My favorite subject in school was math. Most of that subject was memorization, and the ability to remember things was my gift.
Our grade 3 teacher had decided to play a game to help us learn the times tables. She drew a pyramid on the blackboard and sectioned it off so that at the top of the pyramid was one slot. The next tier down would have two slots. The next tier would have four and so on. All the slots were filled in with the initials of each student.
Then the teacher would start at the bottom of the pyramid. She would offer each student the chance to challenge someone else from a higher tier. Those two students would square off and do a best of nine lightning round with flashcards. The teacher would hold up a card, say 9 x 3, and then she would lay it on the desk in front of the student who would be the first to answer ‘vingt-sept’. Naturally, each student would pick on the person they thought they had the best chance of beating.
It worked out that we had two students in our class with the same initials, but the teacher never felt the need to differentiate between the two. Poor Sammy Maltby, who could only count with his fingers, was always sucking wind on the bottom row. Suzy Merk was always on the second tier right below the top slot. Right above her in that top slot was her nemesis. Me.
It didn’t matter how much school I missed for health reasons. It didn’t matter how many times I was told to stand in the hall or go to the principle’s office. It didn’t matter that I never did homework, or assignments. My ability to recall things from memory was my gift. Back then I could spit out an answer as quickly as the teacher could flash the card. Merk never had a chance. I would humiliate her in that game every time and she hated it.
Since nobody could knock me out of that top slot, the teacher finally decided to reset the board. The class sat quietly as she erased all the slots and wrote all the initials back on in a different order. She wrote my initials on last. When she placed me on the bottom row, the class cheered.
As I worked my way back up to the top that week, an opportunity came for me to challenge my good friend Maltby. It was not a fair contest. He could not count unless he used his fingers. The teacher could put up an easy card like 6 x 2 and he would have to count un, deux, trois all the way to douze with his fingers. It was hopeless.
When we squared off, the first card the teacher pulled from the box was 9 x 12. A groan went through the class. The teacher had never thrown up a card with a number in the double digits before. Maltby went to work counting with his fingers. The teacher could see the answer on the back of the card and when she heard the class grown she looked at the front. She thought for a second and then decided that one was too hard, but in the few seconds it took her to hesitate before putting the card back in the box, I spit out the answer.
“Cent huit”
Another groan went through the class when I got it. Even the teacher seemed surprised. Maltby was still counting it out on his fingers. He zoned out.
The teacher threw up the next card and then the next. I kept rattling off answers. On my left Maltby was audible.
“Quarante-deux, quarante-trois, quarante-quatre…”
On my right I’m watching the cards come up, on my left I’m watching Maltby work on 9 x 12. His fingers were flying. He was in his happy place.
“Soixante-sept, soixante- huit, soixante-neuf…”
When the round ended, there were nine cards lying on the desk in front of me. The teacher gathered them up. There was no need to tally them. Maltby was still going on the first card. You could see he was getting excited.
“Soixante-dix-neuf, quatre-vingts, quatre-vingt-un…”
The teacher was being very quiet as not to disturb him. I turned around to look at my classmates behind me. Everyone in the room was all smiles trying to contain themselves. A few giggles went out from people that couldn’t hold it in. Maltby was really getting excited.
“Quatre-vingt-quinze, quatre-vingt-seize, quatre-vingt-dix-sept…”
His eyes were as wide as saucers as he counted the last few numbers. He looked like he was on the verge of an orgasm. He whispered the last few numbers as if he wanted to keep them a secret, so as not to give the final answer away. When he finally reached his climax he jumped out of his chair and hollered, “Cent huit!”
The class erupted into laughter.
At that point his smile disappeared and he got all serious.
“Quoi? C’est cent huit. N’est-ce pas?”
Then he turned to the teacher. “Madame?”
Someone from the class told him, “Yes Sammy, the answer was 108. A year ago.”
Our grade 3 teacher had decided to play a game to help us learn the times tables. She drew a pyramid on the blackboard and sectioned it off so that at the top of the pyramid was one slot. The next tier down would have two slots. The next tier would have four and so on. All the slots were filled in with the initials of each student.
Then the teacher would start at the bottom of the pyramid. She would offer each student the chance to challenge someone else from a higher tier. Those two students would square off and do a best of nine lightning round with flashcards. The teacher would hold up a card, say 9 x 3, and then she would lay it on the desk in front of the student who would be the first to answer ‘vingt-sept’. Naturally, each student would pick on the person they thought they had the best chance of beating.
It worked out that we had two students in our class with the same initials, but the teacher never felt the need to differentiate between the two. Poor Sammy Maltby, who could only count with his fingers, was always sucking wind on the bottom row. Suzy Merk was always on the second tier right below the top slot. Right above her in that top slot was her nemesis. Me.
It didn’t matter how much school I missed for health reasons. It didn’t matter how many times I was told to stand in the hall or go to the principle’s office. It didn’t matter that I never did homework, or assignments. My ability to recall things from memory was my gift. Back then I could spit out an answer as quickly as the teacher could flash the card. Merk never had a chance. I would humiliate her in that game every time and she hated it.
Since nobody could knock me out of that top slot, the teacher finally decided to reset the board. The class sat quietly as she erased all the slots and wrote all the initials back on in a different order. She wrote my initials on last. When she placed me on the bottom row, the class cheered.
As I worked my way back up to the top that week, an opportunity came for me to challenge my good friend Maltby. It was not a fair contest. He could not count unless he used his fingers. The teacher could put up an easy card like 6 x 2 and he would have to count un, deux, trois all the way to douze with his fingers. It was hopeless.
When we squared off, the first card the teacher pulled from the box was 9 x 12. A groan went through the class. The teacher had never thrown up a card with a number in the double digits before. Maltby went to work counting with his fingers. The teacher could see the answer on the back of the card and when she heard the class grown she looked at the front. She thought for a second and then decided that one was too hard, but in the few seconds it took her to hesitate before putting the card back in the box, I spit out the answer.
“Cent huit”
Another groan went through the class when I got it. Even the teacher seemed surprised. Maltby was still counting it out on his fingers. He zoned out.
The teacher threw up the next card and then the next. I kept rattling off answers. On my left Maltby was audible.
“Quarante-deux, quarante-trois, quarante-quatre…”
On my right I’m watching the cards come up, on my left I’m watching Maltby work on 9 x 12. His fingers were flying. He was in his happy place.
“Soixante-sept, soixante- huit, soixante-neuf…”
When the round ended, there were nine cards lying on the desk in front of me. The teacher gathered them up. There was no need to tally them. Maltby was still going on the first card. You could see he was getting excited.
“Soixante-dix-neuf, quatre-vingts, quatre-vingt-un…”
The teacher was being very quiet as not to disturb him. I turned around to look at my classmates behind me. Everyone in the room was all smiles trying to contain themselves. A few giggles went out from people that couldn’t hold it in. Maltby was really getting excited.
“Quatre-vingt-quinze, quatre-vingt-seize, quatre-vingt-dix-sept…”
His eyes were as wide as saucers as he counted the last few numbers. He looked like he was on the verge of an orgasm. He whispered the last few numbers as if he wanted to keep them a secret, so as not to give the final answer away. When he finally reached his climax he jumped out of his chair and hollered, “Cent huit!”
The class erupted into laughter.
At that point his smile disappeared and he got all serious.
“Quoi? C’est cent huit. N’est-ce pas?”
Then he turned to the teacher. “Madame?”
Someone from the class told him, “Yes Sammy, the answer was 108. A year ago.”
