The sound coming from Alper’s room was absolutely awful... His mum opened the door.

“Son, I’ve got a headache. Can you give it a rest?”

“But I’m practicing the guitar.”

“Practicing? Sometimes you hit the strings and sometimes you slap the guitar... And your mouth is open all the time. And you keep shouting. That’s not singing! We send you to a guitar course but it’s a waste of time and money! Didn’t they give you songs you’re supposed to practice with? You should learn how to play these first until you get them right.”

“Oh, I do play those songs sometimes. They’re really boring though. Anyway, it hurts my fingers when I play the strings according to the rules they teach us at the course. I play with my heart. Not according to rules...It’s a lot more fun that way.”

“Well, I hope your dad doesn’t hear that after spending all this money. It’s disturbing the neighbours. Last night, Mr. Arif from upstairs was driven mad. He said that your singing sounded as if you had fallen into a pot of boiling water!”

His mum’s words really depressed him. At first he thought that he only needed to touch the guitar and beautiful music would just come out on its own. But instead it was only practice, practice, practice. He couldn’t stand this.... He wanted to learn how to play his own music! He spent days and days writing lyrics... The light in the air... cats... birds... sweet breezes... Alper wrote about everything! But...Alper had no music for his words. He couldn’t write music. He didn’t know any notes at all. He picked up his guitar and went outside to the park opposite their house, which was nearly empty at this time of day.

Mom sat down at the kitchen table and looked at the awards dinner invitation as though she had received bad news from far away. “ Baby,it might be a mistake. Sometimes they accidentally send these things out to the wrong people.” She spoke slowly and with sympathy in her voice. I was only in the first grade; I didn’t understand the big deal and didn’t really care about a mistake.

I was embarrassed by the process of learning. On the first day of school my mom talked to my teacher for a long time while l sat at one of the little tables and met people who would be my friends for years, including Katie. I was so absorbed in my friend-making that I did not care what my mom was saying to my new teacher, and I certainly could not have known that she was expressing her concern about me possibly having a learning disability.

My academic progress was never a topic of conversation. I did not know anything about grades or scholarly competition. I didn’t care. I just liked my beautiful teachers. I loved my friends. I enjoyed doing all the worksheets and activities. My grades did not mean anything to me.

At the awards dinner, we sat by my best friend Katie and her family. She and I talked and laughed all through the meal. But Mom looked like she was still expecting bad news. She reached across the table and held my hand right before the principal started handing out awards. “Remember, sweetie, we’re just here to enjoy the dinner.”

The awards were given out by subject. Within each subject, the grade winners were announced and received a certificate, Math. No Rebecca, Science. No Rebecca. Reading. Katie got that one. She smiled broadly. I caught my mom’s face. She was near tears. She looked at me as if I were hurt. But I was fine. She was the one who was hurt, watching all the other children get awards while her own was passed over again and again.

All the subject awards were given out, and my name was not called.

A few seconds later, “Okay, the overall achievement medal for the first grade — Rebecca Youngblood.”

Holland is a country where much of the land lies below sea level. Only great walls called dikes keep the North Sea from rushing in and flooding the land. Once there lived in Holland a boy named Peter. One lovely autumn afternoon, when Peter was eight, he wanted to take some hot cakes to his blind friend. Off he went with a light heart. He stayed with his friend a little while, telling him about his walk along the dike, about the flowers and the ships far out at sea. Then he remembered his mother's words that he should return before dark, so he set out for home.

As he walked along, he sometimes stopped to pick the pretty flowers that grew beside the road. Suddenly he noticed that the sun was setting. “Mother will be worried about me,” he thought, and he began to run toward home. Just then he heard a noise. He stopped and looked down. There was a small hole in the dike, through which a tiny stream was flowing. Any child in Holland is frightened at the thought of a leak in the dike.

Peter understood the danger at once. If the water ran through a little hole it would soon make a larger one, and the whole country would be flooded. In a moment he saw what he must do. Throwing away his flowers, he climbed down the side of the dike and stuck his finger in the tiny hole. The flowing of the water was stopped! This was all very well at first, but soon it grew dark and cold. The little fellow shouted and screamed for help. But no one heard him. It grew still colder, and his arm ached, and began to grow numb. He shouted again. “Will no one come? Mother! Mother!”

But his mother had looked anxiously along the dike road many times since sunset, and now she had closed the door, thinking that Peter was spending the whole night with his blind friend, and that she would punish him in the morning for staying away from home without permission.