1.

It was Ms. Clare who first noticed something was wrong with me. Three times a week she would come into our grade four class and teach us French. She was a short, blonde, overly energetic woman who reminded me of an elf.

After the first day or so, I tuned her out completely. It wasn’t anything political; I didn’t hate French culture or cooking or the tattered posters of the Louvre and the Eiffel Tower that Ms. Clare had tacked onto the bulletin board beside the display of “Fish of the Great Lakes.” It was the repetition and the monotonous chanting. Bonjour. Comment vous appellez-vous? Je m’appelle Garnet, and so on. And on and on.

Ms. Clare, in her chirpy new-teacher voice, would lead the recitations, occasionally throwing out a question in French that left us blank-faced and confused, and I would look out the window or draw pictures in my notebook or rest my cheek on my palm and doze. If she spoke to me, I’d ignore her.

One day late in September, Mom and Dad got a letter from the school. Dad tore it open at the kitchen table.

“It says Garnet is hard of hearing,” he read. “Or in their words, ‘Auditorily differently enabled.’ They want to move him to the front of the room and bring in a consultant to test his hearing.”

My mother took a sip of her wine. “What’s wrong with those people, anyway? Garnet, have you been giving your teacher a hard time?”

I gave her what I hoped was a charming grin and cupped one ear with my hand. “Pardon?” I said.

2.

In grade five there was Mr. Whitney, a thin middle-aged man with a face like a horse, who always smelled of cigarettes and cheap aftershave. He would have been happier in the army. He liked to have us line up for this and line up for that, to hand in our notebooks in alphabetical order while he stood at the front of the room tapping a meter stick against the side of his shoe.

In his class, I developed a wander. Right in the middle of a reading session or a science lesson I’d slide out of my chair – a crime equal to murder in Whitney’s class – and stand looking out the window or slouch over to the bookshelf where he kept stacks of out-of-date geographic magazines. Whitney would turn pink with rage and order me, “Sit down in your seat and stay there.” I always obeyed the first part, but sooner or later I’d be on the move again.
The second letter home of my school career was opened by my mother. She and Dad and I were out on the back porch enjoying a mid-October sunny afternoon.

“It says here that Garnet has ADD,” Mom said, squinting at the page in the bright sunlight.
“Which is?” Dad asked, not looking up from the newspaper.

“Which is Attention Deficit Disorder.”

“Ah. Which means?”

“Which means, you ignoramus, that he –” here Mom read from the letter, “‘can’t concentrate or stay on task.’”

“Is this the same boy who can sit in the boat for hours fishing, and not say a word?” Dad asked. “The guy who can while away half a Saturday morning drawing?”

“He’s disruptive, according to Mr. Whitney. And disobedient.”

Dad cast a critical glance at me. “Well?”

I had been polishing my pocket watch, a present from my parents a couple of years before.

“Disruptive, definitely not. Disobedient, maybe,” I said. “What am I supposed to do when he gives us stupid orders?”

“Don’t use that word. It’s disrespectful.”

“Oh, heavens,” I said, rolling my eyes dramatically. “A third D.”

“And don’t be a smart-aleck,” Mom put in, not too seriously. “You know what your father means. Mr. Whitney may not be your favorite person –”

“You can say that again.”

“– but you have to show respect.”

About a week later I was hauled up in front of the principal, who held in his hand a wrinkled piece of paper.

“I take it you drew this,” he began.

“Um, possibly.”

“It might have been smarter not to sign it,” he said sarcastically.

“Does this mean a letter home?”

This one was opened by Dad, and this time we were in the family room. Dad had built a fire, collected the mail and newspaper from the front door, and collapsed onto the sofa, prepared to read for a while. Mom was working on an article for a magazine, tapping away at the computer by the window. Dad read the letter, glanced at the piece of paper that came with it, got up and handed it to Mom.

She started to giggle.

“Now, Annie, how can we discipline this boy if you’re not going to be serious?”

The caricature, which I had drawn hastily while Whitney had his back to us writing “Rules for the Field Trip” on the board, showed him sitting on the toilet, boxer shorts around his ankles and a strained look on his face. The caption said, “Maybe you should try working it out with a pencil.” It was pretty juvenile, I had to admit.

The cartoon earned me another label: non-compliant.

3.

Strangely enough, I graduated, with a diploma signed by the area superintendent and a fairly negative attitude toward my school experience. It hadn’t been all bad, but I had never been able, for some reason, to work up the kind of enthusiasm or “school spirit” that a lot of other kids did.

I got one more label before I left Hillcrest Public School.

“It says here he’s gifted,” Mom read from what I hoped was the final letter home.

Dad yawned. “Really?”

“Yes. They tested him.”

“Gifted, eh?”

“Yup.”

“Gee, it only took them eight years to find out.”