TE22 Potpourri

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Special Needs

have achieved a higher grade on such an easy assignment. I don’t know what to do with you. This isn’t maths, and I’m not asking you how much is two plus two.” Just as well. I struggle with maths. OK, I struggle with other subjects too, but especially with maths. It’s my hardest subject at school. I always practice it at home with mum. We start with apples: “Emil, you have two apples and I give you two more, how many apples do you have now?” I look at them, all nice and red, mum calls them Johnathins (though they’re not thin at all!), she bought them to make me an apple pie, and I say: “Four.” “Good! So what’s two plus two then?” she says, removing the apples from the table. I can’t stop wondering where the apples she just mentioned have gone.Why areonly the numbers left?What’s the number? What am I adding? Why am I adding? Mum says that I’m bad at abstract thought. “Emil, think with your head, not with your hands,” the teacher always says when she catches me using my fingers under my desk to add and subtract. How am I supposed to do that? When you count, your fingers 146 “???”

are on your hands, not in your head!

“There’s always some problem with you, Emil,” she says when we’re alone in the classroom and she doesn’t want anybody to hearwhatshehastosaytome. “Aspecial schoolwouldbebest for your development. You’re not keeping up with the programme here, and I don’t have time to work with you individually. I don’t knowwhat to do, this is becoming impossible for both of us…” The best thing to do is nothing. That’s the answer I always want to give. Because the hands and feet problem is mine, not hers. So, I don’t understand why she’s mentioning a special school. Because I’m not special, I’m ordinary. As ordinary as ordinary can be!!! Natalia is the one who is special, in every way. She’s specially pretty and especially good. And she specially invited me to her birthday party on a hand-made card. She’s the only one in the whole class who ever invited me. I couldn’t believe it when it happened last year. I heard some of the children whisper to her: “Did your mother make you invite him?” And I also heard: “I’m not coming if you invite that imbecile. Your choice!” I didn’t go to the party. Not because of the word imbecile, but because I didn’t want to go without mum. And mum didn’t want to go because grown-ups don’t go to children’s birthday parties. Full stop. “You’re ten years old, Emil!” she said. “It’s time for you to 147