Loser: Chapters 1–11

There are no other constraints. Not a fence in sight. No grown-up hand to hold. Nothing but the bright wide world in front of him.

Heedless of all but the wind in his ears, he runs.

With a new-year, crisply cut length of chalk, she writes in large numbers on the green slate: 180

And Zinkoff, jumping to his feet so fast that he knocks his desk over with a nerve-slapping racket, thrusts up his hands and bellows to the ceiling: “YAHOO!”

He has never tried to copy it, has never hitched a ride on a pencil point, feeling the shape and movement of his name’s letters.

All the way home he jabbers about his incredible first day.

Things keep happening that rekindle the excitement of the first day.

The classroom is a sea of boggling eyes. Wow!

When Miss Meeks passes Zinkoff on to second grade, she writes on the back of his final report card: “Donald sometimes has a problem with self-control, and I wish he were neater, but he is so good-natured. That son of yours is one happy child! And he certainly does love school!”

Cherise nods solemnly. “I’ll give it a try.”

So his mother simply gives directions and says “Heaven help me” a lot while her intrepid son makes a mess of the kitchen.

He pries the giant snickerdoodle from the sides and bottom of the pan.

Early on, Zinkoff’s mother impressed upon her son the etiquette of throwing up: That is, do not throw up at random, but throw up into something, preferably a toilet or bucket.

She scours it with a stiff bristle brush and hand soap.

Shooting a basketball demands precision.

But soccer is free-for-all, as haphazard and slapdash as Zinkoff himself.

But soccer is free-for-all, as haphazard and slapdash as Zinkoff himself.

His mother and father look on with mouths agape as he tears off his shirt and shoes and finally his socks and stomps them all into the ground.

It bounces into the net for a goal, and Zinkoff is instantly mobbed by cheering teammates.

They ride their parents’ shoulders and thrust up their fingers and crow, “We’re number one!”

The teacher, whose name is Mrs. Biswell, thinks it is the most annoying, untimely question she has ever heard.

As her anger rises, the gnarled hands begin to churn over each other as if she is washing them in gritty soap.

As her anger rises, the gnarled hands begin to churn over each other as if she is washing them in gritty soap.

After two months of the worst penmanship she has ever endured, the teacher wrings her hands and calls out to the boondocks: “Your handwriting is atrocious!”

After two months of the worst penmanship she has ever endured, the teacher wrings her hands and calls out to the boondocks: “Your handwriting is atrocious!”

In all ways that teacher Biswell can see, the Z boy is a shambles.

It is unthinkable to Mrs. Biswell that such a mediocre-to-poor student could actually like school, so she concludes that his antics and reckless enthusiasms are merely ploys to annoy her.

It is unthinkable to Mrs. Biswell that such a mediocre-to-poor student could actually like school, so she concludes that his antics and reckless enthusiasms are merely ploys to annoy her.

It is unthinkable to Mrs. Biswell that such a mediocre-to-poor student could actually like school, so she concludes that his antics and reckless enthusiasms are merely ploys to annoy her.

The boy gawks at his father. “I’m getting paid?”