The Report Card (6 page)

Mrs. Byrne looked me right in the eye. She said, “What you're holding there are the first thirteen pages of a 159-page document that lists the Web pages you have visited or accessed since the beginning of this school year. Your files are using
five gigabytes
of storage space on the
server. Do you know what that means, Nora? I think you do, but I'll tell you anyway. It means that so far this school year you have gathered more information for access and retrieval than all the rest of the fourth- and fifth-grade students combined. Just glancing through the Web pages of the links you have in your hands there, it appears that you have done extensive research on alternative energy sources; you have been trading e-mails with a primate expert at the Jane Goodall Institute; you have a keen interest in educational theory; and apparently you have been enrolled in a college-level astronomy course over the Internet at Massachusetts Institute of Technology.”

Again she paused. Then, speaking slowly, Mrs. Byrne said, “But the most interesting thing to me is the fact that
you
are the child who failed her basic Internet research project three weeks ago—and therefore got a D in library skills. So, Nora. How should I be thinking about all this new information?”

Mrs. Byrne had me. I was trapped.

When an animal gets backed into a corner, zoologists say the animal will usually choose
one of three instinctive responses. But I've never considered myself an animal. I wasn't going to fight, or run away, or play dead. This was not the time for instincts. I had to think my way out of this corner.

It's not a coincidence that cartoons show an idea as a lightbulb. Because when an idea hits, it feels like someone has flipped a big switch.

And an idea blasted me, right there in front of Mrs. Byrne—instant light. Yes, I was certainly in a corner. But it wasn't a small corner, and I didn't really have to get out of it. There was plenty of room in the corner for someone to join me.

In fact, I decided that it actually might be good to have someone else in my corner.

I
had seen Mrs. Byrne almost every school day since the beginning of first grade—more than seven hundred school days. A lot of those days I had spent more time in the same room with Mrs. Byrne than I had with my mom or dad. So I'd had plenty of time to form a clear opinion about her. And in my opinion, Mrs. Byrne was one of the best people in the whole school. I had never seen her lose her temper, and she always seemed fair and open-minded. Which makes sense—why would a narrow-minded person be a librarian?

And now Mrs. Byrne was standing in front of me, waiting. She wanted me to explain why a kid who just got a bunch of Ds was exploring so many challenging subjects on the Internet.

One of the first things I learned at school was how to read a teacher's face. It's a school survival skill and all kids become experts at it. But as we stood there face-to-face in the
library—me looking up, her looking down—I could not figure out what was going on behind Mrs. Byrne's greenish brown eyes.

So I started off cautiously. I said, “I like to read about a lot of things.”

She smiled slightly. “I already know that much, Nora. I want to know about your grades. It's perfectly clear to me now that you are not a below-average student, or even an average student. Far from it. And you've been hiding that from me and everyone else at school.” She paused with her head tilted as she figured out something else. Then she said, “And your parents don't know how bright you are either, do they?” I shook my head. “So why have you been keeping this a secret?” she asked.

I told her the truth in the simplest way I could. I said, “I didn't want to be different all the time. I mean, I
am
different, and I know that. I just didn't want everyone else to treat me that way. Because it's not their business.”

Mrs. Byrne nodded slowly. “I can understand that, I think. But why the low grades?”

I had to trust her. I had no choice. I said, “I
did that on purpose. I'm trying to do something . . . about grades. Everyone makes way too big a deal about them.”

Mrs. Byrne's eyebrows scrunched together above her nose. She shook her head and said, “But why get Ds? How can that help?”

“Well,” I said, “those Ds already have my teachers and my parents and the principal thinking and talking about grades, right? And I hope they're going to think a lot more about grades. And tests, too. Because I've got sort of a . . . a plan.” Then I looked her right in the eye and said, “Except if you tell on me, I don't think it will work.”

No expression. “What are you trying to accomplish with this . . . plan?”

“Nothing bad,” I said quickly. I almost started to tell about Stephen, but I didn't. I didn't want anyone to think he was involved. So I said, “Most kids never talk about it, but a lot of the time bad grades make them feel dumb, and almost all the time it's not true. And good grades can make other kids think that they're better, and that's not true either. And then all the kids start competing and
comparing. The smart kids feel smarter and better and get all stuck-up, and the regular kids feel stupid and like there's no way to ever catch up. And the people who are supposed to help kids, the parents and the teachers, they don't. They just add more pressure and keep making up more and more tests.”

Mrs. Byrne's eyes flashed and she shook her head sharply. “But the teachers don't like all this testing either. And I was
not
happy when they made me start giving grades in library skills. That's not what the library is for. So don't think it's only the teachers. It's the school boards. And the state. And the federal government, too.”

Then her pale cheeks colored, just a hint. Mrs. Byrne tried to hide it, but she was embarrassed by that outburst. She hadn't meant to show me what she was feeling.

But she had.

I pretended not to notice. I said, “Well, anyway, we have to have the tests and the grades, and of course the grades are going to be used to sort us into different levels in sixth grade—the smart kids and the dumb kids. And I don't like
the way it's done and I want to try to change some things.”

Mrs. Byrne said, “Isn't this dangerous? For you, I mean. Getting such bad grades?”

I said, “Maybe. But it's sort of like I have immunity. I'm smart, and I know I'm smart, and I know that when I have to prove I'm smart, I'll be able to. My grades won't matter so much, not like they do now for a lot of kids. And even if I do get into some trouble, I don't care. I'm not doing this for fun. And I'm not doing it for myself.” I paused, and then I said, “And I think I can do it without any help . . . at least, I hope so.”

That was bait. And Mrs. Byrne knew I was fishing. And she went for the hook anyway.

“What sort of help do you think you might need?”

And I knew. I had been right about Mrs. Byrne. She was one of the good guys.

I smiled up into her face. “You'd do that? You'd help me?”

Mrs. Byrne said, “I didn't say that. But I can't see any school rules that you've broken. Your parents would probably like to know they've
got a brilliant child living in their house, and I certainly think you should tell them. But that's between you and them.” Her eyes searched my face. “I don't know if I could help you in any direct way. But there's nothing in my job description that requires me to report on every conversation I have with every student. So this can be between us. At least for now. Do you understand?”

I nodded. “Yes, and that's a big help . . . for now. Thanks, Mrs. Byrne.”

She nodded and smiled at me, but just barely. Underneath that smile she was worried. I wasn't sure if she was worried for me or for herself.

Probably for both of us.

“N
ora! Welcome!”

It was the beginning of fifth period. Dr. Trindler motioned me to a chair across from him at a square table. He seemed a little too happy, but I didn't mind. I was his big project for the afternoon, and I figured that the man must love his work.

Dr. Trindler had two jobs. He was the guidance counselor for our school, but he was also the psychologist for the three elementary schools and the junior high school in Philbrook. Plaques and diplomas and certificates covered two walls of the office, all of them mounted under glass like some flat, colorless butterfly collection.

As my eyes jumped from rectangle to rectangle, suddenly I pictured myself pressed thin as paper, trapped in a frame on his wall, my nose jammed against a sheet of glass. And then I saw myself like a specimen between two glass
slides, with Dr. Trindler peering at me through a microscope. I pushed those thoughts away.

Dr. Trindler's assistant was Mrs. Drummond. She was the counselor when he was out working at other schools. She sat at a desk about ten feet away from the table where I was sitting, but she was in a different room on the other side of a wall that was mostly one big window.

“So,” Dr. Trindler said, “are you ready for some fun today?”

I nodded. “Sure, I guess so.” But I still felt like a sheet of glass was pushing on my nose.

“Good,” he said. “Then let's get going. I'd like to give you a test, but it's not like a regular classroom test. It's a test that'll help me and all your teachers understand the best way for you to learn, okay?”

I nodded and he kept talking. “We'll start with some questions. I'll read them out loud one at a time, and you'll answer each one as best as you can. And I'll keep track of your answers on this sheet, okay?”

I nodded again and said, “Okay.” I could see the sheet he was writing on. On the upper
right-hand corner it said
WISC III
. I knew what that meant. Dr. Trindler was giving me an IQ test. On an IQ test you get a score, and then sometimes they divide your score by your age. Which is why IQ means Intelligence Quotient, because of the division. It's kind of complicated, and I had only read a little about IQ testing on the Internet.

And that's why I started to get worried about this test. The Connecticut Mastery Testing had been easy. I got an average score because I had been able to look up the scoring information on the Internet. That's the way I knew how many to get right and how many to miss on each part.

This test was different. I had never seen it before.

Dr. Trindler didn't waste any time. First he asked me a bunch of questions, and I had to answer them out loud. And I had to group some things into categories, then do some math problems, then match a bunch of word definitions, then answer more questions about what I'd do in different situations, and then I had to remember the order of some numbers
and repeat them back to him. Then I looked at pictures and had to say what was missing, and I had to copy marks from one page to another, and then mess around with some colored blocks and some puzzles. The test went on and on—over a dozen different parts. It took almost two hours to finish.

And all the time I was worried. I didn't know how I was doing on this test—because I didn't want my score to be too high. Or too low, either.

All I could think of was to try to mess up on three questions out of every ten. That made sense to me. I figured that would keep my score at about seventy percent, and that would be like a C—which would be normal. I kept watching Dr. Trindler's face for clues to see how I was doing, but it was like he had a mask on.

And then finally he said, “There. We're all done—that wasn't so bad, was it?”

I shook my head and said, “No. It was fine.” Then I said, “When will I get to see my scores?”

“That will be up to your parents, Nora. On
this kind of test we never give the scores to the student.”

I couldn't believe it. I said, “You mean I have to take the test, but I don't get to see the score?”

He shrugged and smiled. “It's just the way it is with a test like this. Your score is sort of like a tool, something for me and Mrs. Hackney and your parents to use. You really don't have to worry about it at all.”

I felt myself getting angry, because I hate stuff like that—when grown-ups treat kids like they're stupid. Or like they can't be trusted. It's very annoying. Smart old Dr. Trindler with the long, skinny fingers could know my scores because he had all that paper hanging on his wall. But me, the kid who just beat her brains out for two hours,
I
wasn't allowed to know anything.

And I said to myself,
But so what? Grownups run everything and it stinks and there's nothing kids can do about it because that's the way it's always been and that's the way it's always going to be. Big news.

Then I caught myself.

I hate to catch myself thinking like that. That kind of attitude has a name. It's called being cynical. It comes from the Greek word for dog,
kunikos.
Because there was this bunch of losers in ancient Greece, sort of a club, called the Cynics. The Cynics had no respect for anything or anybody. Like a dog who chews up your best shoes and then wags his tail. Or makes a mess on your front lawn right while you're watching. The
kunikos
doesn't care and it does what it wants to, and it assumes everyone else is the same way it is.

But I had caught myself. I didn't let myself be cynical. Because that's too easy. And because I knew better.

People like Dr. Trindler didn't do things because they're mean. Or cynical. They did things because most of the time they actually believed those were the right things to do. He thought it was bad for someone like me to know my own IQ score. And maybe he was right. If the score was low, then I might think I was stupid. And if the score was high, then I might think I was better than somebody else.