The Report Card (7 page)

But then I asked myself,
How are these IQ
scores different from grades? Or the Mastery Testing scores? How come they don't hide
all
the grades and scores from kids? Teachers need to know the grades so they can figure out how to help kids do better and learn more, but why do kids need to know them? After all, those CMT scores didn't help Stephen—not one bit.

Anyway, Dr. Trindler said good-bye and Mrs. Drummond wrote me a pass to go to last period. And after two hours of thinking, gym class was wonderful because all during the fall we played soccer almost every day.

When I was three years old I saw a soccer game for the first time on the local Spanish TV channel, and I went nuts for it. I loved the way the camera showed almost the whole field at once. I could see the players plan and make plays. And I could see the math, too—the crossing lines as a striker sped up to meet a flying corner kick, and the angles as midfielders passed the ball so it was always just beyond a defender's toe. I saw angles again as players blocked passes and cut off shooters. Each shot on goal was a balance of velocity and trajectory. It was all math and physics in motion.

And soccer was such a mental game. The best players had the whole field and all the other players completely inside their heads. The field wasn't out there. It was all inside. And then,
“Gooooooooooool!”
Fantastic!

Ever since first grade the soccer field had been the only place where I really let myself loose. I had never had to hide anything out on the soccer field. I could be as smart and creative and talented as I wanted to—because nobody ever treats a gifted athlete like she's weird. And that's not true if you're a gifted student.

So during gym class it was me, four other girls, and six boys against another mixed team of eleven kids. And Stephen was on my team. It was a good, quick game, and we won it four goals to three. I scored two of our four goals.

But the best part wasn't the winning or the praise from Mr. McKay or the high fives from my teammates. I hadn't been trying to beat anyone or prove I was great.

For me the best part came when the game was tied at three all, and there were less than two minutes on the clock. With my hair pulled
back into a ponytail and my legs and arms and lungs pumping away, I felt like I was a hundred feet above the field, calmly looking down. The need to think and analyze and plot and plan melted away. Ideas were the same as actions, and I didn't have to hold anything back. And when Stephen sent me a perfect pass, I drove to the center, dribbled through three defenders, and then beat the goalie.

It was pure play—no questions, no worries, no walls, no frames hanging on nails, no sheets of glass trying to press me down flat.

For twenty-five minutes on that Tuesday afternoon, I was free.

O
n Wednesday morning at the end of homeroom, Mrs. Noyes called me up to her desk.

“Nora, Mrs. Byrne wants you to bring all your overdue books back to the library before noon.”

I said, “But nothing's overdue.”

Mrs. Noyes said, “Well, you'll have to tell that to Mrs. Byrne.”

And then I understood the message.

Mrs. Byrne didn't need to see me about overdue books. There was some other reason. And for the first time, it struck me how good it was to have someone else know the real me. And also how strange and new it felt to have someone else know that I wasn't . . . normal. Then I thought of a good tongue twister: No more normal Nora—five times fast.

All that ran through my mind in less than a second, so I nodded to Mrs. Noyes and said, “Okay. I'll go to the library right now,” and I started to leave.

Then Mrs. Noyes said, “Oh—another thing, Nora. I saw Dr. Trindler in the teacher's room this morning. He wants you to come to his office again this afternoon during fifth period.” I was halfway out the door by then, so I just nodded and said, “Fifth period. Okay.”

When I got to the library, Mrs. Byrne was busy checking out books for a third-grade class. But she caught my eye and motioned me over to the front desk.

“Here, Nora,” and she handed me a stack of student name cards. “Would you sort these alphabetically, please?”

I said, “Sure.” There was another chair, but it was easier to sort the cards standing up.

About three minutes later all the third graders were gone, but Mrs. Byrne was still busy. Without taking her eyes off the computer screen, she said, “That test—the one you took yesterday with Dr. Trindler? What was that like?”

“Kind of fun,” I said. “It was an IQ test. First time I've had a test like that.”

Mrs. Byrne kept tapping on her keyboard. “And how do you think you did?” she asked.

I said, “Well, I tried to get about three things wrong out of every ten. It was all I could figure out to do. I was trying to get about seventy percent right. You know, about average.”

Mrs. Byrne said, “I see.”

She started sorting through some papers, but her hands were all jerky and nervous. Then she stopped and looked me right in the eye. “I found something out this morning. The test you took was scaled for children up to sixteen and a half years old. Your score translated to an IQ of one hundred and seventeen, and that's above average.”

I interrupted and said, “That's not really a big problem, is it? I mean, tests like this aren't always right, are they?”

Mrs. Byrne said, “There's more to it than that. One hundred and seventeen? That's what your IQ would be if you were sixteen years old. But since you're only eleven, your score translates to a higher IQ. Much higher. According to that test, you have an IQ of
one hundred and eighty-eight.
That's way up near the top of the scale. And Dr. Trindler doesn't know what to think.”

My legs felt a little weak. I sat down. “What . . . what else did Dr. Trindler say to you?”

Mrs. Byrne shook her head. “He didn't tell me anything at all. He hasn't talked about this to anyone but his assistant, Mrs. Drummond. The only reason I know is because Mrs. Drummond's car is in the shop. We live near each other, so I drove her to school today. And she was bursting to tell someone. Dr. Trindler said your IQ contradicts your whole academic record, so he thinks the test must be wrong.”

Mrs. Byrne stopped talking and pressed her lips together into a frown. She said, “I know I shouldn't be telling you this, Nora. But I couldn't help it.”

“I won't tell anyone you told me.”

She smiled. “I know that, Nora. That's not what I'm worried about. You're getting yourself into a tricky situation here. I don't want you to get . . . hurt. I don't want anyone to get hurt.”

We were both quiet. Then Mrs. Byrne said, “So what do you think you'll do?”

I shrugged and tried to smile a little. “I'll have to see what Dr. Trindler says. I have to go there again for fifth period.”

Mrs. Byrne said, “He could be planning another test for today.”

I stood up and said, “Well, I won't know until I get there. And right now I guess I'd better get to art class. May I have a pass?”

“Of course you may,” she said. Then she gave me a big smile, a real one, and she said, “I don't think I would have ever been brave enough to try something like this when I was a girl, Nora. Even now, I think I'm more worried than you are!”

I smiled back. “Don't be worried. Tests and grades don't matter that much—remember?”

Mrs. Byrne laughed and said, “That's right. I'm sure there's nothing to worry about.”

She handed me the pass and I said, “Thanks, Mrs. Byrne.”

And I didn't mean just for the pass. And she knew that.

And she said, “You're so welcome, Nora.”

I
t was Wednesday, so the smell of almost-spaghetti filled the cafeteria. I sat with my friend Karen and five or six other girls. We ate at our regular table, right next to the one where Stephen and his friends usually sat.

I'm not proud of this, but I've always been an eavesdropper. I've never gone out of my way to eavesdrop—except maybe once or twice. But if I happen to be close enough, and if people happen to be talking loud enough, I always listen. If people want to keep secrets, they should learn how to whisper.

I probably wouldn't have started listening to the boys sitting behind me, but I heard Merton Lake say, “Don't be such an idiot—no one will ever travel to the sun. It's a huge bunch of burning gas, stupid.” We had been learning about the solar system in science class, and I had been doing some research about the sun on my own. So when Merton said that, my ears perked up.

Then Stephen said, “Still, I bet someone could go there one day. Like maybe if the sun gets cooler.”

“Yeah,” said Merton. “Or ‘like maybe' if they can find someone as dumb as you to volunteer!”

And then all the other guys at the table started laughing.

I wanted to turn around and tackle that Merton Lake, knock him right onto the floor. He was one of the smartest boys in fifth grade and also my least favorite. Merton had been in our fourth-grade class, too, and he had gotten one of the highest scores on the Mastery Tests. After he found out Stephen's score, he teased him about it for a month, calling him names like “retard” and “brain-dead.”

This year Merton was in the gifted program, and he loved coming back from his special classes so he could show off about what he had learned. Plus, he had already announced to anybody who would listen that his big brother and his dad and his grandfather had all gone to Harvard University, and that he was going to go there too. One kid like Merton can almost ruin a whole school year.

But one of the great things about Stephen is that he keeps on trying. Even before the other boys had stopped laughing at him, he said, “But how about when all the gas is used up? The sun'll have to go out someday and then I bet someone could go there.”

I didn't have to turn around to see the nasty smirk on Merton's face. I could hear it in his voice. “Nice try,
moron.
The sun's never going to burn out.”

And the rest of the boys kept on laughing.

It was too much, hearing him treat Stephen that way. A new fact burst into my mind: The only way to stop a kid like Merton is to overpower him. And something inside me snapped.

I whipped around on my lunch stool and I jabbed my pointer finger toward Merton's face and I said, “You are
wrong,
Merton! Wrong! The sun
will
go out. The sun is using up its supply of hydrogen because the hydrogen atoms are being converted into helium atoms. And that atomic conversion is
not
the same as burning gas, which is what you just said,
moron.
And only seven tenths of one percent of the available hydrogen actually converts into heat
energy, and the best estimate is that it will take another one hundred billion years for all the hydrogen to be used up. So at the end of one hundred billion years, the sun will, in fact,
go out.
So Stephen is right. And more important than that,
you
are
WRONG
! So just stop acting like you are the most brilliant person in the solar system and do everyone a big favor and shut up and eat the rest of that disgusting spaghetti!”

When my speech ended, I was the center of a circle of silence. All around me forkloads of food hung halfway between plates and open mouths. Straws were stuck between lips, but no one was drinking. Nothing moved except little cubes of red Jell-O wiggling in plastic bowls.

And all eyes were on me. And maybe on Merton, too. But mostly on me.

Karen broke the spell. “Give it up for Nora!” And she started chanting, “Nora, Nora, Nora,” and the other girls at my table started chanting too, and it went on for about ten seconds until Mrs. Rosen walked over and made everyone quiet down.

I felt terrible. I had never lost my temper in public before, and I had never used my intelligence that way either. Merton had deserved every word I had thrown into his face, but I had gone too far.

And what would Stephen think? I had
never
seen him get mad, not once.

I had to get out of there. I stood up and grabbed my tray. But as I turned around, something caught my eye.

Someone was standing by the door to the playground, about ten feet from where I had been sitting—close enough to have heard every word I'd said.

It was Dr. Trindler.

A
t the beginning of fifth period Dr. Trindler was waiting for me. No smiles this time, no pleasant chatter. He was sitting behind his desk, all business. He pointed at the chair across from him and said, “Please sit down.”

Mrs. Drummond was at her desk on the other side of the big window. She was trying to look busy, but I could tell she was tuned in like we were the final episode of her favorite TV show.

Dr. Trindler sat there for almost half a minute, doing that spidery thing with his fingers. Then he said, “Can we talk honestly to each other, Nora?”

“Sure,” I said.

He leaned forward with his elbows on the desk. “I had been planning to give you another test today. But fifteen minutes ago I observed you speaking to Merton Lake in the cafeteria. And now I don't think another test is really necessary. Do you?”

I shrugged. “I don't know.”

He raised his eyebrows and one long index finger and said, “Remember? We are talking
honestly
with each other, Nora. I want to know if you think I need to give you another test today.”

I said, “Depends on what you want to find out.”

He smiled and said, “That's easy: I want to find out if the score you got on yesterday's test is accurate. What do you think—was that an accurate score?”