‘Island’ was the only word I’d gotten wrong in my entire first grade reading career. Mrs. Fox dutifully wrote that nasty word – ‘island’ – with a bold black Sharpie marker onto a white 5 x 7  index card. My ticket to mediocrity.

I knew the drill.  I had seen so many other kids carrying around stacks of bold black word cards to memorize. Is. It. And. The. Ten. Apples. Hat. Seen. They slapped them down like hands called in a poker game. But, I had never had any cards to play and so was left out of the game.

As Mrs. Fox handed me the ‘island’ card, I felt a mixture of sameness and shame welling up within me. I felt the whole room quietly look at me. For me to get something wrong was an unsettling event for everyone.  

The word was ‘island’.

I sat directly behind Debbie Clark - the dumbest girl in class. She had the most word cards. She chewed the corners of her papers and Mrs. Fox always asked who was little rat who handed in chewed up papers. Debbie never confessed but process of elimination ratted her out and landed her in the corner. 

I always felt sick in my stomach when we did math drills. We would round the room at a moderate pace – some kids slower than others and we’d all struggle through the answers together. But, when it came to Debbie, she would not even try to squeak out an answer. She became stone cold mute when asked a question in public. Untucking her white button-down blouse Debbie would pull at the edges and stare at the floor. An impatient lot, the rest of us would snicker or wiggle in our seats and sigh. Mrs. Fox would grow more and more furious eventually sentencing Debbie to her corner in the back of the room. 

I did what Debbie and the other kids did with their missed words, I flipped the ‘island’ card over and over, repeating my single missed word. Island. Island. Island. Without a good healthy stack of challenging words, the exercise bored me. But, it made me humble, and I wondered what else about me might be just like Debbie Clark.

 I began to watch Debbie all the time. She always wore the same white button-down shirt and her hair was thick reddish brown with lots of body but no curl. Her face was pale and smattered with reddish freckles and her eyes were pure black with long lovely lashes. Her teeth were crooked but, she didn’t smile much so it wasn’t distracting. Sometimes she wore a pleated blue and green plaid skirt which made me think she was Irish, like my grandmother. Her oxblood penny loafers were the first possession that I realized I did not have but wanted very much.