“No one learns that kind of thing on their own.” But he was at a loss for words
because no one had actually seen anyone teach me anything. It was a mystery.
I remembered what had happened a week earlier. It had left the family in a flap.
It had started at Gran’s house, when I sat next to Uncle Edmundo, who was reading the newspaper.
“Uncle.” “What is it, son?” He moved his glasses to the tip of his nose, as all grown-ups do when they get old.
“When did you learn to read?” “At around six or seven years of age.”
“Can five-year-olds learn to read?” “I suppose so. But no one likes to teach them because it’s really too young.”
“How did you learn to read?” “Like everyone else, with first readers. Going ‘B plus A makes BA’.”
“Does everyone have to learn like that?” “As far as I know, they do.” “Absolutely everyone?”
He looked at me, intrigued. “Look, Zezé, that’s how everyone learns. Now let me finish reading.
Go look for guavas in the backyard.” He pushed his glasses back up his nose
and tried to concentrate on reading. But I didn’t leave. “What a shame!”
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