He hated that word.
His mother had hated it too.
No child was stupid, she said. Some were hungry. Some were scared. Some had never been taught in a language their minds could trust. But stupid was a word lazy people used when they did not want to find the locked door.
Benjamin stepped closer, keeping space between them.
“You’re not stupid,” he said.
The girl gasped and looked up.
Her eyes were green, wet, and furious.
“Who are you?”
“Benjamin.”
“Were you spying on me?”
“No. You were crying loudly.”
“I was not.”
“You were crying normal, then.”
She wiped her face with her sleeve, then seemed to remember sleeves were not for that. Her cheeks flushed.
“You don’t know if I’m stupid.”
“You’re holding the pencil too tight.”
She frowned.
“What?”
“When people hold the pencil like that, they’re usually scared of the problem before they start.”
She looked down at her hand.
Slowly, she loosened her grip.
Benjamin nodded toward the notebook.
“Fractions?”
“I hate fractions.”
“Fractions don’t care.”
She stared at him.
“They should.”
That made him smile.
Just a little.
He sat two steps below her, not too close.
“Show me.”
“I don’t need help.”
“Okay.”
He stood.
“Wait.”
He sat again.
Her name was Lily. She was nine years old. She hated fractions, long division, and teachers who said, “This is easy,” before explaining anything. She had a tutor, but the tutor spoke as if Lily were a presentation to be corrected, not a person trying to understand.
Benjamin looked at the problem.
3/4 + 2/8.
Lily had written 5/12.
He picked up the broken pencil.
“Imagine pizza.”
She sniffed.
“I’m not hungry.”
Benjamin was always hungry, but he understood what she meant.
“Fine. Imagine chocolate cake.”
“I like cake.”
“Good. If one cake is cut into four pieces and another same-size cake is cut into eight pieces, are the pieces equal?”
“No. The eighths are smaller.”
