“Room One is for the slow people,” Frances said when I told her where I go on Tuesdays on Tuesdays, in the school’s basement, Room One waits for me as I walk the sharp cornered corridors (small steps muted) I try not to think about Frances because I can’t pronounce her as I practice my s’s thay my ethhis’s. Under my arm my robin-egg-blue notebook red lines crowned with pencil chubby sea shore sea shore thhee e thoorre (concentrate) thh ee thore theee thhhore. Room One’s door is notebook blue with a small window way up high yellow-warm with light opens and then Miss Sutherland’s sandy hair done up and her green blouse well-tucked in a rose coloured skirt. Her barefeet in open white sandals and the edges of her heels patched with hard cracking garden blackened skin an April earth. I dangle my legs under me under my small chair with the plastic orange seat. Swallow hard. My mouth is broken. Needs fixing. Miss Sutherland’s shoulder touches mine and I smell spring and open books with sheep. shores. shoulders. shouts. seashells. songs. sad ships she senses six-year-old’s suffering suffocation in/articulation. Then a tin cup with gold stars. Licking her finger with her tongue a star for my robin-egg-blue notebook. Am I slow? I want to ask but I can’t pronounce her. My tongue can’t find its place. The blue door closes behind me. I leave the soft room and go upstairs where Frances is waiting.