Even so, Abby loved that wall. She loved the brightly colored grips spaced out across the dark gray surface. She loved making her way upward, inch by inch. And she loved being alone up there, that feeling of total self-reliance. If she failed, she had no one to blame but herself.
Abby had never even seen a real mountain with her own eyes, much less tried to climb one. So for now, the wall would have to do. And as she walked toward her second-period class, she replayed every step and each grip of today’s ascent, running through it like a slow-motion movie in her head.
She gave it her full attention for two reasons. First, she wanted to make a better climb next time—a perfect climb. And second, thinking about the wall was much more fun than dreading all the math and science and reading and social studies she was going to have to endure for the next six hours. After first-period gym class, Abby felt like the rest of the school day was zero fun—like a winter with no snow. Or a summer without sunshine. And these days, she was under a ton of extra pressure.
Because the truth was, Abby had never been a very good student. And during the first half of sixth grade, her academic problems had gone from bad to worse.
And then, about two weeks ago in February, her problems had moved beyond worse—all the way to rotten.
CHAPTER 3
WORST CASE
Abby enjoyed a number of things about school. She loved the noise and energy on her bus every morning, and she always sat with her friend Mariah way in the back with the other sixth graders. She loved hanging out with her friends in the hallways, and she was very proud of the incredible mess inside her locker. On most days she even liked the food in the cafe-teria, and when they served grilled cheese with a half cup of sweet canned pears, she always went back for seconds. She loved afternoon recess, loved art class and music class, and absolutely adored gym class, especially on the days when she got to climb.
Really, the only problem Abby had with school was all that schoolwork. She didn’t like it, and she never had. She was a decent reader, she was okay at math, and she was plenty smart. It wasn’t that she couldn’t do the work. She just didn’t like doing it.
And most of the time, she didn’t see the point. For example, how many times was some math teacher going to make her prove that she really did know how to add and subtract and multiply and divide? Enough, already.
And if she knew how to write a decent sentence with a subject and a verb, and if she always remembered to put a capital letter at the beginning and a punctuation mark at the end, then why did she have to suffer through all those endless writing exercises? It wasn’t like she had plans to get a job writing for a newspaper or something.
Plus, she knew the names of all fifty states, and she knew where they were on the map, and she also knew the names of all the capital cities. Like Helena, Montana. And she knew how to find all seven continents on a globe, knew the beginning and ending dates for lots of important wars, knew the first sentence of the preamble to the Declaration of Independence by heart, and she could recite almost half of Lincoln’s Gettysburg Address. She even knew the names of the five countries that are permanent members of the United Nations Security Council. So why did she have to keep reading and reading those huge, thick social studies books every single year?
Because Abby didn’t like being cooped up in her room or the library, sitting at a desk with her nose in some book or her fingers tapping on a keyboard. She wanted more hands-on experience with rock climbing, wanted to learn more about tying knots and rappelling, wanted to learn about all the technical gear like cams and pitons and pulleys. And especially, she wanted to be outside.
She wanted to be getting her boots muddy in the woods and fields behind her house. She wanted to be sharpening her skill with the bow and arrows she had made. She wanted to be fixing up the shelter she’d started to build in the huge oak tree that had blown over during a storm last summer. Schoolwork—and especially homework—felt like an interruption, something that kept her from doing all the things she liked best. Even though her parents kept after her, she never really gave her schoolwork much attention or effort. So during the first half of the year Abby’s grades, which had never been great, slid a little lower.
In the back of her mind, Abby knew she was getting near some kind of danger point. So when the school guidance counselor sent a note and called her out of gym class one morning in February, she wasn’t that surprised. She’d had a talk with Mrs. Carmody about her schoolwork during fourth grade, and two talks during fifth grade. As she walked through the office and into the guidance center, she had a pretty good idea about what to expect.
“Hi, Mrs. Carmody. You wanted to see me?”
“Yes, Abby. Let’s sit over at the table.”
Abby saw that the table had already been set with two places, sort of like for a meal—one place with a white business-size envelope, and the other with a thick green file folder. Mrs. Carmody took the chair in front of the folder, and as Abby sat, she saw that the white envelope had her name on it.
She picked it up and said, “Am I supposed to read this?”
Mrs. Carmody said, “Yes, but let’s talk a little first, all right?” The counselor paused a moment. “Your academic teachers have asked me to tell you and your parents that they think it might be best if you repeat sixth grade next year. And I’ve looked over your records, and I think they’re right. That’s what that letter is about. Now, you can be the one to tell your mom and dad about this, or if you’d like, I can give them a phone call today to let them know the letter is on its way. I’ve mailed it to them, but I wanted to talk to you so it wouldn’t come as a total surprise. So, can I answer any questions for you?”
Abby’s mouth was suddenly so dry that her tongue felt as if it had stuck to her teeth. She stared at Mrs. Carmody, and for almost five seconds it was like someone had pushed the pause button for the entire universe. She whispered, “I’m gonna be . . . left back?”
The counselor nodded. “That is what we’re recommending. Junior high school is hard enough all by itself, without having to catch up on basic academics. I’m sure you can understand that. We’ve had some experience with other students, and another year here will really be a big help to you, especially later on.”
Abby kept staring. “But, left back? I can’t do that. I mean . . . I can’t do that.”
“I know it’s a lot to take in all at once like this, but just take a deep breath or two, and remember that what we want to do here is what’s best for you. That’s all. Can I get you a drink of water?”
Abby shook her head.
“Do you want to talk about this?”
She shook her head again and said, “I . . . I don’t know what to say about it. I mean, it’s like you said. A lot to take in.”
“Well, it is, and I understand that, I really do. But I want you to remember that we want whatever’s best for you. So, for now, you should probably go on back to class, and just think about it, all right? And if you want to talk to me again later today, here’s a permission note you can use anytime.” She slid a slip of paper across the table to Abby. “And let me know if you’d like me to be the one to tell your mom and dad, all right?”
Abby took the permission note and put it into the white envelope. As she stood up, Mrs. Carmody said, “Everything’s going to work out, Abby. You’ll see. So I’ll talk to you later.”
Abby nodded and said, “Okay.” She tried to smile a little, but her face wasn’t working. She walked through the office, and then out the door and along the fourth-grade hallway back toward the gym.
Several of the fourth-grade classroom doors were open, and the different sounds spilled out into the air around her—kids reading aloud, a teacher leading a math class, a video on space exploration. But all Abby could hear was her own voice: I’m gonna get left back.
When she went into the gym, a furious game of dodgeball was under way, so she walked over to where her friend Mariah was sitting against the wall. Mariah hated dodgeball, and she a
lways got hit on purpose right away.
Mariah said, “What was that about?”
“Nothing much.”
Mariah turned and took a good look into her friend’s face. “Are you sick or something? You look terrible.”
“I’m fine,” Abby said.
But that was a lie.
By the end of school on that Tuesday in February, Abby had bounced back a little. She had read the letter carefully, she had looked at the problem, and she had looked at herself. And then she had made some decisions, and she had also taken a few first steps to try to deal with this new situation.
One of her decisions had been to ask Mrs. Carmody not to call her parents. She wanted to break the bad news to them herself. This had seemed like a good idea at about two thirty in the afternoon. But around seven o’clock that evening, Abby was wishing she had gotten Mrs. Carmody’s phone number.
It took every bit of courage she had, but when all three of them were in the kitchen after dinner, she managed to say, “Hey, Mom, Dad? I’ve got to talk to you about something—a problem. It’s . . . pretty bad. Like, it’s really bad.”
Abby saw her mom’s cheeks go pale as she quickly took a chair at the kitchen table. And as her dad put a bowl on the counter and laid down the dish towel, his face looked like he’d just hit his thumb with a hammer.
Abby took the white envelope out of her back pocket, unfolded it, and handed it to her mom. “It’s about my grades.”
“Oh . . . grades,” her dad said. “That’s good—I mean, it’s not good. It’s just good that it’s not something else.”
Her mom seemed relieved too as she took the envelope and pulled out a blue sheet of paper. And Abby thought, What did they think the problem was gonna be? But that thought would have to wait for later.
Her dad walked around the table and read over his wife’s shoulder.
Abby said, “I . . . I just got that letter this morning, from the school counselor. And you’re going to get it in the mail, probably tomorrow. But I wanted to tell you about it myself first. And I know that what the letter says sounds bad. But I’m already working on a plan, starting tomorrow—I mean, starting tonight, like, right now. Really. And I don’t think it’s too late to fix things. It’s not.”
“ ‘Fix things’?” her dad said. Abby knew that tone of voice, and she braced herself. Whatever other problems her dad had imagined a moment ago, those were gone. And now he had fastened onto this one like a bulldog. “The school year is more than half gone, and your teachers are telling us that you are probably going to have to repeat sixth grade, and you think there’s some kind of a quick fix? It doesn’t work like that, Abby.”
“I can go to summer school, if I have to,” said Abby. “I mean, the letter’s just a warning, right? And this is only February. It’s not like it’s completely going to happen.”
Her mom looked down and read out loud. “ ‘As you were informed in the January grade report, Abby’s work in math, science, reading, and social studies has been below grade level standards. She is still seriously behind in her work, and recent test scores have been low. It is very likely that she will need to repeat grade six.’ ”
Abby said, “See? It says ‘very likely.’ So it’s not for sure. It’s not.”
“Even if you made some big changes,” said her dad, “and I mean huge changes, that still might not be enough. Because this has been coming for a long time. This is a real mess.”
“I know,” she said, “and I’m going to work harder, a lot harder. I will, I promise. Starting right away. And before I left school today, I asked Mrs. Cooper and Mrs. Beckland to meet with me tomorrow morning. I’ll find out what I have to do so I don’t get left back. And I’m going to do everything I can. I promise.”
“Well, we’ll be talking to your teachers too,” her mom said. “But I have to say I’m disappointed. When we got that warning on your last report card, you said you were going to make changes—you promised then, too, remember? Which is why I wasn’t looking over your shoulder every second. And I’m sorry we didn’t keep a closer eye on you. And now it might be too late. We should have been checking your work every day.”
“Which is a mistake we won’t make again,” her dad added. “If you weren’t able to do the work, and you actually needed more time to understand everything, that would be fine. But you shouldn’t have to repeat a grade, Abby. There’s no good reason for it. We’ll help as much as we can right now, but you’re the one who has to dig in and do the kind of work you’re capable of. Right?”
Abby nodded. “Right.”
“And,” he went on, “even if there’s no way to bring your grades up enough to get promoted this year, the way you treat your schoolwork has got to change anyway, starting right here, right now. Agreed?”
“Yes,” Abby said. “Agreed.”
“Now,” her mom said, “show me what you have to do for tomorrow. Any tests coming up this week? Any projects due?”
For the next two hours Abby sat at the kitchen table and did her homework under the watchful eye of her mom. She read a chapter in her social studies book, then wrote out the answers to the questions at the end. She practiced her spelling words, did a grammar worksheet, memorized the symbols of ten elements in the periodic table, and finished all of the odd-numbered problems on page 177 of her math book.
And that took care of Wednesday’s work. Which left time for a half hour of TV, a quick cell phone chat with Mariah, a snack, and a good-night kiss from her mom and dad.
As she went up the stairs to get ready for bed, Abby realized that this was the first time all year that she had finished every bit of her homework. It felt great to be completely prepared for the next day. Wednesday was going to be a breeze.
But as she put her head on her pillow that Tuesday night, the fears began to whisper inside her head:
You think just because you did all your homework one night, they’re going to let you go on to seventh grade? Ha! You are so stupid!
Face it: You’re a lousy student. You’ve never been a good student, and you never will be. So get used to it. You’re gonna flunk sixth grade, and next year you’ll have to do this same boring stuff all over again.
And all your friends will be looking back at you from junior high. And they’re gonna laugh and point at you. And all the moms are gonna wag their fingers and say, “Better study hard, or you’ll get left back—just like Abby Carson.”
She sat straight up in bed, her heart thumping, her face burning, her fists clenched. And right out loud she said, “I am not going to be left back. I’ll work really hard, and my mom and dad will help me, and so will my teachers. I’m going to junior high school next year. And I am not stupid!”
CHAPTER 4
STEEP CLIMB
When Abby’s bus arrived at school on that Wednesday in February—the day after the academic warning letter—she got off, walked to the front doors, told the teacher on duty that she had a meeting in room 133, and then headed for the sixth-grade wing.
The halls were mostly empty and quiet. It was a long walk, so Abby had time to think about how she did not want to be taking this same walk in September as a sixth grader—for the second year in a row.
The door of room 133 was closed, so Abby knocked, and a voice called out, “Come in.”
She opened the door, and Mrs. Cooper said, “Good morning, Abby. Come have a seat.”
There was no smile on her face, no smile in her voice. And Abby saw the grade book, lying open on the desk.
Mrs. Cooper was Abby’s math and science teacher, and this was her classroom. She was sitting behind her desk, and there were two chairs in front of it. Mrs. Beckland, who taught language arts and social studies, was already sitting in one of them.
The moment Abby sat down, she blurted out, “I’m going to do everything I can so I don’t get left back, and I’m sorry I haven’t been working very much, and I’m going to do a lot better. So I want you to tell me what I have to do.” She paused, and then remem
bered to say, “Please.”
“Well, we certainly want to help you in every way we can, Abby,” said Mrs. Cooper. “But you’re in a tough spot right now.” She put one finger on her grade book and moved it sideways across the page, following it with her eyes. She shook her head and said, “Things look pretty bad in science. And also in math.”
Mrs. Beckland had her grade book open too. She nodded and said, “And it’s not good in language arts or social studies, either. You would need very high marks on all the rest of your tests and quizzes to get promoted to seventh grade.”
Abby leaned forward in her chair and said, “But if I do get really good grades from now on, that means I’d be okay, right?”
Mrs. Beckland said, “I don’t know if I can promise that, Abby. I don’t want to discourage you, but your grade average would have to come up a long way from where it is now. And, of course, you would also need to do well when you take the Illinois achievement tests.”
Abby said, “I could go to summer school, too, couldn’t I? To bring up my grades?”
“Our district doesn’t have academic summer school for sixth graders,” said Mrs. Cooper. “So no, that’s not an option.” Still no smile, no warmth at all from the math lady.
Abby felt like her grip on junior high school was slipping. She looked from one teacher’s face to the other, and then locked onto Mrs. Beckland’s eyes, pleading. “There must be something I could do. To be sure that I get promoted. Isn’t there something?”
Mrs. Beckland looked from Abby’s face to Mrs. Cooper’s. And Mrs. Beckland said, “Excuse us a moment.”
And both teachers stood up and walked out of the room, pulling the door shut behind them.
Abby turned, and she saw Mrs. Cooper’s back through the glass panel of the door, and she heard a quiet murmur as the teachers talked.
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