I sit cross-legged on the edge of my bed. My mom sits on my floor with the flash cards fanned out in front of her. I am bored with math in school and bored and disappointed that my mom has decided to make me practice it at home. She, however, is excited by the prospect of working on math with me.

The first card she holds up is 5-2=____. I look at the card and its red-tinted symbols. I remember minus mean to take way, but nothing else holds any meaning. My mind is blank. I fight to compute the numbers but my brain feels as if it is searching through empty file cabinets. Mom sees the vacant look on my face.

Refusing to ruffled, she assumes her pest patient teacher attitude, clears her throat, and lays five cards down on the carpet. "Now, what happens when I take two of these away?" With a sweep of her hand two cards disappear. My brain struggles to retrieve the answer and comes up empty again. I take a tentative stab at it. "But now you have three cards," my voice hesitant and confused.

"Right because…" Mom lifts her eyebrows, poised for an answer.

I don't know. I don't have an answer.

"Watch, I'll do it again," she says, still maintaining her patient confidence. Once again, my mom lays five cards in front of her. "Ok, how many cards to I have in front of me?" I count them. "Five."

"Good. Now, how many do I have left after I take two away?"

"But now you have three cards," I say again, bewildered and confused. I honestly don't understand. I hear a subtle change in my mother's voice, something that makes it sound tighter, a little more forceful. She leans forward now, more intent. I move from my place on the edge of my bed down to the floor in front of her, separated from my mom by the red backs of the flash cards.

Excerpted from MY THIRTEENTH WINTER: A Memoir © Copyright 2003 by Samantha Abeel. Reprinted with permission by Orchard Books, an imprint of Scholastic, Inc. All rights reserved.