In the past students like me would be sent to sit in a corner with a dunce cap on their heads. I've seen pictures. Or maybe into the hall to teach themselves what the teachers couldn't. I've heard stories. But it's the 70s, today they just...
"Kim, are you listening?" The teacher glares at me. "Earth to Kim." She thinks she's so funny. Maybe she is. The class is laughing.
Am I listening? How do I answer that? Do I tell her the truth?
I was thinking.
That would tick her off. Like I was being disrespectful. Like the only thoughts I'm allowed to have are the ones she gives me.
I say, "Hmm. Ah. Uh."
I'm so funny. I should sit in the back with the class clowns that get A's without trying. Instead of sitting up here struggling to get a C.
"I'm sorry, Mrs. Mackie. I'll try harder."
I am sorry. Sorry to her; sorry for me.
Does she even hear me?
The bell rings, I leave that classroom and head to my locker. I keep my head down, my arms by my sides. Sharks swim in these waters. If they smell a weak dolphin they'll bite. I dump my books into my locker and get my stuff for art class.
Mr. Tremblay may look airy-fairy to some but not to me. He dances around with a smile on his face, humming. The walls of his classroom are covered with his students' work--my work.
He says things like, "You took an interesting perspective in this drawing. Good technique." He asks questions like, "Can you tell me where the light is coming from in this picture?" Easy questions. I'm usually the first to answer. I could stay in his classroom all day. But the bell rings again.
School was okay until I turned twelve until I entered the sixth grade. Now it's like all the other kids are racing ahead but I'm...but I'm stuck.
Sunday, October 28 (at approximately 5 PM)
Book Review: Super! by Jennifer Chew
middle-grade magical realism
What's it like to have a gifted friend?