The Report Card

by Andrew Clements

  I was the only person with a hand in the air, so Mrs. Noyes said, “Nora, what do you think this story’s about?”

  I took a deep breath and said, “This story’s about a girl who lived during the Great Depression, and she needed to earn money so she could buy a birthday present for her father. Her mother had died the year before, and she knew her dad was so sad about it that he was almost ready to give up. There were no real jobs, but the girl finds this shopkeeper who says he’ll pay her ten cents every afternoon to sweep the sidewalk in front of his store. Some of her friends from school see her working and they make fun of her, but she doesn’t care. She keeps working, but time is running out and she can’t earn enough money. She tells her best friend and the friend tells the other kids at school. The day before her dad’s birthday, all of the other kids chip in enough so she can buy the present—it’s a little silver frame for her dad’s favorite photograph of her mom. Her dad had been so sad, but when he sees how much his daughter loves him, his whole outlook changes and he sees that he has a lot to be glad about and so much to live for. And I think this is a story about how hard work and love and unselfishness can change a person’s life.”

  Mrs. Noyes didn’t know what to say. I had just told her exactly what happened in the story, because during that fifteen seconds I had read all three pages. I’ve always been able to read that way—I sort of see a whole page as one or two big blocks of words.

  Mrs. Noyes said, “That’s very good, Nora. But was that really predicting? Didn’t you just give us a summary of the whole story?”

  I nodded my head in agreement. “Yes. What I said was more like reviewing. When you know for certain what’s already happened, you can’t actually predict about it anymore. Because that’s an epistemological impossibility. Prediction has to include the idea of uncertainty—like a theory in scientific analysis, or an educated guess based on heuristic evidence.”

  Mrs. Noyes nodded slowly and said, “Um . . . yes. Well, class, let’s move on and see if we can spot some of the clue words on the first page of the story. Remember, we’re looking for words that will help us make some predictions.”

  I could feel everyone in the class staring at me. Showing off and using some big words like that made me feel uncomfortable. Then I took a quick glance over at Stephen, and he had this big, proud grin on his face. And instantly I felt perfectly at ease.

  The class moved ahead, slowly picking out clue words. Mrs. Noyes didn’t call on me again during the rest of the period.

  I was obnoxious all day long. In every class I found a way to put on my genius show. During art I got going with Ms. Prill about spectroscopic analysis and the different wavelengths of the primary and tertiary colors, and in social studies I had quite a lot to say about the effects of an unregulated financial market on the Great Depression.

  In math class Mrs. Zhang and I had a ten-minute discussion about the best way to design a statistical analysis to try to discover the percentage of kids who would ever need to use the process of deriving the lowest common denominator once they left elementary school.

  In music, when Mrs. Card said that the musical scale is made up of eight notes, I was able to point out that that’s true only if you are talking about the traditional Western diatonic scale—because there are also scales like the pentatonic scale and the twelve-tone scale. And then that led naturally into a brief discussion of the use of different modal scales like the Mixolydian or the Dorian mode as the basis for musical composition.

  Gym class was a challenge because it’s not easy to get a conversation going with Mr. McKay. Still, I managed to offer some general comments about the structure of the inner ear and the way it affects balance and coordination.

  Science was my best performance of the day. Mrs. Zhang was explaining about the speed of light. She said, “Since the sun is 93 million miles away, and since light travels at 186,000 miles per second, if the sun went out right now, we would still have another seven minutes of sunlight. The light traveling from the sun to the earth takes seven minutes to pass through that much space.” Which was interesting and quite true. But then she said, “Nothing travels faster than light.” And an idea popped into my mind.

  I raised my hand, and when Mrs. Zhang nodded at me, I said, “But what about thought? If you say the word ‘sun,’ my thought can travel all the way across that 93 million miles to the sun and all the way back again in about one second. So since there are 420 seconds in seven minutes, doesn’t that mean that thought actually travels 840 times faster than light?”

  Mrs. Zhang made a strange face as she tried to get her mind around that idea. Then she shook her head. She said, “But thought isn’t like light. Light is real. You can see it. You can’t see thought.”

  I said, “Are you saying that a light wave or a light particle is more real than a thought is?”

  Mrs. Zhang said, “Well . . . no, not exactly.”

  And I said, “So are you saying that my thought can’t travel that far that fast? How about if I say ‘Alpha Centauri’? See? My thought has already traveled out into space, all the way to that star and all the way back again. And light would take almost nine years to make a round-trip to Alpha Centauri. Unless you can prove that my thought didn’t just go all the way there and back, then I’m sticking with my theory: Thought travels at least 840 times faster than light.” And all around the room, kids were nodding their heads, agreeing with me.

  Now, if Mrs. Zhang had said, “Nothing material travels faster than light,” then she would have had me, and we could have talked for a while about the difference between physics and metaphysics. But she didn’t take her thinking that far.

  Like I said, I was obnoxious all day Thursday. A real know-it-all.

  When I went to the library after school, Mrs. Byrne smiled and nodded at me when I came in, but instead of motioning me to come and talk, she quickly turned away to do some other work. Which was probably the smart thing to do. She had apparently decided to keep clear of me for a while.

  Stephen came in a little after I did and sat at the opposite end of my study table.

  “Well?” I whispered. “Was I horrible enough?”

  He grinned at me. “You were fantastically awful! Every kid is talking about you. And probably all the teachers, too. I bet they’re in the teacher’s room right now, swapping Nora stories. It was a perfect setup—perfect!”

  Because that was the idea. Thursday was the setup day, the day to build up some expectations. Then we had some important events on Friday. And the big payoff would come on Monday. And probably Tuesday, too.

  Our plan was in motion.

  seventeen

  HARD TEST

  Friday’s important events went perfectly. Stephen and I were all set for the next steps on Monday or Tuesday. But once again I learned that things don’t always happen according to plan. Because Friday after school, as I sat in the library doing my outside reading, Mrs. Hackney came marching up to my table and said, “Nora? Please follow me.”

  The principal turned around and marched out of the media center, across the hall, and into her office. I barely had time to glance at Stephen, and he gave me a quick thumbs-up as I hurried after Mrs. Hackney. We hadn’t thought this part of our plan would begin until after the weekend.

  Mrs. Hackney stood behind her desk and said, “Please sit down, Nora.” When I was in the chair across from her, she held up three pieces of paper and said, “I want to know something and I want to know it right now. This is your spelling test from this morning. And you got a zero on it. This is your math test from fourth period. And you got a zero. And this is your science test from two hours ago. Another zero. Three tests and you got a zero on each one. I want to know the meaning of this. We all know you are a brilliant child, Nora. And the only possible conclusion is that you have gotten these zeroes on purpose. And I demand to know why. Right now. Out with it—why did you get these zeroes?”

  I had told Stephen I would be brave when our plan started to heat thin
gs up. And now I was having my hardest test of the day—the angry-grown-up-shaking-papers-in-my-face test.

  Mrs. Hackney repeated the question. “Why did you get zeroes on these tests?”

  I had been rehearsing my answer to that one. I said, “I got zeroes because I got all the answers wrong.”

  Mrs. Hackney’s face bunched up until her eyes were little slits below her eyebrows. Then she found her voice and it wasn’t pretty. “Don’t you dare be smart with me, young lady! Why did you deliberately get every question wrong on these tests? Tell me!”

  I looked her right in the eye and said, “Because all three of these tests are nothing but simple memorization, same as almost all the other tests we take. So I decided to express my opinion about this kind of testing. These tests each got the score they deserved. Zero.”

  This was the tricky moment. Because if Mrs. Hackney just kept getting madder and madder, I could get suspended. Or even expelled from school.

  I was hoping something else would happen. And it did. Because Mrs. Hackney wasn’t just a shouter, and she wasn’t just some lady with an office. She was mad, but she was still a teacher—the top teacher of the whole school. She was in charge of the learning program for every grade, and I had just thrown down a challenge.

  Mrs. Hackney glared at me for another few seconds, and then she sat down in her chair and began to look at the tests.

  About a minute later, in a much calmer voice she said, “I see what you mean, and it’s true that these tests all require students to memorize a lot of information. But knowing basic information is important. It’s like the foundation. You get bored with this kind of test because you’ve been trying to pretend you’re average—and you’re not. This kind of test is fine for most of the kids. You need to be in the gifted program, Nora. In the gifted program you’d have lots of creative challenges. That’s what you need. I’ve already talked with your mother, and I have recommended that you start that program as soon as possible. Maybe you should even skip ahead into sixth grade. Or even eighth.”

  I could tell Mrs. Hackney liked that skipping-grades idea. Even skipping to sixth grade would move me right out of her school. It was the instant solution: no more Nora.

  But I shook my head. “What about all the other kids? I get to go and do creative and exciting things, and all the other kids get worksheets and memorization and the same old stuff, week after week. That’s not fair.”

  Mrs. Hackney was still the principal, and she wasn’t going to sit around and argue with a fifth grader.

  So she stood up and said, “You may go back to the library now. I’m sorry I lost my temper, but you have upset all your teachers. A gift like yours comes with responsibilities, Nora. I want you to think about that. You have responsibilities. You may go now. But this matter is not over.”

  As I walked back into the library, I obeyed Mrs. Hackney: I thought about what she had just said—how a gift like mine comes with responsibilities.

  Mrs. Hackney was absolutely right. I did have responsibilities. Except she and I had different ideas about what those responsibilities were.

  And Mrs. Hackney was absolutely right about something else, too: This matter was not over.

  eighteen

  LOGIC

  When I got back to my table in the library, Stephen pounced on me. “What happened? What’d she say? Are you in trouble?”

  “Not too much,” I said. “But she got pretty mad. And she wants to put me in the gifted program right away.”

  “What else?” he asked. “What about the tests and everything?”

  I shook my head. “I’ll tell you all about it on the bus, okay? I need to finish this reading.”

  That wasn’t exactly true. What I really needed was time to think. Because I could see where all this was going—but I couldn’t tell where it would end. The plan Stephen and I had made had sounded good when we were talking about it, and it had been kind of fun to be a show-off genius one day and then get three zeroes the next.

  But something Mrs. Hackney had said really got me. She’d said, “. . . you have upset all your teachers.”

  And that got me thinking. If they were all upset now, how were they going to feel if we really got the school stirred up? Because that was probably going to happen. Our plan was to get as many kids as we could to start getting zeroes. Tests, quizzes, homework—zeroes on everything. I was just the leader, the test case.

  Stephen was pretty sure that Lee, Ben, Kevin, and James would go along, and he thought he could sell the idea to his little brother and some of his friends in fourth grade, too. I thought if I explained everything just right, a bunch of the girls would join in. And that would get a whole gang of parents involved, because all of our parents were worried about grades all the time—I mean, most of our parents were already worrying about which colleges we would get into. So if a lot of kids started getting zeroes on everything, it would be a big deal. The story would probably get into the newspaper. And it would get onto local TV for sure, because all the school meetings were broadcast on cable. So pretty soon the whole town would know about all the bad grades.

  But Stephen and I weren’t planning to stop with zeroes on some tests and quizzes. Because once people started paying attention, we were going to tell everyone that we wanted all the kids in Philbrook to get zeroes on the Mastery Tests, too. If all the schools in Philbrook suddenly got rotten scores on the CMT, that would be major news—because if the schools get bad CMT scores, then the whole town gets a bad reputation. My mom’s a Realtor, and I’ve heard her say that if a town gets bad scores, then fewer people want to buy houses there. Bad scores mean that the principals and the teachers get in trouble, and then the state board of education gets involved, and on and on and on.

  Because those CMT scores are a huge deal. And since the kids are the ones who actually sit down and take the tests, the kids control the scores. That meant that the kids had all this power that they didn’t even know about.

  Stephen and I were ready to change all that. It was going to be like when all the teachers organized a strike and stopped working until they got paid more money. We were going to organize a kids’ strike—a strike against grades and tests and pressure and bad competition.

  As I sat there thinking, I could see it all happening, step by step. In three or four weeks our whole school would be turned upside down. Kids would be getting zeroes on tests. Teachers would be mad at the kids. Parents would be mad at their kids and the teachers and the principal. And the school board would be mad at everybody.

  And they would all be mad at me. And at Stephen.

  So that’s why I needed to stop now and think.

  I looked around the library.

  At the next table Melanie Nissen was reading a teen romance book. She wasn’t worried about her grades. She was wondering whether Roger would ever ask Susan to the big dance.

  Behind me two fourth-grade boys were arguing about the best way to display their project at the science fair. They were laughing and goofing around, and they were learning, too—but they didn’t even know it. And they weren’t competing or thinking about grades.

  Over in the corner near the magazine rack three girls were flopped on beanbag chairs, their heads close together, giggling about something. School was a fun place for them. Any pressure? Not today.

  At the other end of my table Stephen was chewing on the end of his pencil and making faces at his math homework. Was Stephen desperately unhappy about school? No. Did he actually believe he was dumb—like, permanently stupid? No.

  And why had Stephen gotten involved with a crazy plan that might shake up the whole town of Philbrook? Did he do it because he had a deep desire to change education in the state of Connecticut? No. He did it for me. Plus, it sounded like an adventure with a little danger and excitement.

  Next fall, when it was time for all the teachers to get the kids cranked up for the CMT again, would all the kids get stressed out for a month or so? Yes, absolutely. But then the testing would b
e over and all the kids would get on with their lives. They would laugh and talk to their friends, they would do their homework, their teachers would teach them, they would take their tests and quizzes, and the time would go by. Then they would move on to the next grade, and the next, and the next.

  Fact: I was the only kid in the whole school worrying this way about grades and tests and competition. All the other kids were being normal. And I had to face that fact, too: I was not a normal kid. I had “a gift.” That’s what Mrs. Hackney had called it. Some gift.

  I got up and started walking toward the circulation desk. Mrs. Byrne saw me coming and she didn’t look too happy about it. But I needed to talk.

  I said, “Hi, Mrs. Byrne.”

  Mrs. Byrne smiled. “Hello, Nora. You look a little down. Hard day?”

  I nodded and said, “Yeah. Did you hear anything?”

  “Oh, yes—it was headline news: ‘Star Student Bombs Three Tests.’ Pretty dramatic.” She looked into my face and said, “Is everything working out the way you wanted it to?”

  “Umm . . . I don’t know.” And I felt like such a baby because I could feel tears at the corners of my eyes.

  Mrs. Byrne pretended not to notice. She looked down at her keyboard and then at the screen in front of her. She said, “I’ve been wondering about something, Nora. I hope you don’t think I’m being nosy, but I’m very curious. It’s a simple question: Why do you think you’re so smart?”

  I took a swipe at my eyes and gave a shrug. “Genetics, I guess. That’s what they say if you get a supercharged mind.”

  Mrs. Byrne shook her head. “I don’t mean where did the intelligence come from. I mean why do you think you have it?” She paused a second and then she said, “Think of it this way: Do you believe that things happen for a reason?”

  I said, “Yes . . . at least I think that’s true.”

  Mrs. Byrne said, “So, if things do happen for a reason, then there must be a reason that you’ve been given so much intelligence, right?” I nodded, and she said, “So that’s what I’m asking—why do you think you’re so smart?”