I started teaching A Wrinkle in Time to one of my students. I thought it would be appropriate for his level since I’d never read it.
Around half way through the first chapter, he stops me.
“High school?” he asks.
I nod. I point at him. “Elementary school,” I say. “Then, Middle school,” I continue, laying my hand flat and rising it a little.
“And University?” he asks.
“After high school.”
He nods. I smile. I ladder my hands as I repeat.
“Elementary, Middle school, high school, then, university.”
“Ah,” he says, he mimics my motions.
“Elementary school, Middle School, High School, then, work?”
“Then,” he screws up his face, “death?”
He drags his finger across his throat and his tongue falls out of his mouth. His head falls to his chest. He tries not to smile.
“I suppose so,” I say. He laughs, I laugh.
He makes the dead motion again, killing the joke.
“Well, you know, there is retirement,” I say, awkwardly.
He frowns, “like, before death?”
“Like my grandma?”
I shrug, “Probably.”
He looks thoughtful for a moment.
“She’s dying,” he decides, looking sad.
“Oh,” I try to look empathetic, “sorry.”
He nods his head.
“But, so, yeah, that’s what high school is,” I say. “Should we continue?”
He nods, picking up the book, and continuing to read.