He stomped into the small lounge

Deliberately

And dropped his school kit on the floor

Beside the tutoring table

With a thump.

He eyed the paper doily with its apple juice

And the silver muffin cup

Glinting with bright SKITTLES.

 

Without a word he sat down

Took a sip of juice and licked his lips.

He toyed with choosing the best colour

For first burst of pre-lesson flavour.

He pulled the Math paper into place

Reaching for a pencil, scorning the rubber.

‘Bit of a hard day at school?’

No answer. He didn’t look up.

 

‘There are three examples to work

Like the ones on your school test

That you X'd with a thick, black marker.

This is a test for me.

I need to understand where you are

Having trouble sorting things out.

Do the best you can so that

I can do the best I can.’

 

The pencil flew. ‘That is excellent.’

The pencil flew again. ‘Well done.’

He laid it across his completed work

Neatly, like the figures of his computations.

He looked up

His dark eyes bruised with misery.

‘My mother says

I am just my father’s sperm.’

 

Cynthia Buell Thomas