The Categorical Universe of Candice Phee Read Free Page A

side and his foot tapped even harder.
    â€œI wasn’t there when you were born, Candice,” he said finally. “I was too late.”
    Then he put his headphones back on and returned to his typing. I thought I heard him mutter “The story of my life” under his breath, but I might have been mistaken. I am sometimes.
    Dad is something of a mystery to me, but at least he doesn’t call me any kind of vegetable, which is a welcome change.
    So I still don’t know much about the manner of my birth. Probably the only thing I learned was that people can view the same events in radically different ways. For Rich Uncle Brian, it was peaceful. For Mum it was traumatic. For Dad it was a reminder of something missed.
    So
B
is for Birth. I was born. That’s it.

C Is for Chaos
    Classrooms are battlegrounds.
    Students resist work. Generally. That is their job. Teachers encourage work. Generally. That is their job. I respect both sides. It makes the class a safe battleground when everyone knows their roles and tries to perform them. Of course, there are exceptions. Like the time Darren Mitford swallowed his pencil sharpener and nearly died. Our math teacher thought for a moment that Darren was being an idiot. Darren is an excellent idiot, so it was an understandable mistake.
    It takes a surprisingly short time for someone to turn from pink to purple to the color normally associated with corpses. Darren didn’t even have the breath to gurgle. He sat in his chair, mouth open, changing color like a chameleon. When our teacher finally realized the seriousness of the situation, he jolted into action and performed a Heimlich maneuver. The sharpener shot from Darren’s throat in an impressive blur of speed, ricocheted off a wall, and pinged Susan Morris over her right eye. Stunned for a moment, she raised a hand to her brow and, when it cameaway red, shrieked and fell to the floor. Darren, meanwhile, went from dark purple to light purple and finally pink again.
    He still sucks pencil sharpeners. And almost everything else.
    But, generally, at school there was a routine.
    Douglas Benson broke it.
    I sat in Miss Bamford’s English class working on a comprehension exercise when the door opened and Miss Coolidge, the assistant principal, walked in. A boy shuffled at her side. She went through the ritual of introducing the boy (Douglas Benson) to the class and asked that everyone treat him with kindness and consideration. She said he was new to the area and didn’t know anyone.
    He gazed at our sea of faces, wearing the haunted look of one who has just been publicly identified as being new to the area and not knowing anyone. He might as well have had a big bull’s-eye painted on his forehead. Finally, he was allowed to sit down, and Miss Coolidge disappeared to get on with the business of being in charge of curriculum.
    Douglas Benson sat next to me.
    He had to. It was the only unoccupied seat. No one ever willingly sat next to me. That was also part of the routine and I respect that. I picked up my pen and continued the comprehension task. A few minutes passed before I felt a tap on my arm. I looked up.
    â€œCan you keep a secret?” whispered Douglas Benson.
    â€œNo,” I whispered.
    â€œOh.”
    I went back to the comprehension. A minute later there was another tap.
    â€œNot even a little bit?” whispered Douglas Benson.
    â€œNo,” I whispered.
    â€œOh.”
    There was a third tap.
    â€œDo you want to hear my secret anyway?” he whispered.
    â€œNo.”
    â€œOh.”
    The bell went. It was lunchtime. Douglas Benson was in luck. He’d only been in class for ten minutes and he was getting a break.
    I packed my pens and pencils very carefully in my case. I was very careful, because I hate it if my pens come into contact with my pencils. It’s upsetting. There is a divider in my case (Dad made it for me) to make it easier for me to keep my pens and pencils