How Afraid I Am Without You

Part 2

Today was difficult, and I don't know why.

It was the prospective parents evening; all year 6 students and their parents from the local area came to trawl about the school, pick it apart, and decide on that child's future.

I was asked to 'assist' in art, which meant playing catch-up for all those long hours I should have spent on sprawling ink and swirling colours across a page. The three hours spent there felt like forever, and was (for the most part) bland and uneventful.

Watching those students meander in, I remembered when that was me - when I was full of hope and confidence, and absolutely certain of where I stood in the world. Seeing all those lives pass by, I thought on my own; and how wasted it is.

I got back to my work - a writhing mass of literal scribbles adorning the frayed and greying page, that tediously toppled and tenuously linked to my topic. I suppose it was then that it hit me: this is my mock exam sketchbook.

This is approximately 70% of my mock exam grade -

The grade that gets sent away to any sixth forms or colleges I may apply to.

The work that makes up part of my final GCSE grade...

The grade that I will need to state at every subsequent job interview...

Or University application...

The grade that will define me for the rest of my life.

What am I doing?

Nothing.

It was then, in that moment of crisis, that I felt eyes burrowing into my work; and then snap onto me. Looking up, I saw the deputy head of the school - my English teacher - studying me from across the room.

The evening was drawing to a withered and overdue close, and during this lull he had escaped the gradually decreasing throngs of people; as well as the duties for him that they bought. Noticing that I had seen him, he walked slowly and silently over - his crisp and piercing blue eyes never leaving my own downturned ones. In his slow and calculated strides, he reminded me rather of a leopard slinking in ever smaller circles around its prey.

I concentrated as hard as I could on my work - acting almost as if I hadn't noted his presence - even though we both knew I had.

Standing close behind me, he peered over my shoulder at the scribble filled sheet before me.
On it was a drawing of Albert Einstein - an artist research piece - which read the following:
'Dyslexia didn't limit Einstein', as was the work of the artist.

"That's amazing," he said rather softly, "It really is. You're very good at art..." he trailed off.

In a small, muted voice, I replied with a base "Thank you,"; laden with meek inconfidence.

Still standing uncomfortably close to me in the otherwise silent room, he attempted to make conversation.
Upon spotting the scribbled text, he says aloud, "Oh, you're dyslexic?", with perfect innocence.

A small wave of chuckles rippled around amongst the other pupils, as I quietly replied, "No, it's just for an artist research piece."

Both our faces flushed an awful colour of blushed rose, and he awkwardly made his way across the room and towards the door, making slight utterances to those he passed; so that it did not seem as though he was leaving in such a flustered hurry.

I myself am an average pupil in all of my classes, except, I thought, for one.

For English, the one subject that I had confidence in my abilities in, this was a blow; as my teacher believed that there was something in my work that would be explained by Dyslexia.