Miss A looks across
the class at me.

Benedict, what's
the difference
between may and can?

I look at her
standing there
built like a brick
out house;
arms folded,
hair brushed back.

May and can?

Yes, if you said to me
can I go out to play?
I would say, yes,
you can, but no
you may not.

I look at the boy's head
in front; his hair is short,
the colour jet black.

Understand,
Benedict?
she says.

No, not really,
I say.

A titter
of small laughter.

She looks at the titterers
and stares them to silence.

Anyone know?
She asks.

Enid raises a hand.

Yes, Enid?
Miss A says.

When I say, can,
I’m asking of possibility;
when I ask, may,
I’m asking permission,
Enid says.

Miss A looks at her;
her eyes searching
the girl's features.

Where did
you read that?

Enid looks at me;
Benedict told me.

Miss A frowns,
then looks at me.

Did you?

I forgot about it.

The teacher raises
an eyebrow,
then says,
that is roughly
what it means,
the difference between
possibility and permissibility.

The room is silent;
Enid lowers her hand;
Miss A writes it
on the blackboard
in chalk.

I smile at Enid
unable to talk.