Clowns and Kings

I probably should have thought twice before putting on my bright red, round-toed shoes with a yellow and white polkadot sweater; you can't get much clownier than that. But the right outfit was the least of my worries. It was my first English lesson with a 7-year-old boy. That's cause for panic no matter what I'm wearing.

For the first meeting I'd decided to go to his house. His wide eyes and little grin at my entrance reminded me I was still wearing my favorite large-brimmed convertible hat (which nicely topped off the clown suit). I removed it as he reluctantly approached for the formal introduction.

I lost a few points when I didn't understand his name. His mom told him to speak up and explained that he was still getting used to his new retainer. He tried again and I thought I'd heard Pedro, but that's not Italian. I crossed my fingers and said, "I think you said Pedro, but if I'm wrong it's not your fault, it's mine. I'm American and I don't understand Italian very well." He said I was right and told me his dad is from Argentina, otherwise he'd have been Pietro.

Next came the light, motherly scolding for not having dried his hair. Of course there's always risk in taking the kids' side, but I gave him an accomplice's grin and showed him my wet locks; ready for my own reprimand. That was enough to regain the points I'd lost earlier and also enough for Mom to know she could go upstairs for an hour.

Once alone, he asked my name again and I said Ten. He asked, "Why? Are you ten years old or something?" I told him more or less, yes, because grownups always say I act like I'm ten. Then he said, "OK, what do you want to do?" It felt just like a real play date.

I suggested some kind of game. When he asked which one, I said I didn't know games' names in Italian. The only one I remembered was scacchi (chess) and his mom had told me he liked that so I gave it a try. But when he asked if I knew how to play I couldn't lie and my suggestion that he teach me didn't go over so well. He said, "Well, if you don't know how to play, we're not playing." Then he went upstairs to get Monopoly.

We reviewed the names of the pieces and counted our moves in English and the hour was over before we could pass go and collect 200. When his mom came down she sent him outside with a snack so we could talk. That's the part I hate. We teach kids not to talk behind each other's backs, but we do it to them all the time. The kid in me always feels sad, but maybe my playmates don't even notice.

In our private meeting I was invited back and I accepted. Seemingly on cue, Pedro reappeared with a yogurt-covered face. My first thought was that a 7-year-old shouldn't have made such a mess eating yogurt. Then I remembered I had the same problem last week licking the aluminum lid of my chocolate parfait.

Instead of giving him homework, I promised I'd learn how to play chess for the next lesson. I don't care a lot about the bishops and rooks. I just want to learn the right moves to capture the heart of my new little king.