Read Two Parties, One Tux, and a Very Short Film about The Grapes of Wrath for Free Online Page B

have liked me just the way Iam, but I certainly don’t. Everybody is special in their own way—how many times did we get that lecture? Followed by the same inane list: some are good at sports, some are artistic, some sing, some can do complicated math equations in their heads and will go on to win Nobel Prizes.
    Let’s review: I can’t play sports, I’m not artistic, I can’t sing, and I can barely add single digits in my head. The Nobel committee isn’t likely to call. I’m good at this litany of self-pity. Do they give Nobel Prizes for whining? I cannot write this paper.
    I can deal with the fact that I’m a hopeless dweeboid and that my grandmother, who is eighty-two and pushes an aluminum walker, has a more active social life than I do, but the one thing dweeboids are supposed to be good at is homework. I’m even a failure at being a dweeboid.
    I cannot write this paper.
    It is 5:34. The radio clicks, the static starts. I sit up, both feet on the ground. I stare at the offensive plastic cube for a full thirty seconds before turning it off.
    I should have read the book over the weekend. And I really tried. At least I sort of tried. I opened it twice. It’s not like it was the only assignment I had to finish. And Monday, there was a chem test to study for. What was I going to do, blow that off?
    Last night I sat in front of the computer and held my hands over the keys. I typed my name, the date, and the title of the paper, erased it, typed it again. I changedthe font from Times New Roman to Courier to Arial. I considered adding my middle name, added it, changed my mind, deleted it. After several hours of not writing the paper, I set my alarm and went to bed, telling myself I would deal with it in the morning. Now it is morning. To be more specific, it is 5:36.
    I pull myself out of bed. Still in my boxer shorts, I sit bare-chested at the computer.
    I cannot write this paper.
    6:14 a.m .
    â€œMitchell—what time is it?”
    â€œ6:15.”
    â€œIn the morning?”
    â€œYes.”
    There is silence on the other end of the line. It is an unhappy silence. I don’t think David is eager to talk to me right now.
    â€œDid I wake you up?” I ask, trying to sound surprised.
    â€œNot directly. My mother just did that. To tell me you were on the phone.”
    â€œSorry. What time do you usually get up?”
    â€œMy alarm goes off in about ten minutes.”
    So why are you so grumpy? A lousy ten minutes of sleep. I’m having a crisis here.
    â€œIf you had a cell phone, I could have called you without waking up your parents.” David doesn’t own a cellphone because he doesn’t want anyone to be able to reach him wherever he is. I’ve suggested, any number of times, that he could screen his calls, leave it on vibrate or even silent. He has yet to see the utility.
    â€œMy parents were already awake. Mitchell, why are you calling me at 6:15 in the morning?”
    â€œIt’s already 6:25. You’d have been awake now anyway.”
    â€œMitchell.”
    â€œHave you written your paper?”
    â€œThe one that’s due today?” As if he didn’t know.
    â€œYes.”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œDon’t turn it in. We’ll turn in our film instead.”
    David pauses. “You didn’t write your paper.”
    â€œNot exactly,” I admit. “Well, not at all. But your idea about turning in the film …”
    â€œWas a joke,” David says slowly. Nothing about the way he says “joke” sounds funny.
    â€œBut I’ve been thinking. It really could work. It’s creative, it’s different, it’s expressive, it’s already mostly finished.” I can hear the skepticism in David’s silence. “I’m going to talk to Curtis before class. If he says no, I’ll admit I didn’t write the paper. If he goes for it, we’re golden. This has to be better than