I was walking down the hall and passed Frank and his class, who were waiting outside the cafeteria for their teacher to arrive to take them back to class. (I’m convinced she was hiding in the faculty bathrooms, but I can’t prove it.)
Frank grabbed my hand, and shouted, “Mrs. Smythe, Megan has sexia!”
The roar from the cafeteria is usually enough to drown out any conversations that children from previous years attempt to have with me, but thanks to Frank’s booming voice, he came across loud and clear, kind of.
“What did you say?” I asked.
“You know Megan. You always tried to tell her that she wasn’t in preschool but in big kid school! She has sexia! You know, sexia!”
Ethan, who was standing behind him looked at me and rolled his eyes. “It’s not sexia. It’s dyslexia. Geesh.”
“That’s what I said.” Frank muttered as he gave Ethan a little shove.
Damn I miss that kid. (Pretty much.)
