Then I went to school and turned into KinderKat.
So my mom and dad got worried and they called the principal, Mrs. Hackney. And then the special education teacher and the guidance counselor got involved, and everyone at school decided I had a learning disability. I could feel how they all started looking at me, and I didn’t like that. I didn’t want people to think there was something wrong with me. So after two weeks I knew I had to stop being a cat.
But I didn’t want to start being myself. That seemed dangerous too.
I thought about it and the idea I got was so simple: Don’t be a cat; be a copycat! I decided that every day I would be like a different kid in my class. I would become a living average of all the other children in my kindergarten.
So one Wednesday morning, instead of getting down under the table, I picked out one kid to copy. I started doing whatever Stephen Curtis was doing—not exactly but pretty close. And he had no idea I was copying him.
When Stephen sat on a rug square and watched Susan help Mrs. Bridge pick out the right day of the week to hang on the date board, I sat and watched too.
When Stephen got out a puzzle, so did I, and I took as long to do my puzzle as it took Stephen to do his.
When Stephen began playing with blocks, so did I, and I tried to make my building look sort of like Stephen’s.
When Stephen sat at a table and tried to draw the letter A with a pencil, I sat down nearby and worked on the letter B with a crayon. I could have written any letter perfectly, and hundreds of whole words, too. But I made it look like writing a B was as hard for me as writing that A was for Stephen.
The morning went by quickly, and I was amazed at how many different things Stephen did. Kindergarten took on a new meaning for me. It had become my laboratory.
The next day I decided to be like Caitlyn. She threaded beads, and so did I. She played in the dress-up corner, and so did I. When Caitlyn colored some butterflies, I did too, and I even joined Caitlyn and three other girls in a game of tag during outside recess. It was another educational day for me.
Mrs. Bridge was thrilled about the sudden change in my behavior, and so was the special education teacher, and, of course, so were my parents. And once I turned into an average kid, the pressure stopped.
However, I was just getting started with my research. Helen, Laura, Ron, Kathy, Philip, Jeremy, Karen, James, Kim, Susan, Elliot—I played copycat day after day, always shadowing a different kid. Each day was new and interesting. I felt like I was part of the class, and I liked that feeling.
But I also learned that I liked being so smart. Because by kindergarten I had figured out an important fact about me: I was a genius. The things that most kids found difficult were easy for me. I had seen the other children working hard to learn their letter shapes, working hard to understand the sounds each letter made, working hard just to make their fingers hold a pencil or a pair of scissors. I knew that none of them were thinking the way I was, or reading the kinds of things I could read. Megan was the only other kid in my class who could read at all, and just some simple picture books.
Day by day I got a clearer idea of how far ahead I was. That didn’t make me think I was better than the other kids, though. The more I got to know them, the more I admired them. I was amazed by all their hard work. I realized that I didn’t have to work like they did and that I never had. School was different for me. Everything was different for me.
There were fifteen kids in my kindergarten, and each one got a turn being copied. So it was about two weeks before I spent another day copying Stephen. And it was wonderful because right away I could tell he had made some progress. Stephen must have been working on his letter shapes because now he could draw A through O perfectly. Except he made his capital G backward every time. I wished I could help Stephen with that, but I knew I didn’t dare. Not if I wanted to keep my secret. So I chose D as my backward letter, and I thought, In a couple weeks, when it’s time to copy Stephen again, maybe he’ll have that G turned around.
But two weeks seemed too long to wait.
That’s why I followed Stephen the very next day, and then the next three days after that. And then all the next week, too. I watched everything Stephen did for nine days in a row, and I heard everything he said. It was an in-depth study.
Stephen wasn’t one of the smartest kids in the class. I could see that. But Stephen was such a good worker. If he couldn’t do something, he was patient and he didn’t give up. If something was too hard, Stephen didn’t get mad at himself. He simply moved on and then went back to it. And sooner or later he figured it out. He liked to sit alone sometimes and look out the window or draw shapes with a pencil or a crayon. He didn’t look at the pictures in the picture books; he studied them. Also, when Stephen played a game, he always played fair. And the most important thing to me was that during all the time I watched him, Stephen never said or did one mean or angry thing. Not once. To anyone—even if someone was mean to him first.
Then one Monday morning Stephen was absent. Same thing on Tuesday and Wednesday. I almost called his house Wednesday night to make sure he wasn’t dying or something. Because the thought of school without Stephen was suddenly the worst thing I could imagine. When he got off his bus on Thursday morning, I wanted to run over and give him a big hug. Of course, I didn’t.
But that’s when I decided that Stephen was going to be my best friend. He was just so nice. Because I thought, Who could be a better friend than Stephen? And I also thought, If Stephen was my friend, then I could help him. Because that’s what friends do.
The best thing that happened during my first year at Philbrook Elementary School was getting to be friends with Stephen Curtis. And the best thing that happened during third grade was when Stephen’s family moved to a house down the street from me. And the best thing that’s happened all five years I’ve known Stephen is that we’ve kept getting put into the same classrooms with the same teachers.
So I stayed best friends with Stephen. And I kept helping him. Carefully. Not show-offy. Not smarty-pantsy. Just some friendly help once in a while. With little things. I was like an extra teacher. Half the time Stephen didn’t even know he needed help or that I was giving it.
It was during fourth grade. That’s when Stephen started to change. It was after the big tests we all had to take at the beginning of fourth grade, the Connecticut Mastery Testing. Because Stephen didn’t get good scores. And I knew why. I had watched him making faces and chewing his pencil and looking up at the clock every other minute during the tests. It was the pressure that got him, even after all the hours and hours and hours we had spent in class getting ready for the tests. I mean, he probably wouldn’t have done that great even without the pressure—because, like I said, as far as school work went, he was an average student. But all the time pressure didn’t help, that’s for sure. So Stephen’s scores on the CMT were sort of low. Not terrible, just low.
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 the
m 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.”
four
THE READING OF THE GRADES
My 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.
The Report Card Page 2