William

And then, when you find yourself thinking about one thing, invariably you start thinking about something else, and then: a memory.

I was 14 the first time we went to John’s Island, the summer between my eighth-grade and freshman years. I hadn’t even planned to go, really, because it was a high school event, and all the high schoolers had worked the bake sales and the Sunday dinners to raise money. But then, as the time for the trip grew near, the h.s. group extended an invitation to any of the incoming freshmen who wanted to go.

And suddenly, I wanted to go. So, I did.

We went down there for a week to take part in a reading program for the kids on several small islands near Charleston, S.C. It was a great set-up: From 8 a.m. to noon each day, we’d spend our time going over English and grammar and reading with these kids, and from the rest of the day on into the night, we were free to play, basically. Go to the beach. Hang out at our dorm. Sing “Kum Ba Yah.” Et cetera.

Each morning, we broke into groups and took buses to one of the 3 islands: Kiawah, John’s and Wadmalaw. I went to Wadmalaw, and our group of students there was small enough that we were each paired up with one other student.

My student was William Ford.

William had skin dark brown as a buckeye and bright eyes, and from the moment I met him, I could tell he was a good student. He liked to talk, and smile. He was 10 years old, in fifth grade, he told me, but he didn’t care all that much about school. Still, we worked through our assignments as scheduled, and toward the end of the week, I had him write some sentences for me.

Then I read them, his handwriting loopy but neat, pencil on blue-lined notebook paper.

This was one of his sentences:

“Diana is very pretty.”

I smiled when I read it, and William watched me, his eyes on mine. I looked at him, and he was smiling, his teeth wide and even and white.

“Thank you, William.”

No one had ever said that about me before. Let alone written it.