Growing Up

May 11, 1995 – Hartley Residence, London

POV Oliver

"Beatrice, stop that right now, or you'll have to take the test again." Helen's gaze then shifted to Oliver. "And you stop giving her the answers!"

"We didn't do anything," he said innocently.

"Do you really think I can't see your lips moving?"

Beatrice and Oliver certainly didn't make things easy for Helen. Two "schoolchildren" who could communicate perfectly with each other even during a test. At least all that lip-reading was paying off for Beatrice. Her performance had improved significantly since Oliver had started attending lessons with her.

Of course, not just because he occasionally slipped her an answer. More than anything, she couldn't stand the fact that someone almost two years younger than her was already better at school than she was.

Oliver had genuinely tried everything not to give himself away, but once again, the webnovels from his previous life had lied to him. In those stories, it always seemed perfectly easy for an adult mind to convincingly behave like a small child for years.

In reality, it was damn hard to deliberately be bad at maths.

Even harder was pretending not to know an answer that practically jumped out at him before Helen had even finished asking the question.

And eventually, it became simply impossible to keep pretending he struggled with schoolwork meant for five- and six-year-olds.

Especially when he was being taught alongside a six-year-old classmate. One little slip here, one answer that came out a little too quickly there, and then voilà – Helen silently placed the same test in front of him that she'd given her daughter, and the whole mess was complete.

But the most surreal thing about the entire situation was that he was taking a test and, for the first time, seriously wondering whether his answers were even correct.

His gaze fell back to the next problem.

3(x + 4) = 2x + 17

Fuck you, x.

Fuck you, algebra!

***

POV Oliver

Learning to speak was complicated enough for a hearing child. For Bea, it was a damn difficult undertaking. She was expected to produce sounds she had never heard before, without even being able to hear whether she was getting them right.

Beatrice watched his mouth carefully.

Oliver pronounced the sound slowly and clearly.

"B."

Beatrice concentrated, shaped her lips the same way, and tried.

"P."

Oliver grimaced and shook his head.

"B."

She tried again.

"B."

This time he nodded, and Bea immediately beamed, but he was already holding up the next card.

The author's narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

"M."

"No," she mouthed, crossing her arms. "I don't want to do this anymore!"

He couldn't blame her. These exercises weren't just difficult for her; they were uncomfortable as well. So uncomfortable, in fact, that she had even asked her speech teacher if she could do them with Oliver instead.

"You can do it!" Oliver said, trying to encourage her as he looked at her expectantly.

But Beatrice had had enough. She looked at him, raised her hand, and gave him the middle finger – a gesture Oliver had accidentally taught her not long ago.

The speech teacher, who had been sitting at his desk only moments before, was suddenly standing in front of her, looking at her sternly. "Beatrice! How many times do I have to tell you? Oliver is only four!"

Oliver looked at her and bit the inside of his cheek to keep himself from bursting out laughing.

Beatrice stared at him in disbelief.

***

May 12, 1995 – Frank's Boxing & Kickboxing Gym

POV Oliver

"Helen?" Oliver said in surprise when he saw her waiting by the entrance. "Is everything all right?" he asked worriedly.

Normally, Marge picked him up after his kickboxing lessons. The gym wasn't far away, and he could easily walk back on his own – Margaret, however, would never allow that.

"No, don't worry, everything's fine," she said. "Sister Margaret asked me to pick you up. She had something she needed to take care of."

Oliver breathed out in relief. Only then did he realise he'd been holding his breath in the first place.

Wait, am I actually worried about the old hag?

That can't be it. It must've been because of Bea!

"All right, then let's go."

Helen and Oliver left the gym and made their way back to Mill Grove on foot.

It was barely a fifteen-minute walk, and by now Oliver knew the route so well he could probably have found his way back with his eyes closed.

"Helen?" Oliver said after they had already been walking for a few minutes. "Are you sure everything's all right? Where's Bea?"

Helen hesitated briefly before finally saying, "Beatrice is at home."

Oliver raised an eyebrow and looked at her suspiciously. In the months since he'd known Helen, he could say with complete confidence that she wasn't any better than Margaret. The two of them fussed over Bea and him like a pair of mother hens.

"Alone?" he finally asked.

Helen began walking faster, almost fast enough that Oliver had to hurry to keep up with her.

Something's not right here!

"No, of course not!" she said, avoiding his gaze.

But before Oliver could ask another question, she continued.

"Oliver, everything's fine! Just come with me and be quiet!"

***

POV Sister Margaret

Margaret stood in the small sitting room that she and Oliver had practically claimed as their own over the past few months and looked over their work with satisfaction. It wasn't a big birthday party, but that was exactly how she wanted it.

A few garlands decorated the walls, a small cake with five candles waited on the table, and Beatrice was currently fighting with a balloon that stubbornly refused to stay where she wanted it.

"Not there, Bea. Over here," Margaret said, making sure the girl could see her face as she pointed towards the window.

Beatrice watched her lips, followed her finger, and nodded. Her lip-reading had improved enormously over the past few months. Margaret no longer needed Oliver or Helen to communicate simple things to her. As long as Beatrice could see her face and Margaret spoke clearly, she usually understood her without any trouble.

The only problem was that, so far, their conversations mostly worked in one direction.

Beatrice grabbed the small notepad on the table, scribbled something down, and held it out to Margaret.

HE DOESN'T KNOW?

Margaret smiled and shook her head.

"Not the slightest idea."

***

POV Oliver

Four – no, five years old or not, Oliver Bennett wasn't the kind of person who would simply follow someone in silence in such a suspicious situation.

"Please don't tell them I told you!" Helen finally pleaded.

"Helen, remind me never to trust you with a secret."

After he'd threatened to call the police, she'd finally cracked. Not that he would actually have done it, but the way she'd been behaving had genuinely started to make him afraid that something had happened.

He had already been through too much. And whether he liked it or not, over the past five minutes he'd worried about Marge more than he cared to admit. She was over seventy, after all, and she would never send someone else to pick him up unless there was an important reason for it.

"You were acting like something terrible had happened!" Oliver defended himself.

"What normal child would think..." Helen began, but stopped herself halfway through the sentence and immediately regretted it.

Of course he'd think something had happened!

Oliver saw her reaction and thought to himself that this woman was as easy to read as an open book – one with pictures and very little text.

Or maybe it was all the lip-reading and speech training he'd been doing lately?

Damn. Maybe the lessons were working better on him than he'd thought.

"Helen?" he said, trying to lighten the mood. "If you ever consider playing poker – don't!"

Then he burst out laughing.

Helen looked at him and was relieved to see that her comment hadn't bothered him.

"We're here," she finally said. "And remember: you don't know anything!"