Catboy Read Online Free PDF Page B

one, and correct that.”
    The first poster he pulled down was a word I was pretty sure I knew. It was in Spanish. We had kids from two different countries in South America, Bolivia and Chile. I remembered that almost all of South America spoke Spanish, not Bolivian or Chilean. Brazil was one of the exceptions, where they spoke Portuguese.
    â€œThat one is mine and Agnes’s,” Salvador said. “That is Spanish.”
    I put up my hand.
    â€œYes, Taylor.”
    â€œCould people also say the word again so we can hear it?”
    â€œAgain, a good suggestion. You are full of good ideas today,” Mr. Spence said.
    Hearing him say that made me feel happy and kind of proud.
    â€œGo ahead, Salvador and Agnes,” Mr. Spence said.
    â€œ Hola ,” the two of them said together.
    â€œVery good. Can you both say it once more, and then I’d like everybody to repeat it back to them,” Mr. Spence said.
    When we all repeated the word back to them together, they smiled. It was as if we’d given them something, a gift, and maybe we had .
    â€œI’m going to write Spanish underneath,” Mr. Spence said, “but I’m also going to write your two countries as well.”
    We went poster by poster, language by language, with kids saying their native hello and the rest of us repeating it. Some were harder for me to say than others. The words or letters just wouldn’t form easily in my mouth. If that’s how it was for me, was it the same for someone learning to speak English?
    Each time the class answered back, it seemed to make the person happy. Even kids who were shy smiled.
    â€œAnd whose is this one?” Mr. Spence asked.
    â€œThat’s ours,” both Jaime and Dylan said.
    I looked over at Simon, and he mouthed Mandarin to me.
    â€œAnd that is Mandarin,” Mr. Spence said. “It is one of the two major languages spoken in China. The other is, of course…who has an answer?”
    Hands shot up around the room, including that of Doris, who spoke Cantonese. This was fun, and it had been my idea!

Seven
    On Tuesdays and Thursdays, Simon didn’t walk home with me. He went to a special math class. How strange, to be as fantastic as he was at math and still go to special lessons. Then again, maybe that’s why he was so good. In some ways he was no different than the kids who were rep basketball players and went to basketball camp every summer, or people who had a great jump shot but spent hours on the court taking shots.
    I went to cross the road, hesitated, and looked around a parked truck as a car sped by only inches from my face. I staggered back. I was more aware of the traffic now, but it still unnerved me.
    Both sides of the street were lined with parked cars, bumper to bumper. I didn’t know how they would ever get out. There was a gap in the traffic, and I shot past several passing cars. If you waited until there were no vehicles to cross the street, you’d be waiting all day. Simon used to kid me about that— Don’t they have cars where you come from? he’d ask—so I’d made a point of walking more “city.” Back home the drivers looked out for people crossing the road, especially around schools. They’d slow down and sometimes even stop and wave you across. Here in the city, it was as if the drivers got bonus points for close calls with pedestrians.
    Where I grew up, there were cars and pickup trucks, but not much else. Here there were so many cars and trucks, big and little, as well as lots of bikes, mopeds and motorcycles. A bus line connected to the subway that ran alongside the main roads. The only public transit system in our old town was a local taxi— Bert’s Taxi.
    I knew Toronto wasn’t that far from our old town, but it was so different, it was as if I was in a different country. In my old town there were houses, of course, but nothing like here. There were a lot more of them here,