Free The Boy Who Knew Everything by Victoria Forester

and then to hit upon just the right label for your particular brand of dumbness.
    Aletha Harrington was exactly four and a half years old, and not a sound had ever been heard to come from her lips. She had her mother’s long, curly dark hair, endlessly liquid brown eyes, and an utterly silent bow of a mouth.
    Her mother, First Lady Abigail Churchill-Harrington, hovered like an agitated meerkat as Aletha underwent her second assessment that day. Silently, Abigail repeated the same words over and over again: Say something. Anything. Please.
    â€œAletha, babykins, can you purty please pick up the itty red block off the table?” For some reason that no one could fathom, the esteemed Dr. Dillweed spoke only in baby talk. In his dreams he was five feet tall (in daylight not a hair over four foot eight) and he perfectly fit into the toddler-size table in Aletha’s playroom. Aletha sat opposite him on a Tinker Bell chair while Dr. Dillweed had to content himself with Fairy Mary.
    â€œReddy-weddy is such a pretty-witty color. I like reddy-weddy lots.” Dr. Dillweed smiled and simpered.
    Aletha stared at him and had nothing to say.
    â€œShe knows red. I’m sure of it,” Abigail whispered over Dr. Dillweed’s shoulder. “She understands; I know she understands.”
    â€œDoes Aletha-kins like candy-mandy?” Dr. Dillweed held up a lollipop. “Would she likey this itty-bitty sweetie?”
    Aletha looked at the lollipop; it was made of swirls of color and was larger than her head. Dr. Dillweed moved it inches from her face, either to tantalize her taste buds or tease her.
    â€œIf Aletha-weefa wants the yummy candy, she needs to talky-walky to Dr. Dillyweedy.”
    â€œSay you want it, Aletha.” Abigail’s voice came out harsh and commanding. She bent down next to Dr. Dillweed and opened her mouth impossibly wide. Using her fingers, she pointed to the movement of her lips. “Just say ‘yes.’ Y-E-S.”
    Aletha folded her hands one on top of the other and closed her lips tightly.
    Suddenly President Harrington came striding into the room. Abigail immediately jumped to her feet and went to him.
    â€œWe’re still in the middle of the assessment,” Abigail whispered to her husband so as not to disturb Dr. Dillweed. President Harrington looked at his watch impatiently. He hadn’t so much as set eyes on Aletha in weeks, but Abigail had insisted—as in put her foot down—that he show up to hear what the doctor had to say.
    â€œI don’t have time for this. I have important things to do,” he snapped.
    â€œAnd your daughter isn’t important?” Abigail’s whisper became harsh and accusing.
    â€œShe’s fine.” He dismissed Aletha with a wave of his hand.
    â€œShe won’t talk. That’s not fine.”
    â€œIt’s a phase. It’s not as if she’s like—” President Harrington stopped himself. He had few feelings for other people, but he did have feelings for his own self-preservation, and there were certain things he couldn’t say to his wife.
    Abigail was not fooled. “Like who? Like Conrad? My boy was…” Tears came to her eyes and stopped her words.
    â€œConrad is gone now, and we shouldn’t talk about him. Let the dead rest.” President Harrington looked at his watch again. “I’m leaving. You deal with this.”
    When President Harrington looked to his wife again, her eyes were wide and her mouth had fallen open in astonishment. He turned on his heel to see what she was looking at, and there in the middle of the playroom stood Aletha.
    Aletha was halfway between the table and where they stood. Both her feet were planted firmly and she was staring straight at her father as her index finger pointed at him. President Harrington stood still in astonishment, and the room was absolutely silent as all eyes rested on Aletha’s serious and focused face.
    With