    My obsession with landscaping began in third grade. There was something about the job that fascinated me. I’d sit for hours, pretending to smoke a pretzel stick like a cigarette, watching our local landscaper—give him fifteen minutes and a truckful of sod, and he could transform a bare patch of dirt into a thriving lawn. He was almost like a god, taking chaos and turning it into something