“You e-speak ing-less?”
Elijah nods his head, after checking with me to make sure it’s English we speak, not French. (Poor kid, he also thinks we still live in “the other America.”)
“Wu-at ez your name?”
“Elias,” he says, because it’s a whole lot easier for everyone else here to say. A whole lot easier.
“How, uh, oh-eld? Are you?”
“I’m four, and I have two sisters,” he replies.
“You e-speak ing-less?”
“I already told him that I do, didn’t I?” Elijah asks me, annoyed.
“Yes, five different times,” I whisper.
Now I know how I sound when I’m trying to speak Spanish.
Funny, I even ask the same three questions.
Over and over.