black and white.
“So, it’s a photograph this time?” said Mrs Novak and seemed surprised when I produced the black and white portrait from my jacket’s inside pocket.
“It is,” I said.
“That’s all right,” she said, “I just thought you were going to bring us a comic book.”
I normally bring a comic book for show and tell.
“No. It’s a photograph,” I said and held it up high for the whole class to see it. No one was paying much attention, though.
“Great!” Mrs Novak said and seemed enthusiastic, “Tell us about the photograph!”
I concentrated hard. I wanted to make sure I said precisely what I had set out to say about the photograph. I wanted everyone to understand.
“This is my father,” I said, enunciating each word as clearly as I could.
I moved the photograph from side to side for the whole class to get a good view.
Everyone was quiet. I noticed that Mrs Novak was looking at the floor.
Then I heard someone whisper “Damn!” I thought it came from the back but I couldn’t say for a fact who it was.
I lowered the photograph, it was now close to my chest.
Mrs Novak broke the silence as she said, “Zak, is that a photograph of your father?”
Now she was facing me, massaging the bridge of her nose, her glasses pushed up to her forehead.
“Yes,” I said, “This is a photograph of my father.”
I carefully slid the photograph back in my pocket and was waiting for Mrs Novak to say that I could go back to my seat.
It was that when I distinctly heard someone say, “You don’t have a fucking father!”
Neither Mrs Novak nor I saw who it was.
I walked back to my desk and Mrs Novak called recess five minutes early.
