The Slip

Josh’s room looked like it had been ransacked by a band of thieves. “Where is it?” he mumbled. “If I don’t turn it in today, I’m toast!” He looked in another spot.

Mom called him for breakfast - again.

‘Breakfast, schmekfast,’ he thought. ‘My life’s over if I don’t find it. What does it matter if I eat first?’

Dumping the book bag out again, he rifled the pages of his textbooks and spiral. Nothing. He mentally retraced his steps since leaving school yesterday. It had been tucked in his shirt pocket, but he’d forgotten to turn it in – again. He rechecked his clothes, the trashcan, under the computer keyboard. Nothing.

“Josh! Get down here!” Mom’s patience was gone.

He considered telling her, but she had already deemed him irresponsible. He couldn’t say that if he didn’t turn in his permission slip today – the one she signed a week ago – he couldn’t go to the aquarium. She’d shake her head and sigh. But she wouldn’t sign another one. She’d say something like, ‘let this be a lesson…’

He took one last, desperate look around. Mom would be equally mad about the mess. He became resigned to be the only kid in class not going. No chance to impress Sara Mills or maybe even hold her hand. He sighed. Not going to happen.

He grabbed his bag and went downstairs. He glumly ate his toast as he walked to the bus stop.

His brother Bret was relishing the moment. Mom was always telling him how Josh was so smart. But he wasn’t organized.

Bret knew why Josh had to look so hard. It was hard to find, because it wasn’t there. It was wherever things that get flushed go. Yep, Bret knew, because he had flushed it.


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