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His face goes slack as he looks me in the eye. “You know,” he says seriously, “I think you’re way more nervous about this than I am. It’s just skipping a grade, Papa Bear. It’s not like it’s anything big.”
I roll my eyes. “Oh, no. Nothing big at all. You’re only going to be the shortest kid in your class and everyone is going to stare at you weird.”
“Nice try,” he says, seeing right through my bullshit. “I’m the shortest no matter where I go, and the kids will only be staring at me because of how spectacular I am.”
No ego, that one. Humble to the core.
“I know you’re spectacular,” I concede. “I’m just worried that it’ll take everyone else a little longer to figure that out.”
He looks annoyed. “I can take care of myself,” he retorts. “I’m not worried about a bunch of hormonal fifth graders on the cusp of puberty.”
Otter snorts from behind his paper but doesn’t say anything. He hasn’t changed the page in a few minutes, and I know it’s because he’s listening to what we’re saying. But I also know he understands that this needs to be between me and the Kid, at least for now. He’s said what he’s needed to say to me about the matter, knowing that the final decision needs to be mine.
And yeah, I’ve already made up my mind, but I wouldn’t be Bear if I didn’t second-guess every little thing I did.
One day you’ll grow up, my conscience whispers sweetly. Won’t that just be a fun day?
I sigh. “I know you can,” I tell the Kid truthfully. And I do, really. But hell, I’ll be the first to admit that this whole thing scares the crap out of me.
I remember how little I was when I got to the fifth grade, how hulking all the other kids seemed to be. Granted, I never had the support Ty does, or the brains, but I’m still worried that this is too much, too fast. With all that’s happened in the past four months, I wonder if the Kid needs another change this quickly. This could all very easily just blow up right in our faces, and what then? Send him to the fourth grade and pray a therapist can fix all the damage?
Oh God, speaking of therapy, I haven’t yet told the Kid that our attorney told me and Otter that we’d most likely have to visit a therapist for the whole custody thing. To make sure that I was a fit guardian and the Kid was not in danger. Or insane. The last time I’d broached the subject of a therapist a couple of years ago, the Kid had told me that the only people who go to therapy are the ones that have no friends to cry to. I hadn’t bothered to tell him at the time that he didn’t have any friends besides me. Back then, that just made me sad. Now, I would be totally fine if I was his only friend in the world. And not because I don’t want him to go out and make friends (which he seems to be doing, at an alarming rate). No, I’m just worried about that poor therapist being exposed to the brain in the Kid’s body. Ty’s not exactly… subtle.
I’ll save therapy for another day. Procrastination is fundamental when raising a child. Consider that another one of Bear’s Life Lessons (trademark pending approval).
“Well, good,” he says, getting up to put his bowl in the sink. “God knows you’ve probably already thought this through to death. Honestly, Bear, it’s one of your more endearing traits, but don’t you ever get tired of hearing yourself think?”
Otter coughs. Ass.
“Fine,” I say as I throw my hands up into the air. “But I swear to God, Tyson, you’d better tell me the minute—no, the second—something happens. No excuses, no hesitation. That’s the only way I’m going to agree to this.”
He stares at me wisely. “It’s like you’re expecting something to go wrong, Bear. Have a little faith, huh?”
I grumble.
He grabs his backpack off the counter and brings it to the table, pulling out what he refers to as his “Genius” folder. In it are test scores, report cards, extra reports he’s written even though he didn’t have to. There are letters of recommendation from previous teachers and other school staff, a carefully thought out six-page letter he’d composed explaining in detailed bullet points exactly why he felt he should be moved forward (second revision, of course; the first one had included such gems as “Point One: I won’t have to cause a nuisance and interrupt the teacher to correct one of his or her egregious mistakes,” and “Point Six: It’ll look way better for the school district if they decided to take pity on an almost-orphaned underprivileged boy who one day hopes to make a difference in the world. If you don’t, you will all look like monsters. And also, I have a lawyer,” and finally, “Point Eighty-nine: I’m a vegetarian. Studies have shown a vegetarian’s brain works at a higher capacity than those that eat the flesh and drink the blood of our animal companions. If you don’t believe me, look it up on Wikipedia.” Like I said, subtle).
“You sure this is all we’re going to need?” he asks me, poring through the papers for at least the ninth time in two days. “It would suck to get there and have them tell us no because you forgot to include something.”
“I asked Erica,” I remind him for the hundredth time. In two days. “She went over your… proposal and said everything looked fine. You know this.
Now you’re worried? Why?”
He looks up from his bullet points and watches me plainly. “Because you’re worried, Bear. And it makes me nervous. You know when you worry, I worry. It’s just something we do.”
I almost grin at this, but I’m able to squash it before he can see the mirth crawling behind my lips. He’s right, obviously. We’re practically the same, he and I. Not that that’s a bad thing, at all. We’re just… slightly neurotic.
Slightly.
He sees it anyways and scowls at me.
“We’ll be fine,” I tell him. “Just remember, if you just so happen to think something that probably sounds like it shouldn’t be said out loud, chances are you probably shouldn’t say it.”
“You should probably do the same,” the Kid says. “I don’t want to have to explain to the principal, my future teacher, and the superintendent why my older brother who’s petitioning to become my guardian is attempting to form words but instead looks like he’s a gorilla that’s struggling to learn sign language.”
“I don’t do that!” I snap.
Otter chuckles and farts to cover it up. God, he’s so gross.
