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“Ours, Fin—Finley.”
“No, don’t.”
“Don’t?”
“You can call me Fin.”
Ethan’s face brightens; his smile makes me wish I’d told him this the first day we met. “It’s ours, Fin.”
“Kia ora.”
His hand flies to his head as if he wants to adjust his cap, then realises he’s not wearing one. His swallow juts his throat. “I like when you speak te reo.”
“Yeah?”
“K-ka rata ahau i a koe.” He stammers. Reddens. I like you.
I’m grinning so hard. I like you too, I say back. I clasp his neck and draw his forehead to mine, noses touching. Don’t be shy to speak Maori, treasure every little word.
“What does that mean?”
I tell him.
“Will you teach me more?”
“Sure. I mean, I’m not good with spelling, but Mum’ll help you there.”
“Could I help you too? With spelling? Reading? Writing?”
“Like, tit for tat?”
“Like, because I want to?”
“Okay, yeah. As long as . . .”
“As long as what?”
“You don’t force me to read Katherine Mansfield.”
He laughs and shakes his head. “No can do. Mansfield is a must.”
We absorb the yellow for another half hour before heading downstairs. Mum is in the kitchen, singing “Te Kainga Tupu”. Home Sweet Home.
I help her make pancakes, then grab spreads for setting the table. Tom and Ethan are seated at one end, Tom perusing a newspaper, Ethan patting Mrs Norris who’s curled up on his lap.
The cat lifts its head as I near, very smug indeed. Like it’s a competition between us, who gets Ethan’s attention. I roll my eyes.
Dry kibble only for you later, I return with equal smugness.
She bats her head against Ethan’s stomach and open-mouth purrs. There’s no beating that.
I snicker as I head back for more spreads. When I approach again, Ethan is chatting with his dad. At my name, I pause behind the doorway.
“Are you really planning on moving Finley to another room?”
Tom grunts.
“Because . . . downstairs, the only real options are the rooms either side of yours, and . . .” He lowers his voice. “Won’t that be uncomfortable? For you? Maata? For my soon-to-be brother?”
Tom makes another sound. “You have a point. I wouldn’t want . . . You’re okay with him upstairs with you?”
“Oh, you know. We’ll have our ups and downs like any siblings, but yeah. It’s cool.”
I hold my breath through Tom’s pause. “Good. Then there’s no reason to make any changes.”
The clatter I make as I enter the room and plant more spreads on the table isn’t all theatre. As I leave again, I catch Ethan’s eye.
“Thank you,” I mouth.
He winks.
I always felt that the great high privilege, relief and comfort of friendship, was that one had to explain nothing.
K. Mansfield, Letter
“Stop reading, Fin,” Ethan says gently.
Ten minutes into a study session and already I’m yawning and rubbing my eyes. “Sorry.” I dogear the page and snap the book shut. “Guess I didn’t sleep well.”
“Let’s try this differently. I’ll read it aloud, okay?”
I close my eyes and absorb his smooth voice; it’s full of delightful intonation as he breathes life into the text. I answer his questions; he asks more challenging ones, but they’re not so difficult either.
We debate the theme of the excerpt—he thinks it’s about awareness of one’s identity; I think it’s about the courage to live that identity—and he nods. I’m not sure it’s in agreement with my position. More like he’s suddenly realised something.
He stares at me for a long time, his grey gaze thoughtful.
He sets the book on my desk and asks me to come with him. It’s warm out, tempered by swirling breezes that rustle through the trees. Ethan catches Mum’s attention and cuffs my bicep, pulling me to her. She’s measuring the distance between pear trees. Something to do with the wedding, no doubt.
I feel every press of his fingers. I have a strange desire to shake him off so that Mum doesn’t see.
He lets go. “Maata?”
“How can I help you boys?”
“I think you need to try again, with Fin’s reading.”
“What?”
“He’s incredibly bright and has a firm grasp on reading comprehension when he’s given the chance.”
Mum looks at him, surprised. She encourages him to continue. “I know you’ve done tests before, but . . . I think you should get a second opinion.”
Within a week, Ethan’s suspicions are confirmed. Mum says she’d wondered, but . . . She spends an afternoon crying, wishing she’d tested again sooner.
This is a good thing, she says, hugging me. We can inform the school. Teachers will take it into account when it comes to testing. We can rethink the way I study.
A stack of books about learning disabilities appears, mysteriously, on Ethan’s desk. He comes up with a multisensory learning program, lets me take my time reading; when my studies aren’t reading-specific, like science, he reads aloud for me so I can work on answering the questions. The sound of his voice becomes part of me, an imprint in my brain.
