Humor | Fiction
‘Schwa’ Sound Confidential: A Neurotic Noir
C is for caper
Been at ’dis racket a long time. Pinched a lotta cheeks; bagged a lotta goldfish. Yet nuthin’s had me behind the eight-ball like the curious case of why my daughter was placed in the Tigers reading group.
It was a dark and stormy Tuesday, after soccer but before Mandarin. This gal in ladybug rainboots — the one I call “sweetums” — sauntered into my office. Which, incidentally, doubles as the kitchen counter.
She asked for a snack. I asked if she’d washed her hands. She hadn’t, so I had her do that. But she forgot to dry ’em and dripped on the floor. So I cleaned that up. She again asked for a snack. But she couldn’t open said snack. So I did that too. That’s when she laid out the stakes.
“I’m a Tiger!”
“A tiger, you say? Lay it on me, toots.”
“Well, some in my class are Tiger readers and some are Bears and some are, um, other things. I don’t ’memba them all.”
A likely story. The way this lollipop’s gassing me, I know she’s protecting someone. But who?
I rattled off the known suspects.
“Say, what reading group’s that neighbor kid in? The one they call Tiny T?”
