What he didn't like too much was when people stared. At home, his maid's son, who came with her on Saturdays because there was no school, was always staring.
"NO! Ask her to tell him to stop it becauseI don't like it," he complained to his mother. She sighed and wore her ‘patient' face. It meant she was big and he was small in ablank, polite way. This meant, "Now, you've told me. Run along." He went and shut himself up in his room and cried a little.When he was smaller, it had been better.Sometimes, other kids had laughed or asked,like Afsana, from 3B, "Why is this like that?"Then he would explain, "It's genetic." If you were like Afsana, you would nod your head and leave it. Otherwise, you would shrug.He sighed, "You're lucky you haven't been bullied, Silver 7.
"But as he became older, there were people trying to help. It never seemed like helping to him but that's what Papa said they were doing. Like Joan Aunty at tuition. She would study every strand of silver while he was doing fractions. This made him mad. Tocalm down, he would imagine that he was wearing his favourite Nintendo T-shirt. He would imagine then, sitting with his feet outstretched and his hands in his pockets,asking her, "Hey, you got a problem?" She would answer, stammering, "No, no." He'dnod his head in reply, "Ya, OK.
"This helped a bit. Or when she gave him homemade cookies. Then she was instantly forgiven because they had honey in the middle and he was the only one in the world who was eating them right then.
