HISTORICAL FICTION By Michael G. Malaghan
A late-March rain-drenching front finally moved on. The return of the sun enticed Kenta’s class of one to move to the backyard picnic table.
“Don’t think of algebra as some kind of spooky math,” said Kenta, trying to ignore the swell of his pupil’s breasts. “When you see the letter ‘a,’ think about cars or apples. It’s just a symbol. Instead of having to write out ‘one hundred apples,’ or ‘twenty cars,’ we use a letter.”
“I’ll never get it. Your younger sisters find it so easy. I’m just dumb,” Teiko pouted.
“Don’t say that!” Kenta put a consoling hand on Teiko’s arm. “While my sisters have been studying, you were taking care of a family. There’s a difference between not knowing how and not being able to know.”