Catalogue

1. It was Ms. Clare who first noticed something was wrong with me. Three times a week she would come into our grade four class and teach us French. She was a short, blonde, overly energetic woman who reminded me of an elf. After the first day or so, I tuned her out completely. It wasn't anything political; I didn't hate French culture or cooking or the tattered posters of the Louvre and the Eiffel Tower that Ms. Clare had tacked onto the bulletin board beside the display of "Fish of the Great Lakes." It was the repetition and the monotonous chanting. Bonjour. Comment vous appellez-vous? Je m'appelle Garnet, and so on. And on and on. Ms. Clare, in her chirpy new-teacher voice, would lead the recitations, occasionally throwing out a question in French that left us blank-faced and confused, and I would look out the window or draw pictures in my notebook or rest my cheek on my palm and doze. If she spoke to me, I'd ignore her. One day late in September, Mom and Dad got a letter from the school. Dad tore it open at the kitchen table. "It says Garnet is hard of hearing," he read. "Or in their words, 'Auditorily differently enabled.' They want to move him to the front of the room and bring in a consultant to test his hearing." My mother took a sip of her wine. "What's wrong with those people, anyway? Garnet, have you been giving your teacher a hard time?" I gave her what I hoped was a charming grin and cupped one ear with my hand. "Pardon?" I said. 2. In grade five there was Mr. Whitney, a thin middle-aged man with a face like a horse, who always smelled of cigarettes and cheap aftershave. He would have been happier in the army. He liked to have us line up for this and line up for that, to hand in our notebooks in alphabetical order while he stood at the front of the room tapping a meter stick against the side of his shoe. In his class, I developed a wander. Right in the middle of a reading session or a science lesson I'd slide out of my chair a crime equal to murder in Whitney's class and stand looking out the window or slouch over to the bookshelf where he kept stacks of out-of-date geographic magazines. Whitney would turn pink with rage and order me, "Sit down in your seat and stay there." I always obeyed the first part, but sooner or later I'd be on the move again. The second letter home of my school career was opened by my mother. She and Dad and I were out on the back porch enjoying a mid-October sunny afternoon. "It says here that Garnet has ADD," Mom said, squinting at the page in the bright sunlight. "Which is?" Dad asked, not looking up from the newspaper. "Which is Attention Deficit Disorder." "Ah. Which means?" "Which means, you ignoramus, that he " here Mom read from the letter, "'can't concentrate or stay on task.'" "Is this the same boy who can sit in the boat for hours fishing, and not say a word?" Dad asked. "The guy who can while away half a Saturday morning drawing?" "He's disruptive, according to Mr. Whitney. And disobedient." Dad cast a critical glance at me. "Well?" I had been polishing my pocket watch, a present from my parents a couple of years before. "Disruptive, definitely not. Disobedient, maybe," I said. "What am I supposed to do when he gives us stupid orders?" "Don't use that word. It's disre