The Report Card (3 page)

My scores weren't great either. That's because I found all this information about the tests on the Internet. I figured out how many questions I had to miss on each section so it would look like I was an average student. My parents weren't happy with my scores, but what could they do? In first, second, and third grades I had always been an average student, and that's all there was to it—and now the big tests proved it.

So I didn't care about my CMT scores at all.

But for some reason, Stephen did. He cared
about his scores a lot. And from what he said, I guess his parents made a big deal about his test scores too.

I noticed a change in Stephen right away. He got mad at himself if he messed up on assignments or tests. He worried about tests and quizzes—spelling tests, too, and he was good at spelling. He even started pretending he was sick sometimes so he could stay home from school. And Stephen had never used to do that. The worst part was that he didn't seem as happy.

Our fourth-grade teacher was Mrs. Rosen and she was great. She said the test scores didn't mean anything. She called them a snapshot, just a chance to look and see where we needed to improve. She said not to worry if the scores seemed low because there was plenty of time to improve. I understood her. And all of that was true. But I could tell Stephen didn't believe Mrs. Rosen. He felt like he wasn't good at school anymore. He felt like school was a struggle.

And Stephen wasn't the only one. All the kids started keeping track of test scores and homework grades. School was suddenly all
about the competition, and grades were how you could tell the winners from the losers. Every assignment and quiz became a contest. I even saw a couple of kids cheating on a spelling test.

Then in the middle of fourth grade, three kids from our class were chosen to be in the Gifted and Talented Program. The gifted kids went to special classes. They read special books. They had a special teacher, and if they worked hard, they were moved ahead. They could even skip grades. It felt like school had turned into a big race, and it looked like the gifted kids had already won.

Which was one more reason that everyone in our class started sorting themselves out into the smart kids and the average kids and the dumb kids. And that was terrible because Stephen started thinking he was one of the dumb kids. It wasn't true, not at all, not for any of the kids. But that's how Stephen felt.

Fourth grade was a miserable year for Stephen. And for me, too—because a person can't be happy if her best friend isn't.

Stephen was glad when fourth grade ended.
It felt like his troubles were over, and summer was going to be great, just like always.

But I was looking ahead to fifth grade. Stephen didn't know what was coming in fifth grade. He only had one little brother, so Stephen was the first kid in his family to go through the schools in Philbrook, Connecticut.

Not me. I knew about fifth grade in Philbrook. I had watched Ann go through fifth grade and then Todd. Fifth grade was when Ann had started turning into a grim little A-making machine—with plenty of pushing from Mom and Dad. Fifth-grade grades were real letter grades, just like the junior high and the high school—no more cute plusses and checks and minuses. Fifth-grade grades were the real thing: As and Bs and Cs and Ds and Fs. Fifth-grade grades would be used to see which kids got into the higher math classes at the junior high. Fifth-grade grades would be used to see which kids got into the advanced English classes and the foreign language program and the accelerated science classes. In Philbrook, Connecticut, fifth-grade grades mattered.

And if Stephen got messed up by the Mastery
Testing and a little competition during fourth grade, then fifth grade was going to feel about ten times worse. When Stephen hit fifth grade, it was going to be like a train wreck.

During this first grading term I had seen it already starting to happen. It could only get worse.

Unless someone thought up a way to help.

And that was my job. Because that's what a best friend does. If she can, she helps.

And that's what I was thinking about when my mom yelled, “Dinnertime!”

“And don't forget,” she called upstairs to Ann, Todd, and me. “Please bring your report cards to the table.”

M
y mom had made a fantastic meal and we ate in the dining room. Steak and baked potatoes and green beans and a fresh fruit salad and hot rolls and butter and strawberry jelly. There was a white tablecloth and lace placemats and tall green candles and the best silverware. Even cloth napkins.

We always had great food on report card day. No meatloaf. No macaroni and cheese. No tuna-noodle casserole. Not on report card day.

Then came dessert, also wonderful. Apple crisp made with fresh apples from the orchard over on Route 27. Plus vanilla ice cream.

But I wasn't that hungry. It reminded me of the last meal they serve to a prisoner before an execution.

After the dessert dishes were cleared away, we were all sitting at the table, and my mom said, “All right, who wants to be first to read a report card tonight?”

It was a pointless question. The Reading of the Grades was a well-established ritual. It followed a definite pattern. Ann always read her grades first, then Todd, and then me.

Ann said, “I'll go first.” No smile. Ann was all business.

It was Ann's junior year in high school. Ann is tall, blond, athletic, and intense. Kind of pretty, too. People say I look like her, except I'm not tall. And my hair's more reddish than blond. And I try not to be intense. So I guess those people who say we look alike are crazy.

Ann had been elected junior-class president. She was cocaptain of the girl's field hockey team and the girls' basketball team. She had been the youngest member of last year's Math Decathlon, and the team had placed first in the state competition. Ann was taking four Advanced Placement courses and one honors class. She was trying to graduate from high school a semester early. She wanted to get a scholarship to Georgetown University and study international relations. Intense is the right word.

Mom smiled and said, “All right, Ann. Let's hear how you did.”

Ann unfolded her computer-printed grade sheet. I knew what was coming. Everyone knew what was coming.

Ann began reading. “Honors Chemistry, A plus. A.P. English, A. A.P. World History, A. A.P. Physics, A plus. A.P. Spanish, A. Phys Ed, A plus. Mixed Chorus, A plus. And an A minus in Driver's Education, but that won't count in my class rank.”

“That's terrific, Annie!” My dad's smile made him look like a piano. He said, “Not much room for improvement, and that's the way it ought to be. Great! Just
great
!”

Mom said, “You should be very proud of yourself, Ann. All your hard work is really paying off.” Then turning to my side of the table, Mom said, “Okay, who's next—Nora or Todd?”

Another pointless question. Never in his life had Todd let me do anything ahead of him. He said, “I'm next.”

Todd was in eighth grade. He had lots of friends and lots of interests, like mountain biking and snowboarding and playing electric guitar and being a 1960s rock-and-roll trivia nut. Todd's school sport was soccer, but he wasn't a star
player—which is what I am. And that's not bragging about my soccer playing. That's just a fact. Schoolwork wasn't easy for Todd, especially reading. But Mom and Dad kept after him, so he worked pretty hard, and his grades usually showed it.

Todd cleared his throat, glanced at Dad and then at Mom, gulped once, pushed his straight, brown hair up off his forehead, and then began to read. Todd always read his best grades first. “Gym class, A plus. Math, A minus. Science, B . . . uh, no, I mean it's a B
plus.
Social Studies, B. And a B minus in English . . . but I was only two points away from a plain B.”

Mom and Dad nodded thoughtfully for a moment, and then Mom said, “Well, that's a pretty good report, Todd. But I don't think it's really the
best
you can do, is it? Especially that B minus in English. I'd think you'd be a little disappointed with that. At the conference last month Mrs. Flood said you need to spend more time with your writing, and you need to take your outside reading assignments more seriously. Don't you think that would help?”

Todd nodded and said, “Yeah, I guess. But
still, Mom, I got a B average and that's good. You should see Tom's grades.”

“But we're not talking about Tom.” Dad was not smiling. “We're talking about you. You're almost in high school now, and you've got to start being more serious. Grades like that might get you into a state school, or into a little college somewhere out in the middle of nowhere. But those grades wouldn't get you into a good college. No way. Time to get down to business. Agreed?”

Todd made a sheepish face and nodded. “Yeah. Okay. I'll . . . I'll do better. I will.”

And then all eyes swung to me.

My cheeks felt hot. I hadn't planned well for this part. I had thought reading my grades out loud wouldn't be a problem. But it was.

Before Mom could ask, I said, “I don't want to read them. Don't try to tell me that my fifth-grade grades are important, because I know for a fact that they aren't. And they're all based on a bunch of stupid information that anybody with half a brain can memorize. Tests and grades and all of it—it's all . . . just stupid.”

Shocked silence.

Then in a calm voice my dad said, “Please read your grades to us, Nora.”

I shook my head. “You can look at them if you want to. But
I'm
not going to read them. My grades are
my
business, and nobody else's.”

My dad started to say something, but Mom cut in and said, “Nora, I know this may be hard for you, but it's important. You're in fifth grade now. You have to get used to the fact that grades
do
matter. They matter a lot. So please, read your grades. We know everybody's different, and not everyone's going to do as well as everyone else. We're not comparing you to Todd or Ann or anybody. We just want to be able to talk about school and how you're doing, talk about it as a family.”

I didn't budge. “There's nothing to talk about. May I please be excused?”

That was too much for my dad. “No!” he shouted. “You may
not
be excused! You're not leaving this table until you have read your grades out loud to your family!”

I put my sealed report card on the middle of my placemat. “Fine,” I said. “Sit here as long as you like. But I'm
not
reading my grades.”

A long three minutes passed in silence. Then I folded my arms and put my head down on the table.

Todd cleared his throat and said, “Dad, Tommy's mom is gonna be here in ten minutes. She's driving us to the movies and I've got to get ready. So may I be excused?
Please
? And could I have my allowance?”

Five minutes after that I was alone at the table.

Around nine-thirty I pulled three chairs together so I could lie down. I kicked my shoes off, moved a bunch of things out of the way, and slid the tablecloth toward me so I could use it like a blanket.

•  •  •

I'd been asleep, so I'm not sure what time it was. But it was later and I heard my mom say, “Carry her up to bed, Jim. She's won this round, and we might as well admit it.”

I kept my eyes shut.

My dad said, “Yup. She can be a tough little cookie, all right. She'd make a great lawyer, I bet. Except first she'd have to get into law school somewhere.”

I heard the sound of ripping paper. And I
knew what it was. He was opening my report card.

I heard him pull in a sharp breath, and then, “My
gosh
! No wonder Nora wouldn't read this! Look, Carla—all
Ds
! Everything but spelling, and that's a
C
!”

“Goodness!” That was Mom. “I don't
believe
it! How did this happen?”

Dad said, “Well, let's shake her and sit her up right here and find out!”

Mom said, “No, Jim, not now. Poor child—think how ashamed she must feel about such terrible marks. Just take her upstairs. We can talk about it tomorrow.”

I felt the tablecloth slip off my back and legs, and then Dad's strong arms lifted me up.

It had been a long time since my dad had carried me up to bed.

I heard my mom behind us on the stairs. “Careful you don't bang her head on anything.”

And my dad said softly, “With grades like those, it prob'ly couldn't hurt.”

Mom said, “That's not funny.”

I was glad they didn't try to get me into my
pajamas because I'm sure it would have tickled. My mom just peeled off my socks, tucked the quilt up under my chin, kissed me softly on the forehead, and then closed my door.

I opened my eyes and stared into the darkness.

I wondered if I had done enough thinking about my plan. Because first I had tried to think about what I wanted to accomplish, and then I had tried to think of all the steps I had to take, and how my steps would lead to the steps other people would take. I had done a lot of thinking, and that's something I've gotten good at.

But had I thought of every single thing that could go wrong at every single step, and had I thought of enough ways to get around each possible problem?

Lying there in the dark, I faced a fact: I wouldn't know if my plan would work until it did. Or didn't.

A
nn and Todd were still in bed when I walked into the kitchen on Saturday morning. My parents were sitting at the table with their coffee mugs. I could tell they had been waiting for me.

I didn't like this part of the plan. This part of the plan was going to be pretty hard on Mom and Dad. And so were some other parts. It wasn't really fair to them, but it couldn't be helped. After all, I wasn't the one who had made up the rules around here.