The poor boy was unravelling before her eyes. This wasn’t the first time that the stress of learning had gotten to him, but it was easily the worst. She had noticed last week that with Hugh; it was a case of two steps forward and one back. They would make progress, his confidence would grow, and then, at the slightest hiccup, he would lose his senses and capitulate into a heap.
At least he is trying… which is more than can be expected of most eight-year-olds.
It had been a rather revelatory week for Yvette. Having never taught before, she had no idea what she was doing, what her skills were, or if she was even cut out for such things as this. Further to that point, she also had no real conception of Hugh’s education, unable to even guess what he knew and what he needed to learn.
For this reason, Yvette had chosen to use this first week to test them both.
The start of the week was dedicated to literature and writing. Thankfully, it had taken just two lessons for Hugh to shine, and she breathed a sigh of relief when she realized that he was far smarter than she had hoped. In fact, she wondered if he was more intelligent than most boys his age. He had a knack for words… ironic, as he struggled so often to speak them. But when he wrote, and when he had a book in front of him to read, he was a natural.
Yesterday, they pivoted into mathematics.
Hugh was perfectly adequate at basic sums. He could count as high as he needed; he could add and subtract so long as he had paper and quill to work with. Even the more difficult equations that she gave him were worked through, and while he did not always get them right, he seemed to understand his mistakes. What was more, he wanted to get better.
Today, they moved onto multiplications, and that was when they hit a wall.
At the front of the room, Yvette had a blackboard set up, and on it were a series of circles with a number of dots peppered throughout each one. Each circle represented the number being multiplied, and it made for a good visual aid to learn the basics of multiplication. All one had to do was add the dots together from each circle, and you could multiply any number.
Sadly, Hugh struggled. And the more he did, the greater his frustration grew. He wanted to understand immediately. He hated himself when it took too long. And as his frustration became worse, his stutter increased, and the walls around him collapsed.
“Let us take a break from multiplication,” Yvette suggested. “Perhaps in a few weeks, once we –”
“No!” Hugh sat himself up, snatched a piece of parchment, and began to scribble on it as he tried to work through the tasks that she had written down for him. “I c -- can do this.”
“You don’t have to prove anything today, Hugh,” Yvette said.
“I can do this,” he said again.”
“Hugh…” She hesitated, watching as he scrunched his face, stuck out his tongue, and worked. “There…” She looked over hisshoulder and saw what he was doing. “Don’t rush… add those together… do it five times…”
“It doesn’t make sense!”
“It does.”
“No, it doesn’t!” He shoved out with his hands and knocked the ink to the floor with a crash. Ink went everywhere, and he jumped to his feet with a yelp. “Oh, no!”
“It’s fine.” Yvette grabbed a pile of parchment to use as a mop.
“I’m so – so – sorry!”
“You don’t need to apologize.”
“I ruin everything.” He fell back into his seat, and his face went into the palms of his hands. “It’s all my fault. All of it.”
“It’s not your fault…” On her knees in front of the desk, Yvette looked up to find Hugh with his head in his hands, breathing deeply, body shaking.
It was only then that she finally understood what was wrong.
This had nothing to do with him struggling with his multiplication. Not really. It looked to her eyes that there was adeeper cause for his anxiety, one that went beyond his learning capabilities.
I should have seen it earlier. Honestly, I should have asked him.
“Hugh…” Yvette stood up and went to him. She sat down on the edge of his desk and rested a hand on his shoulder, keeping her voice soft and commiserating. “What do you mean, it’s your fault?”
“This,” he said through his hands. “Everything. M – my father. He hates me.”
“That’s not true.”
“He should hate me,” he said. “I ruin everything.”
