Lyla by Sean Dietrich

Author:Sean Dietrich [Dietrich, Sean]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781506120263
Publisher: Blue Meadow
Published: 2015-05-04T04:00:00+00:00

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“Sound it out,” Sonnet said.

My pronunciation was that of a two-year-old reading the dictionary. I tried to force the words out, but they weren't coming.

“That's it. You have to break the word up into big chunks,” she said.

It didn't help.

I sounded out the syllables. I pushed them out of my mouth like cement blocks. The words tumbled from my fat lips. It was as though I was attempting to speak foreign language.

Backward.

“That's good,” she encouraged me. “It's coming back to you, I can tell.”

I wondered how on earth she thought such a thing.

I looked up at the sky. I found it a strange feeling not to be out in the oyster beds, not working during such weather. I hadn't put in a full day of work since Roosevelt had the gall to draw my number.

Since my draft call, I spent every moment of the day with Sonnet. I breathed her in. I wanted to memorize her face so I could see it whenever I closed my eyes.

“Quinn.” Sonnet tapped her pencil on the page. “Dammit, focus now or I'll stab you in the eye with this pencil.”

I liked it when she cussed.

It suited her.

We read out of a children's book that belonged to her. She used it in the first grade. Inside the book were illustrations of a boy climbing a tree. He played with his dog, running, and skipping rope. His name was Dick, and he was a happy little towhead who had the world by the scruff of the neck.

Lucky Dick.

“That's good,” Sonnet said. “No shame in reading it slow.”

Speak for yourself.

“See Dick run,” I read the words with a heavy tongue.

“Very good.”

“See Dick jump.”

“Good, nice and slow.”

“Dick. Can. Climb–climb a tree.”

“Good.”

“See Dick fall out of the tree and break his ever-loving neck.”

“Hey, it doesn't say that.”

“Dick is dead.”

“Quinn, stop it.”

“Poor Dick.”

Sonnet was a talented teacher, patient, better than any I'd had in elementary school. Our childhood teachers were horrid. They knew we were cracker-boys. They, like us, knew we were going to be fishermen, loggers, and mill-workers. They didn't force-feed us anything. To be fair, there would've been no point in it.

My father thought the same way they did. Like many poor people, he didn't place much importance on education. To the impoverished, reading and writing were like fancy cars. Sure, they were amusing, but far too expensive for a cracker to own.

“This word right here.” Sonnet touched the text on the page. “It sounds different than it's spelled. It's a hard one.”

“Lag,” I said.

“No, I'll give you a hint.” She tapped her lower leg. “It sounds like the word calf.”

I looked at her thick shin and forgot all about reading.

“Pay attention, Quinn, sound it out.”

I squinted at the page. “L-L-Laugh?”

“Good. See what you can do when you focus?”

“But, I don't get it, what does Dick have to laugh about?”

She rolled her eyes at me.

It was hard to focus on the colorful illustrations and black text in the book. All I could think about was my own grim future, one where I'd be holding a rifle not meant for hunting.

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