Chapter 7. Who’s to Blame?

“Hi, Mom,” said Andrew to Linda as she opened the front door of her house. Andrew didn’t look up from his homework, which was spread out on the table in the dining room.

“Why are you still up?” Linda asked, with hints of frustration and resignation. She took off her shoes and walked to the dining room. She had a sinking feeling that whatever was about to happen would end in tears.

“Because I’m bad at math,” Andrew said.

Linda sat down next to her son, noticing that he was now almost as tall as she. His eyes were red and his thick, black hair was standing up in all directions. “A hairstyle like an explosion at a macaroni factory,” they joked when his hair got this disheveled, but this was no time for joking. The table had tiny bits of rubber strewn about it, the result of furious, frustrated erasing that Andrew would do during his math homework.

From an early age, Andrew seemed exceptionally gifted at words and languages. He started speaking his first language, Bosnian, relatively late, but everyone marveled at the fully formed sentences that he spoke when he was four. He knew no English when he entered kindergarten, but within a few weeks was able to communicate with his teachers and classmates with ease.

Math was another story.

“Mom, I need help!” Andrew said.

Linda could almost predict what would happen next, because it had happened so many times before. She would try to explain whatever math concept her son was having trouble with, and he would try ...

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