Me and Mr. Bell by Philip Roy

surprised that he remembered to ask me that. “Yes, Sir.”
    â€œAnd which would that be?” He squinted until his eyes were almost shut. I could tell that he really wanted to know. But how could I explain that I didn’t really have any successes yet? The most successful I ever felt was standing here right now, in this room, with him and Casey Baldwin and Douglas McCurdy. But I wasn’t going to say that.
    â€œMy failures.”
    â€œAnd why is that?”
    â€œBecause they make me work harder. And working harder makes me feel stronger.” That was true.
    Mr. Bell nodded thoughtfully. “Indeed.” From the look on his face I figured he was going to say something serious.
    â€œI must warn you about exceptions, Eddie.”
    â€œExceptions?”
    â€œTo the rule. For every rule, we have exceptions. It’s the darndest thing, but it seems to be part of nature, too. Take the rule that Helen just shared with you: i before e except after c .”
    I didn’t realize he had been listening the whole time. “Yes, Sir?”
    â€œIt’s a good rule,” he said. “It works most of the time. But how do you spell eight ?”
    I closed my eyes and concentrated. I wanted to spell it right. “ E - i - g - h - t .”
    â€œRight you are! And so, which comes first, i or e ?”
    â€œ E , Sir.”
    He took a puff from his pipe. The smoke made a cloud in front of his face. He squinted and looked through it at me to see if I understood. I nodded my head.
    â€œThe good thing about exceptions,” he said, “is that they keep us on our guard. They keep us sharp. And that is surely a good thing.” Then he winked. “Good day to you, dear lad.” He slapped me on the back, turned and went back to the other men.
    â€œGood day, Mr. Bell.”
    â€œGood day, Eddie,” said Mr. Baldwin and Mr. McCurdy. They raised their heads, waved and dropped them again. They were anxious to keep discussing the model. I would be, too, if I were them. I wondered how long it would take Mr. McCurdy to build the real flying machine.
    â€œGood day,” I said, and went out the door. I closed it carefully. As I walked away, I could hear Mr. McCurdy’s voice as he continued trying to convince Mr. Bell of the flat wings. I went to the end of the path, around the little cove and back across the beach. It was really dark now. I was late for supper.

Chapter 10
    W hen I came home, my father was sitting at his desk. Once a week, he sat down and wrote letters to people far away. We had cousins in Halifax and Boston and distant relatives who lived in Scotland, though I had never met any of them. My father grew very serious when he prepared himself to write. He lit four candles, moved his books off his desk, sat up straight and just stared at the floor for a long time. No one ever interrupted him then, not even my mother. There was a special feeling in the house when he was writing to people far away.
    When I came in, my mother hushed me to be quiet and pointed to a plate of food left on the table. With her eyes she questioned why I was late for dinner. I made a face to show I was sorry and mouthed the words, “I took a really long walk,” which was true. I didn’t want to tell her I had been to the Bells’ house. Mouthing the words reminded me of speaking to Helen Keller. What an amazing day it had been.
    My brother was sitting at the table, writing letters and trying to look like my father, even though he had nobody to write to. He looked up at me and raised his finger to his mouth to tell me to be quiet. I threw him a look that said “smarten up.” He dropped his head and kept writing. I knew that one day he would write as well as my father. Practice makes perfect.
    Upstairs, my sister was lying in bed reading a book. She was always reading. She raised her head when I went past her door. “Where were