Claudia Kishi, Middle School Drop-Out

by Ann M. Martin

  I thought about explaining my theory that chocolate is an important part of everyone’s daily diet, but decided against it. Rosa looked like the type who might come back at me with a full-scale lecture on the Nutritional Needs of the Average Adolescent.

  Rosa, as I’m sure you’ve figured out, is my tutor. My parents don’t waste any time, that’s for sure. Once they’d heard I needed a tutor, that was it. After our family meeting, Mom called Janine’s classmate and set up a tutoring session for the very next afternoon.

  Janine had come home in time to be there when Rosa arrived and to make introductions. She and Rosa seemed to be two of a kind, even though Rosa is a little older. She’s an actual college freshman. As Janine showed Rosa where to hang her jacket, they made what I could only guess were physics jokes, using words like “inertia,” and “mechanical advantage.” They cracked themselves up, but I didn’t even giggle. I felt as if I came from a different planet.

  Not that Rosa is some brainy nerd. She’s cool. She even knows a thing or two about how to dress. That first day, she was wearing overalls, Doc Martens, and a funky black newsboy cap, turned sideways. Her black hair is cropped short and she has that “waif” look, with big dark eyes and pale skin.

  Anyway, there we were up in my room. I’d been stalling as long as I could, but that offer of a candy bar seemed to be the last dodge I could come up with, and Rosa knew it.

  “I think we should start,” she said softly, giving me an “I-know-what-you’re-up-to” look.

  “Okay,” I said meekly, remembering the promise I’d made to my parents.

  “First of all, I’ll have to assess your needs. Which subject do you feel you need the most help in?” Rosa leaned toward me and looked me straight in the eye.

  I gulped. “Um, math?” I said. “I just failed a test.”

  “Okay,” said Rosa, writing something in a little book she’d pulled out of her backpack. “And what about science? Are you keeping up?”

  “Not really,” I confessed.

  She made another note.

  “Social studies?” she asked gently.

  I shook my head. “I’m a little behind,” I answered.

  “What about English?”

  Suddenly, I almost felt like crying. I couldn’t look at Rosa.

  “Having a little trouble there, too, huh?” she asked sympathetically.

  I nodded.

  “It’s okay, Claudia, don’t worry,” said Rosa. “We’ll work really hard and you’ll be caught up before you know it.” She smiled at me encouragingly.

  I wanted to believe her. “You don’t know how far behind I am,” I said.

  “Why don’t you tell me about it, subject by subject.” She pulled my math book off the top of the pile. “So, where are you, and where are you supposed to be?” she asked, flipping the book open.

  We went through each subject, discussing the problems I’m having. She looked over my last math test (without commenting on that forty-five, thankfully!), checked out my social studies notes, and read through an essay I’d written for English. I’d left my science notebook at school, in my locker, but I explained to her about how hard it was for me to remember the different kinds of rocks.

  She kept making little notes in her book, and murmuring sympathetic comments as I explained how lost I felt in every subject. Finally, we finished going over my situation. I leaned back and heaved a huge sigh. Then I helped myself to a Milky Way bar. I offered one to Rosa, too, but she shook her head. She was looking over the notes she’d made.

  “So, how does it look?” I asked, a little anxiously. “Will the patient survive?” I smiled, to show her I was joking.

  She didn’t smile back.

  “Claudia,” she said. “We have some serious work to do. But I think we can put you back on track.” She glanced again at the notes she’d made. “It’s obvious to me that you’re very intelligent.”

  “Really?” I asked. It felt great to hear that. I know I’m not dumb, but lately I haven’t exactly been feeling brilliant.

  “Really,” she repeated, meeting my eyes with a serious look. “However, you are lazy, scholastically speaking. And sloppy. And you have terrible study habits, and no idea of how to go about learning the basics and then remembering them. You’re smart enough to skate along for a while, but you’re going to take a big fall one of these days if you don’t buckle down.”

  “I — I don’t usually fail tests,” I said in a small voice.

  “No, I bet you usually pass them, but not by much. And then you immediately forget everything you just learned. Am I right?”

  I couldn’t deny it. She was onto me.

  “I used to be the same way,” admitted Rosa. “Believe it or not.”

  “I definitely don’t believe that. Janine told me you’re the best student in her class!”

  “I do all right in school,” said Rosa. “But it doesn’t come naturally to me. I’ve had to work very hard. But it’s worth it, to do well.”

  Would it be worth it to me? I wasn’t sure. I glanced around my room, looking at some of my more recent art projects. A still life of fruit, done in oil paints. A sculpture of a cat. A watercolor of my mother’s garden. A necklace I’d made out of bottle caps and wooden beads that I’d painted with acrylics. All of those things had taken a lot of work, a lot of concentration. But I’d done it gladly, because, for me, art is always worth it. I didn’t know if I could ever come to feel the same way about math, or English.

  Rosa and I worked hard that afternoon, tackling my math homework. We went over every single problem, and she was incredibly patient. Unlike Janine or Stacey, she explained things to me in a way I could understand. She showed me a new way to check my work so I wouldn’t make careless mistakes, and taught me a great trick for remembering the names of the different kinds of angles.

  By the time Rosa left, I felt as if I really might be able to handle whatever Mr. Schubert threw my way. I even planned to ask him if I could take that quiz over again, in the hope of bringing my grade up.

  I was grateful that Rosa left at a little after five, before any of my BSC friends showed up. I wasn’t sure if I was ready to tell them about all the problems I’d been having in school, and it might be awkward to introduce them to my tutor.

  As it was, she left in plenty of time. I even had a few minutes to put away my schoolbooks and pull out the goodies I’d saved for our meeting: a big box of Milk Duds, a bag of Sour Patch Kids, and, for Stacey and whoever else was in the mood, some nacho cheese-flavored popcorn.

  Then, I opened a drawer and pulled out something I’d received in the mail just the day before. I looked down at it and smiled. Today was the day. I wanted to forget about all my troubles in school. I wanted to pretend that everything was fine. I wanted my friends to see me as the fun-loving, happy Claudia they knew and loved. If this didn’t do the trick, nothing would!

  I heard the front door slam, and then the unmistakable sound of Kristy thumping up the stairs. Quickly, I shoved the tiny box into my pocket. I’d wait until everyone was there.

  “Hey, Kristy,” I said, as she came in.

  “How’s it going?” she asked me.

  “Great,” I answered honestly. I did feel pretty good about things. First of all, being accepted into Serena McKay’s class had been a real boost. (I’d already told all my friends about that. They were thrilled for me.) And secondly, Rosa was a terrific tutor. I had a feeling that if she couldn’t help me catch up in school, nobody could.

  Stacey arrived next (looking sophisticated-yet-casual in a khaki skirt with a white blouse), and Mary Anne walked in right behind her. Abby arrived next, still glowing from her soccer practice, and last but not least were Mal and Jessi.

  I checked my digital clock. It was only 5:27. For once, everybody was early. Perfect! I passed the Milk Duds to Mary Anne, the Sour Patch Kids to Jessi, and the popcorn to Stacey. “Back in a second,” I said, walking out the door. I headed for the bathroom and prepared my surprise. Then I saunte
red back into my room.

  Kristy, leaning back in the director’s chair, was just starting to call the meeting to order. “I hereby — whoa!” she exclaimed, almost falling over when she caught sight of me. Then the others looked up and saw me.

  Everybody reacted at once.

  “Claudia, I don’t believe it!” cried Stacey. “A nose ring?”

  “You’re crazy,” said Abby.

  “Your parents are going to kill you,” said Jessi, shaking her head.

  “I think it looks cool,” declared Mal.

  “What happens when you have a cold?” Mary Anne asked, with a worried look on her face.

  “Claudia,” said Kristy firmly. “Have you lost your mind?”

  I cracked up. Just the reaction I’d been hoping for. “Nope!” I said. Then I reached up and pulled off the nose ring. “It’s not as if I pierced my nose,” I explained. “It’s a clip-on. A fake. I ordered it from a magazine. I thought it would be a great addition to whatever costume I wear to the Halloween dance.”

  “Oh, my lord!” said Stacey. She cracked up, and the others did, too. Then I had to pass the nose ring around (I wiped it off carefully) for everyone to look at more closely. Meanwhile, Kristy declared the meeting brought to order, and the phone began to ring.

  My plan had worked. I’d distracted my friends — and myself.

  Then, between phone calls, Mary Anne spoke up. “Claudia,” she began, putting her hand on my shoulder. “What’s really going on with you? I’ve noticed that you seem kind of upset lately. And now the nose ring trick. I have a feeling you’re trying to run away from something.”

  Trust Mary Anne to pick up on how I really felt.

  As soon as she said that, the floodgates opened. I started to sniff, and then the tears began to fall for real. I confessed everything.

  Why had I even tried to hide my troubles? My friends are the greatest. Not only did they promise to support me in every way possible, but they even agreed to make sure my baby-sitting load was light over the next few weeks, so that I could put all my energy into my schoolwork and my art class.

  “No way do we want to lose you,” said Kristy, reminding me of the time my parents almost made me quit the BSC because I was doing so poorly in school. “The BSC is behind you one hundred percent!”

  With their help — and Rosa’s — I had a feeling I could make it.

  Seven days later, I wasn’t so sure. About making it, that is.

  Rosa was great. So were my friends. But school was turning into this gigantic nightmare for me, a nightmare I couldn’t wake up from.

  It didn’t take long for me to realize that my tutoring sessions weren’t going to make enough of a difference. In fact, I realized it almost right away, after the BSC meeting that night. I went back to my math homework to check it one more time, and — even though Rosa had helped me through it only hours earlier — none of it made sense to me.

  I felt as if I’d entered the Twilight Zone.

  One minute it had all been clear to me, and the next I felt as if I’d never seen a number before in my life. Scary? You bet.

  As I’d promised, I worked hard with Rosa and at school. But mostly I tried not to think about my academic problems. Instead, I focused on my new art class, which was turning out to be incredible.

  The first night, I was nervous. I was so nervous, in fact, that I showed up fifteen minutes early. I’d spent the afternoon putting together my supplies, making sure that I’d have everything I could possibly need. Then I’d changed my clothes about a dozen times, trying to come up with the perfect outfit. I wanted something that said “very creative,” but also said “serious artist.” I mean, this wasn’t the time for one of my silly theme outfits, like my tropical look or the cowgirl motif.

  Finally, I’d thrown on a black sweatshirt with the neck cut out of it, black jeans (doesn’t black just say “artist” to you?), and — as a lighthearted touch — my purple high-tops with the orange laces.

  When I arrived, I thought the room was empty. I strolled around, checking things out. The class was meeting in an old science lab that had been set up with easels and drawing tables. I looked for the easel with the best placement, found a good one, and set down the red plastic tackle box I use to carry my art supplies.

  “Welcome,” said someone behind me. I whirled around and saw Serena McKay herself standing there. She looked just like her picture, which had been printed on the flyer I’d seen. She was medium height, with long wavy brown hair in a simple style. She was smiling, and her clear blue eyes looked straight into mine.

  “I — I —” I couldn’t seem to talk.

  “You must be Claudia Kishi,” she said. “I really liked the self-portrait you sent in. Terrific work.”

  “Thanks,” I said, finally managing to spit out an actual word.

  “I hope you’ll like the class,” she continued. “I think you will.”

  I nodded. Just then, some other students arrived, and she gave me one last smile and turned to greet them. I went to work unpacking my tackle box. I’m sure I looked serious and professional, but inside I was singing. “Terrific work, terrific work, she thinks I do terrific work!”

  I glanced around as the other students took up the easels near me, and my nervousness returned. I was the youngest person in the class. All the other students were, basically, adults. Some were younger adults — college students, I guessed — but many of them were my parents’ age, if not older. And they all looked like serious artists. One guy even had a little goatee and was wearing a beret.

  Anyway, the point of all of this is that once class started — and I mean the minute it started — I was fine. My nervousness disappeared without a trace, never to return. Serena McKay has this very direct, straightforward style of teaching, and I responded to it immediately. She gave us an assignment right away, and as we worked she walked around the room talking about line and form and composition and texture and all the other things that go into creating a piece of art that lives and breathes and has meaning.

  She commented on every person’s style, including remarks on their strengths and weaknesses. And everything she said made sense. Right away, I knew she was the best teacher I’d ever had, in any subject.

  I guess you know what happens when you have a really good teacher, a teacher you respect. You want to do your best for her, right? So you pull out all the stops and give it everything you have. That’s what I did for Serena McKay. And let me tell you, it felt great.

  It felt great to be good at something. Great to know that I understood what the teacher was talking about, and that I could respond with work that proved it.

  It was, like, the opposite of school.

  I worked for hours with Rosa, every single day after school. And I did all my homework, every night. But even with all that effort, I was still falling further behind every day.

  In math class, Mr. Schubert said he’d noticed an improvement but that I still didn’t seem to grasp the basics.

  In science, Ms. Griswold told me I’d need to go back and review before I’d be able to understand the concepts she was teaching.

  Mr. Blake, my social studies teacher, said he appreciated my effort but that I’d have to pick up the pace on my reading.

  And Mrs. Hall, who is my English teacher, told me I’d better start spending some time in the resource room.

  Which I did. As if it weren’t enough to be spending all that time on homework and tutoring sessions, now I was heading for the resource room during lunch hours and study halls. The aide there, Mr. Matthews, was helpful. But he seemed to agree with everyone else: It was up to me to work harder, to review, to keep up.

  I felt as if I were on a treadmill, and somebody kept turning up the speed. One night, working with Rosa, I would feel as if I finally understood what we were doing in science class, but then the next day Ms. Griswold would be shooting ahead to some new area I’d never even heard of.

  It was hopeless.

  If it hadn’t been fo
r Serena McKay’s class, I don’t know what I would have done. But her class kept me sane, and gave me something to look forward to.

  Finally, on Thursday, everything came to a head. Once again, it was all because of a math test. This time I did a little better. Instead of forty-five I received a fifty-eight. But that wasn’t enough to impress Mr. Schubert, since it was still a failing grade. This time, he didn’t bother sending a note home with my parents. Instead, they received a phone call just before dinner that night. A phone call from Mr. Kingbridge.

  Mr. Kingbridge is the assistant principal at SMS. He’s not a bad guy. In fact, he’s pretty nice. But if there’s trouble, he’s on the scene. He’s the one who hands out punishments, suspends people, even expels them. (Not that I’ve ever heard of a student being expelled from SMS. But it could happen.)

  Why was he calling my parents?

  To “invite” them to a meeting, with him and Mrs. Amer, the guidance counselor. The meeting would take place the next afternoon, and I’d have to be there, too. I’d rather have had a date with Dracula.

  I figured I was going to have to hear yet another lecture. I figured my parents would be upset, and that I’d have to promise to do better (even though I couldn’t imagine what else I could possibly do). I figured it would be embarrassing, mortifying, and possibly even humiliating. And it was. But what actually happened was even worse than I ever could have imagined.

  Here’s the scene: My parents are sitting on the couch in Mr. Kingbridge’s office, wearing their work clothes and looking very concerned. I’m seated nearby, in a plastic chair. I’m looking concerned, too. I’m wearing a black wool jumper over my favorite red turtleneck. Mrs. Amer, also wearing a concerned look, plus a tasteful but boring pale yellow suit, is sitting in a chair next to Mr. Kingbridge’s desk. And a concerned-looking Mr. Kingbridge, dressed as usual in a horrifically ugly brown suit paired with a tie that looked as if he’d spilled spaghetti sauce all over it, sits behind his desk, hands folded as if he’s praying.

  Did I mention that we all looked concerned? We did.