ask.”
If
I require help? I pace back and forth, trying to figure out what else I can possibly do with the students. I teach the words
knuckle, nostril
, and
armpit
before Mr. Special Kingsley finally looks up. His cracked glasses are halfway down his nose. “Perhaps you might teach the children a game. An American game,” he suggests.
I swallow and glance at my backpack on the floor. I’ve got nothing against common sense, but right now, itdoesn’t help. My mind is blank. Game. Game. I can’t think of one, so I wiggle my nose and chant in my mind:
Hocus-pocus full of fear
,
Make forty more Bingo cards instantly appear
.
No luck.
“What do the children in your country do for fun?” Mr. Special Kingsley asks.
“Fun?” I say, as if it’s a word in a foreign language.
The truth is it’s been a really long time since I had fun back home. Last May, the day after Mom’s heart attack, instead of meeting Marcella and Sydni at Jamaica Pond, I lay in my bed, stared at the ceiling, and thought about how incredibly far it was from the floor. In July, for my thirteenth birthday, Dad took Marcella and me to a fancy restaurant at the top of the Prudential Center, but instead of admiring the sunset while eating cake, I sat in the restaurant bathroom and cried as Marcella pounded on the door. When October came, I should have been painting a picture of fiery leaves that littered our front lawn. But instead, I sat on the front steps without my jacket and felt the windy chill burn my cheeks raw. And when the holidays finally crashed into our lives in December, I didn’t trudge through Coolidge Corner with Dad to get hot chocolate as the snow fell. Instead, I walked on the icy sidewalks by myself and thought about how my father and I hadn’t watched a single vintage superhero episode together since our lives had turned upside down.
“I mean, the children in the United States of America. What do they do to enjoy themselves?” Mr. Special Kingsley asks.
Think. Think!
I order myself.
Fun. Fun. Fun
. I grab on to my pendant and stick my teeth into the groove.
“What about Simon Says?” Mom suggests. “You always liked that when you were in kindergarten, Clare.”
“Zikomo,”
I whisper
.
Mom looks puzzled
.
“It means
‘thanks’,”
I say
.
I tell Mr. Special Kingsley that Simon Says is a fun game lots of kids in my country like to play.
“Very well, Clare,” Mr. Special Kingsley says. “But I must ask you, who is Simon and what does he say?”
“I’m not really sure exactly who he is, but he tells you what to do. It’s the name of the game—Simon Says.”
“Ahh,” Mr. Special Kingsley says. “A game called Simon.
Chonde!
Teach the children Simon.”
I explain the directions: “Do what I say, not what I do. And only if Simon says it first.” Mr. Special Kingsley translates into Chichewa.
But when a boy in the middle of the room tries to touch his toes, he sends half of the class tumbling over like dominoes. And everyone is copying what I’m doing instead of doing what I’m saying. Plus, there are so many kids in the room that it’s impossible to see when someone is out. And I’m really sweating.
Mental note: Teachers need double deodorant.
The game is a disaster, but half an hour later, with Mr. Special Kingsley’s help, we’re singing the song “Head, Shoulders, Knees, and Toes” in a four-part round. And honestly, it sounds amazing!
The students sing it twice through before Mr. SpecialKingsley tells me he will now teach the standard one math lesson. “A fine beginning, Clare,” he says. “You have planted a hundred seventy-six flowers this morning.”
“A hundred seventy-six!” I exclaim. I’m shocked. My hand will fall off if I even try to make enough Bingo cards for the students to work in pairs.
“That is the number enrolled in this classroom. Of course, they are not all here every day. Students come from many villages throughout Machinga district. Attendance depends on
If
I require help? I pace back and forth, trying to figure out what else I can possibly do with the students. I teach the words
knuckle, nostril
, and
armpit
before Mr. Special Kingsley finally looks up. His cracked glasses are halfway down his nose. “Perhaps you might teach the children a game. An American game,” he suggests.
I swallow and glance at my backpack on the floor. I’ve got nothing against common sense, but right now, itdoesn’t help. My mind is blank. Game. Game. I can’t think of one, so I wiggle my nose and chant in my mind:
Hocus-pocus full of fear
,
Make forty more Bingo cards instantly appear
.
No luck.
“What do the children in your country do for fun?” Mr. Special Kingsley asks.
“Fun?” I say, as if it’s a word in a foreign language.
The truth is it’s been a really long time since I had fun back home. Last May, the day after Mom’s heart attack, instead of meeting Marcella and Sydni at Jamaica Pond, I lay in my bed, stared at the ceiling, and thought about how incredibly far it was from the floor. In July, for my thirteenth birthday, Dad took Marcella and me to a fancy restaurant at the top of the Prudential Center, but instead of admiring the sunset while eating cake, I sat in the restaurant bathroom and cried as Marcella pounded on the door. When October came, I should have been painting a picture of fiery leaves that littered our front lawn. But instead, I sat on the front steps without my jacket and felt the windy chill burn my cheeks raw. And when the holidays finally crashed into our lives in December, I didn’t trudge through Coolidge Corner with Dad to get hot chocolate as the snow fell. Instead, I walked on the icy sidewalks by myself and thought about how my father and I hadn’t watched a single vintage superhero episode together since our lives had turned upside down.
“I mean, the children in the United States of America. What do they do to enjoy themselves?” Mr. Special Kingsley asks.
Think. Think!
I order myself.
Fun. Fun. Fun
. I grab on to my pendant and stick my teeth into the groove.
“What about Simon Says?” Mom suggests. “You always liked that when you were in kindergarten, Clare.”
“Zikomo,”
I whisper
.
Mom looks puzzled
.
“It means
‘thanks’,”
I say
.
I tell Mr. Special Kingsley that Simon Says is a fun game lots of kids in my country like to play.
“Very well, Clare,” Mr. Special Kingsley says. “But I must ask you, who is Simon and what does he say?”
“I’m not really sure exactly who he is, but he tells you what to do. It’s the name of the game—Simon Says.”
“Ahh,” Mr. Special Kingsley says. “A game called Simon.
Chonde!
Teach the children Simon.”
I explain the directions: “Do what I say, not what I do. And only if Simon says it first.” Mr. Special Kingsley translates into Chichewa.
But when a boy in the middle of the room tries to touch his toes, he sends half of the class tumbling over like dominoes. And everyone is copying what I’m doing instead of doing what I’m saying. Plus, there are so many kids in the room that it’s impossible to see when someone is out. And I’m really sweating.
Mental note: Teachers need double deodorant.
The game is a disaster, but half an hour later, with Mr. Special Kingsley’s help, we’re singing the song “Head, Shoulders, Knees, and Toes” in a four-part round. And honestly, it sounds amazing!
The students sing it twice through before Mr. SpecialKingsley tells me he will now teach the standard one math lesson. “A fine beginning, Clare,” he says. “You have planted a hundred seventy-six flowers this morning.”
“A hundred seventy-six!” I exclaim. I’m shocked. My hand will fall off if I even try to make enough Bingo cards for the students to work in pairs.
“That is the number enrolled in this classroom. Of course, they are not all here every day. Students come from many villages throughout Machinga district. Attendance depends on
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