The Report Card

by Andrew Clements

  • • •

  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.

  five

  SOLITARY CONFINEMENT

  Ann 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.

  Mom didn’t even say “good morning.” She said, “We opened your grade report last night, Nora.”

  My dad shook his head and growled, “Never seen such bad grades in my life—even on my report cards.”

  I said, “I don’t want to talk about it. You saw the grades. I got Ds. And one C. Those are my grades. I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “Nora, please,” Mom said. “There must be a reason you got such awful grades. Are you unhappy? Have the children at school been teasing you? Have you been feeling sick? Or is it something else?”

  I shook my head as I scanned the row of cereal boxes on the counter. I poured some cornflakes into a bowl and said, “I don’t want to talk about it, Mom. I got the grades I got, and that’s all there is to it.”

  Dad exploded. “‘All there is to it’?! Well, then you’re grounded, young lady! And that’s all there is to it! You don’t want to spill the beans and let us help you out, then that’s the way it is. You can just sit in your room until you decide to cooperate.”

  I munched my cereal, swallowed, and took a sip of orange juice. I said, “Fine by me.” Then I said, “Am I allowed to read, or do I have to sit in the corner and look at the flowers on the wallpaper?” Which was a lot sassier than usual. But that was part of the plan too.

  Mom put a hand on Dad’s arm. She said, “Nora, don’t be disrespectful. You know better than that. And you know us better than that too. We only want to help you. But first you’ve got to help us.”

  I looked at them. “But I don’t want any help. Did I ask you to come to school and take my tests for me? Did I ask you to read my assignments for me? Or do my homework? I don’t need help.”

  They didn’t talk any more and neither did I. After my last spoonful of cereal, I tipped up my bowl and drank the milk. I wiped the milk off my upper lip, laid my napkin on the table, got up, and put my bowl and spoon and glass into the dishwasher. Then I said, “I’ll be up in my room.”

  I spent the rest of Saturday reading the article on the history of China in the Britannica. It was a long article, about 500,000 words. I’d been chipping away at it for almost a week and I was only up to A.D. 1368, the beginning of the Ming Dynasty. It felt good to have some forced reading time.

  I was allowed out of my room for meals, and on Sunday morning I went to church with everyone, but then it was right back to my cell.

  At about eight o’clock on Sunday night my mom came in and sat down on the edge of my bed where I was reading. I knew why she’d come. It was time to get ungrounded. The way I figured, unless you’re a teenager with places to go and friends to go with and money to spend when you get there, grounding is a pretty pointless punishment.

  And sure enough, Mom’s first words were, “Nora, your father and I have decided that your grounding is over. But I don’t want you to think we’re not concerned about this. This isn’t like you, Nora.”

  I looked up from my book. “Isn’t like me? What am I like?”

  My mom smiled. “Why, you’re sweet and thoughtful, and you want to do your very best at everything, Nora. That’s what you’re like.” I gave a little snort, but Mom ignored the noise. “And if you need help,” she continued, “you’re smart enough to ask for it.”

  “I told you, Mom. I don’t need any help. And since when have I been sweet? Or thoughtful?”

  Mom stayed focused on her main topic. “But there’s nothing wrong with asking for help. We all need help now and then. Besides, you don’t want to get a reputation for not caring about your work. Grades are very important, Nora. So, whether you like it or not, first thing tomorrow morning your father and I are going to school to talk with Mrs. Hackney. It’s just not right that a perfectly normal student could be allowed to get all Ds. And one C. And your father and I did not get a single academic warning letter from the school, not one. The school has some explaining to do.” She paused, her eyes searching my face. “You understand, don’t you, Nora? We’re not trying to embarrass you. But we have to get to the bottom of this.”

  I shrugged and said, “Sure. I understand.” And I did. I had been certain they would visit the school after they saw those grades.

  Mom stood up and started to leave, but she stopped at the door, turned back, and said, “Your dad and I love you, Nora.”

  I looked up and said, “I love you too.”

  And that was a fact.

  But as I lay there on my bed I wondered if my mom would still be able to say that in a week or two.

  six

  STAKEOUT

  “So are you grounded—like forever?”

  That was Stephen’s first question when we met at the bus stop Monday morning. He could have tried to telephone on Saturday or Sunday. He didn’t call me very often these days, and it was usually just to ask about homework.

  “No,” I said. “I’m not grounded. Not anymore. But my mom and dad are going to talk to the principal this morning. So stay tuned.”

  “I don’t get it,” Stephen said, “how you got such rotten grades. You never do worse than me.”

  I ignored his bad grammar and shrugged. “Well, I did this time.”

  I could tell he had more questions, but Lee and Ben came whooping down the street, and Ben shouted, “Hey,
Stephen! Guess what—I got forty dollars for my grades, so I got the new Sims game!” And it was like I had disappeared.

  That was another thing about fifth grade. Stephen didn’t even try to include me when his guy friends were around. But I didn’t make it into a big deal. Besides, I had plenty to think about on the bus ride to school.

  My first-period class was language arts, and every other Monday Mrs. Noyes took us to the library. Our media center was right across the hall from the main office, so I grabbed a copy of Time magazine and got a chair with a clear view of the entrance hall. I pretended to read, but I was on stakeout duty.

  At 9:07 my mom and dad showed up. I saw Mrs. Hackney come out of her office and shake hands with each of them. Then they followed her back inside and her door shut behind them.

  At 9:14 the intercom in the library chimed, and the school secretary’s voice said, “Mrs. Noyes, please come to the main office.”

  Mrs. Noyes walked across the hall, and the secretary steered her into the principal’s office.

  At 9:16 Mrs. Noyes hurried out of the office and down the hall toward her classroom. Less than a minute later she was back, still hurrying, and she had something in her hand. It was her green grade book.

  I had a pretty good idea what was going on in the principal’s office.

  At 9:23 my parents left. I ducked behind my magazine in case they looked my way. Then it was all clear.

  When Mrs. Noyes came back into the library, I kept my eyes on the page in front of me, but I have good peripheral vision. Mrs. Noyes looked right at me, a long, slow look. And then she went into the librarian’s office. She shut the door and started talking to Mrs. Byrne. When I glanced up a minute later they were both looking at me.

  By fourth-period math, Mrs. Noyes must have already talked to Mrs. Zhang because after we went over the homework, Mrs. Zhang looked right at me and said, “Nora, are you sure you understand this?” And when she assigned our new work, Mrs. Zhang came over and asked me to do two problems while she watched. She had never done that before.

  It was like that all day. All my teachers paid more attention to me, sort of checking up on me all the time. And I understood exactly why.

  Most kids think that if they get bad grades, it’s their problem. But that’s not true. The fact is, when a kid gets a bad grade, it’s like the teacher is getting a bad grade too. And the principal. And the whole school and the whole town and the whole state. And don’t forget the parents. A bad grade for a kid is a bad grade for everybody.

  After school I hurried to the media center because I wanted to get there before all the computers got reserved.

  I’d been staying after school for the extended-day program since first grade, and I could either go to the gym or the library. I almost always went to the library. Stephen did the extended-day program too because both his parents worked, same as mine. But he only went to the library once in a while.

  No one was using my favorite computer over in the corner, so I sat down and punched in my password. When the system recognized me, I opened up the Internet browser, went to Google, and typed in “Connecticut Mastery Testing.” There were a ton of Web pages and I found my favorite one. It listed nine ways the state should improve the CMT. I’d been online for about three minutes when Mrs. Byrne came walking toward me, so I switched screens to a kids’ page about ocean currents. I didn’t want her to know the kind of research I was doing.

  Mrs. Byrne smiled and said, “Nora, I just got a call from Mrs. Hackney. She’d like to talk with you in her office.”

  “Now?” I asked. “Today?”

  She nodded. “That’s what she said. I’ll walk over with you, okay?”

  I said, “Sure. Can I leave my things here, or should I bring them?”

  “Better bring them,” she said, “just to be sure they’re safe.”

  I grabbed my book bag and my jacket. My mind was zooming along at a million miles an hour. This little talk with Mrs. Hackney wasn’t in my plan.

  But so what? I said to myself. You knew something like this would happen sooner or later, right? So what if it’s a whole lot sooner? No big deal.

  By the time we walked to the principal’s office, I had calmed myself down.

  No big deal, I told myself again.

  Then the door opened.

  Wrong. It was a big deal. A very big deal.

  My mom and dad were sitting at the large, round conference table. And Mrs. Noyes. And Mrs. Zhang. And Mrs. Card, the music teacher. And Ms. Prill, the art teacher. And Mr. McKay, the gym teacher. And Dr. Trindler, the guidance counselor.

  Mrs. Byrne followed me in and took a seat next to Mrs. Noyes.

  And there they sat. All my teachers. And my parents. And the guidance counselor. And the principal.

  Mrs. Hackney stood up, and she smiled and nodded at me. I must have had an awful look on my face because she said, “Please, don’t be scared, Nora—this is a very friendly little group. When your parents stopped in this morning, I decided it would be a good idea for all of us to get together and talk about your report card. Sorry to surprise you, but we didn’t want you to worry about it all day—because, honestly, there is absolutely nothing to worry about. Please, take the seat there between your mom and dad. And remember, we’re all here because we care about you.”

  Everyone was smiling and nodding at me as I sat down.

  I learned an important fact at that moment: Just because I’m really smart doesn’t mean that I can’t have a good old-fashioned panic attack.

  seven

  THE ELEMENT OF SURPRISE

  As I sat at the big round table between my mom and dad, I felt like I was trapped in a sandwich. It was mealtime in the principal’s office and the main dish was sliced Nora.

  Mrs. Hackney liked big meetings. She always had. Almost every other week she called an all-school assembly or an all-fifth-grade meeting or an all-second-grade meeting or some kind of gathering of kids and teachers. She said it gave the school “cohesiveness.” She said it created “good group dynamics” for all of us to see each other’s faces. And she said meeting as a large group helped us solve our problems all together, all at once. That was clearly what she had in mind today.

  Mrs. Hackney sat down and took charge. “Since Mr. and Mrs. Rowley asked for all of you to be here, perhaps they should mention a few of the concerns they shared with me this morning. Then maybe Nora’s teachers can explain things from their perspective. And if she wants to, maybe Nora could share a little too. How does that sound?”

  My mom nodded and smiled and cleared her throat. She was happy to talk first. Principals and teachers and counselors didn’t frighten her one bit. She’d been trying to boss them around for ages—ever since the time she tried to push Ann into the gifted program two years early.

  My mom said, “We really appreciate all of you taking the time to come and talk. It’s one of the things we’ve always loved about the Philbrook schools. Our first concern today, apart from Nora’s grades themselves, is that we had no warning that there was a problem, not so much as a note or a phone call. And we’d like to understand how that happened.”

  Nobody said anything for about three seconds.

  Then Mrs. Byrne said, “I can only speak about Nora’s grade in library skills, of course, but it’s pretty clear what happened.”

  Mrs. Byrne had her grade book open on the table in front of her. So did all my other teachers. My heart was pounding so hard that I was sure my mom and dad would hear it.

  Mrs. Byrne ran her index finger along a row of numbers. “On the first three quizzes and our first reference search, Nora got scores that averaged out to about seventy-two percent, which is a low C. And that’s what she had at the seventh week of the term. That’s when we mail out academic warnings to parents. And since Nora didn’t have a D or lower, there was no warning. Then on the next quiz and our final Internet research project, Nora did quite poorly. And that pulled her grade down. I entered her scores, calculated the average, and there
it was.” Mrs. Byrne looked at me and smiled. “Nora is one of the library’s very best customers, so I didn’t like having to give her a D, but that’s the way it happened.”

  Mrs. Zhang nodded. “Exactly,” she said. “Numbers are numbers and an average is an average. Same thing in science and math classes for Nora. Her grades dropped off right at the end of the term, and that was it. No warning for you, no warning for me.”

  All my other teachers started nodding and agreeing. Mr. McKay cleared his throat and said, “Ditto in gym class. Cs all term, then a big fat F on the obstacle course fitness challenge. Dropped her to a D.”

  I could tell my dad didn’t like it when Mr. McKay said “big fat F.” But I sort of enjoyed it. I was proud of that F. I was probably the only kid in the history of the school to fail the obstacle course fitness challenge. It took a lot of creativity to look completely uncoordinated and totally out of shape.

  Dr. Trindler said, “I’d like to make an observation.” He was the guidance counselor. He was also the psychologist for the school district. He opened a big folder and started shuffling papers around. I knew what that folder was. It was the Nora Rowley folder—all the records from my past five years at Philbrook Elementary School.

  As he looked at the papers on the table, Dr. Trindler put the palms of his hands together and then flexed them apart so only the tips of his long, thin fingers were touching—apart, together, apart, together. It made his hands look like a spider doing push-ups on a mirror.

  He adjusted his glasses and then tried to smile at my parents. He didn’t look at me. “Mr. and Mrs. Rowley, I know this sort of report card can be upsetting, but honestly, grades like this aren’t that far out of line with Nora’s Mastery Testing profile, or with her academic history here at the elementary school. The Philbrook school system has very high standards. Nora’s been an average student, right there in the middle, with room to move either way. And sometimes grades can get tipped downward instead of upward. That’s all. And sometimes performance can be related to all sorts of things. Things like unusual stresses at home, like losing a job, or perhaps a death in the family. Sometimes even little disturbances can make a big difference.”