You know how every now and then, a long-forgotten memory springs to mind unbidden? This is one of those. It's from my elementary school days, although I can't recall exactly when.
It's the early afternoon, and I'm lined up in front of the chalkboard with the rest of my classmates. You would think a spelling bee would be cause for alarm or stress of some kind, but you'd be wrong.
See, I've got this thing locked down.
One by one, we go down the line. Each kid gets two tries to spell their assigned word correctly. Every few minutes sees someone return to their seat. They are played off stage by a smattering of hey-that-was-a-good-try applause by the rest of the class -- and a good deal of silent judgment by yours truly.
My smug superiority grows as the field narrows. I've taken to removing and polishing my clunky, old-man glasses when it's my turn. I imagine it gives off just the right devil-may-care attitude.
It's down to just two of us now. My classmate is a clever girl with a sweet personality. Smart, sure -- but she's no Ryan. We go back and forth, back and forth, back and forth. Trading words. Waiting for the other person to mess up. Tiring, but unwilling to give up.
(I would have described it as a little battle of attrition, if I'd known what "attrition" meant. I probably envisioned some epic good-vs-evil struggle involving Ninja Turtles instead.)
My turn again, now.
"Ryan, your word is: 'Independent.'"
Easy-peasy. "I-N-D-E-P-E-N-D-A-N-T. 'Independent.'"
Then, the unthinkable: "I'm sorry, that is incorrect. One more try: 'Independent.'"
I pause to look up from polishing my glasses, squinting suspiciously at the blurred form of my teacher (or her file cabinet, I'm not sure which). Certain that she must have misheard me, I repeat my answer.
"I-N-D-E-P-E-N-D-A-N-T."
And she repeats hers: "I'm sorry, that is incorrect."
My memory blurs from this point.
I remember my classmate spelling the word correctly -- "I-N-D-E-P-E-N-D-E-N-T" -- and winning the class spelling bee. I remember returning to my desk, trying to piece together what had gone wrong.
And I remember my conclusion:
"Man, that the teacher's spelling book must have a typo or something."
Yeah, younger Ryan was kind of a jackass.
The kid who thought he stood head and shoulders above the rest. Front of the class. At the head of the pack. A boy apart.
Independant, you might say.