The hard part was apologizing to Mrs. Henry.

Dear Dad,

 Yesterday I had to go back to school. I had to go early and walk by myself from class to class, apologizing to every teacher who ate one of the tainted cookies. I started with Mrs. Fletcher, the math troll. It was weird and made me feel pretty rotten, because Mrs. Fletcher said that I’d hurt her feelings. She clutched her projection monitor in both hands and said, “I thought we were friends, Trevor.” Boy, did that ever surprise me.  

 Mr. Schick was easier, because we don’t like each other and we’re clear on that. He just glowered at me the whole time, then nodded in a kind of military way. I thought he’d say how disappointed he was in me, but I think he only says that kind of stuff in front of a group. Come to think of it, I’ve never spoken to him alone before.

 The hard part was apologizing to Mrs. Henry. Is it bad of me for only feeling sorry about hurting the teachers I like? I knocked on Mrs. Henry’s door and she told me to come in. I walked in and stood by her desk where I confessed my crime and asked her to forgive me. She was quiet for a good ten seconds.

 “I’ll have to think about it, Trevor. You’ve just made a very serious request. And like any good bargain hunter, I don’t want to give in too easily. You wronged me. You’ve made no recompense, other than your confession. And now you want my pardon.” Then she started giggling. “Did you—did you hear about Mrs. Fletcher? She couldn’t stop eating your cookies. Oh, I bet she lost three pounds that day. Oh, what the heck. I forgive you.”

 The giggles took back over. I started laughing with her—the first time I really laughed about this thing that was supposed to be a joke. Mrs. Henry wouldn’t let me leave her class until I could get a serious look to stay on my face. “We can’t let anyone know we think this is funny, can we?”

 Anyway, Dad, I’ve been thinking that this is what you need. Forgiveness. Not the easy kind like Mom or Mrs. Henry gives out. The serious kind. The kind of forgiveness that costs something, you know? More like the way Stephan made Keith’s head pain go away by stomping on his toes. Not quite sure how to do that. I could ask Mrs. Henry. Or maybe you should ask your new guy.

 I’m thinking maybe I could help. Maybe I could take on this burden of yours, Dad, like the way you took on my fear of Mudgett. Maybe you could cash in your I.O.U.

 Your son,

 Trevor