by Don Aker
“Can we talk about somethin’ else?” Jared sighed. The way he saw it, he still had the rest of the weekend to figure things out. No point ruining a Saturday worrying about things he couldn’t control. Like math. He’d first had problems with that subject in third grade, when Mrs. Carvery had introduced Jared’s class to times tables. It had been downhill for him ever since. Knowing his math facts was one thing. Understanding how to use them to solve problems was an entirely different matter. All those signs and symbols and operations seemed to be just waiting to trip him up. For him, math might as well have been Mandarin Chinese.
Despite the cool October breeze, both boys were still sweating from the game. “Let’s stop at the deli for lunch,” Steve suggested as they crossed the street.
Jared brightened. One surefire way to forget a problem was to create one for someone else. And who better than Ellie Brejovic, who was likely to be at her dad’s deli. Where else would you be when you had no life?
CHAPTER 3
The sign outside read “Brejovic’s Deli,” but all Jared ever heard anyone call it was “Ellie’s Deli” because the owner’s daughter was a regular fixture there. Her dad was always bragging about her to his customers: Ellie this and Ellie that. He’d homeschooled her for several years, so she’d spent most of every workday at one of the back tables, reading books or doing homework. She began attending public school only last year, when she and Jared had been in the same grade five class at Wedgewood Elementary. And this year they were both in Mr. Keaton’s grade six class. One of the smartest kids at both schools, Ellie Brejovic always had a book in her hand, even on the playground. She never took part in any of the games, never walked around the school chatting with other girls her own age, never did anything but read, read, read. The kind of weirdo who’d live in a library if she could.
And just the kind of weirdo that people liked to get a rise out of.
Jared wasn’t the sort of person who gave other kids a hard time. His mother’s motto had always been “live and let live,” and Jared felt pretty much the same way. Over the years, he’d never gotten involved in the teasing and taunting that his classmates sometimes got caught up in. More often than not, he’d try to defuse the situation when he saw a student being bullied by others—which was probably the reason most people at Cornwallis, teachers included, liked him.
But Ellie Brejovic was different. There was just something about her that got under his skin, made him look the other way when classmates started in on her. They mocked her with names like “Ellie Belly” and “Smelly Ellie,” although she wasn’t overweight or underwashed. In fact, Ellie was slim and nearly as tall as Jared, and her long dark hair and even features would have been considered attractive on someone else. That is, someone who actually talked to people and didn’t bury her head in a book all day. The nicknames were just unfortunate rhymes that some budding poet had invented, names that everyone knew embarrassed her. She tried not to show it, but Jared saw the red flush rise from her neck to her cheeks every time and knew her tormentors had scored a direct hit.
It wasn’t that the girl queened it over everyone. Yeah, she knew the answers to all the teachers’ questions. Yeah, she made the highest mark on practically every single test. And yeah, she’d even won the regional library’s annual award three years in a row for most books read by an elementary student. But she never mentioned it to anyone, never tried to make people feel like they weren’t as smart as she was. The problem, of course, was that she never said much of anything to anyone. Except maybe Felicity Flowers, a toad-like girl with stringy hair whose name seemed like a cruel joke. Usually, though, Ellie was off by herself with a book. Which, Jared guessed, could give people the idea she didn’t like their company, maybe even thought she was better than them. Whatever the reason, when you’d failed every math quiz since the beginning of September and you were hiding a letter from your teacher that probably ruined any chance you might have to play for the Cougars, the thought of being able to unload some of that misery onto someone else was appealing.
At the beginning of the school year, Jared had wondered how Ellie was going to handle Cornwallis Middle School’s extracurricular requirement. She’d proven to everyone time after time in gym class that she wasn’t much of an athlete. But, of course, there were other things besides sports teams she could join—student government, the school newspaper, the drama club, the chess club, the debating club, the environmental club that took care of the school’s recycling program, or any of a dozen other groups. The only problem was that she’d have to spend time with people in whatever group she joined, which was one thing Ellie wasn’t good at.
Jared shook his head. He was sure Ellie was shuddering at the thought of joining a group, yet here he was, willing to give just about anything to get a spot on Jamieson’s team. Of course, after reading what Mr. Keaton had written to his mother, he knew there was little chance of that happening, no matter what miracle he might hope for.
Tying Cal to a bench outside the deli, Jared felt his resentment toward the teacher begin to churn inside him, felt it work itself from irritation into annoyance and then into something else altogether. Looking up at the deli’s sign, Jared thought of Ellie, who was probably inside. He smiled.
“What are you wanting, gentlemen?” Milo Brejovic asked in a booming voice. He had immigrated from Bosnia when Ellie was just a baby, but his accent was still thick and his use of the English language often resulted in some weird expressions. He was a tall, burly man with hairy forearms and hands the size of baseball mitts. New customers were always surprised when those huge hands whipped up delicious sandwiches in seconds, fingers flying nimbly from one bowl of ingredients to another.
Steve ordered a ham and cheese on rye and a Coke, while Jared asked for his favourite: turkey breast with lots of mustard and a Propeller root beer. In moments their order was ready, and they settled down to eat at a table near the window in the small L-shaped dining area. Jared was disappointed not to see Ellie anywhere.
“So, the way I see it,” Steve said, “the only thing you can do is act like you lost the letter.”
Jared rolled his eyes. Back to the letter again. He wished he’d never mentioned it to Steve. But that would have been next to impossible. They were so close that his mother even commented on how they sometimes finished each other’s sentences. She’d once said he and Steve were more like brothers than friends. Probably better than brothers, Jared thought, since his mom had been fighting with her own brother for years, and the two hardly ever saw each other except for a few hours on Christmas Day. Which was just about as long as either of them could stand to be around each other before one of them made a remark that would set things off.
Steve was well into a long, involved explanation of how Jared might be able to “lose” the letter without too much backlash from either his mother or Mr. Keaton when Jared spied Ellie. She was sitting at a table near the back, eating a sandwich. A young couple with a baby carriage had been sitting at the table in front of her, blocking her from Jared’s view, but now the couple was getting up to leave. Ellie was by herself. And reading a book, as usual.
Jared instantly felt a surge of irritation. It was as if the girl had deliberately held up a sign with the words “I’m with Stupid” and an arrow pointing directly at him.
Jared put down his sandwich and leaned back in his chair. He sniffed long and noisily, then cleared his throat. “You smell anything, Steve?” he asked.
Interrupted in the middle of devising his Mission Impossible letter-losing scheme, Steve gaped at him. “Huh?”
“Just wonderin’ if you found the deli smelly today.” Jared cocked his head to the left.
Steve glanced toward the back of the room and saw Ellie. She was looking at her book, but her eyes weren’t moving now, just staring at the same spot on the page. Her cheeks were pink. Steve looked at Jared and frowned. “No, I don’t.”
Jared knew what his friend was thinking. Steve never took part in geek-bashing. “
Losers got enough troubles without me addin’ to ‘em,” he often said.
But Jared couldn’t let it go. He thought about the fractions test he’d written on Thursday, the one he’d gotten back on Friday, the one he’d made twenty-seven percent on, the one that had resulted in Keaton writing that letter. The test Ellie had scored a perfect mark on. “You know what they say about a smelly deli,” he commented, his words slicing the air.
Steve shrugged. “What?”
“Smelly delis can upset bellies.” Jared hooted, but his laughter was humourless and sounded harsh in the little eatery. He glanced toward the front of the deli, where Mr. Brejovic was making sandwiches for three customers. If the man had heard him, he didn’t let on. Jared turned again to look at Ellie.
She was gone.
CHAPTER 4
“So. Just when were you planning on showing this to me?” Jared’s mother said from the top of the basement stairs. “Or were you?” She had his jeans in one hand and Mr. Keaton’s letter in the other.
Jared’s spoonful of Cheerios froze midway between the bowl and his mouth. He still hadn’t made up his mind what to do with the letter, so he’d left it in the pocket of his jeans. Which he’d left on the floor of his room on Friday afternoon. And, as she did every Monday morning, his mother was doing laundry. She must have scooped up his dirty clothes while he was asleep. The image of an “I’m with Stupid” sign popped into his head again. He certainly deserved to have it pointing directly at him right now.
He put the spoon down. “Uh,” he began, “I was gonna show it to you…” Jared trailed off. There wasn’t much point in making things worse by lying. “No,” he said. “I wasn’t.”
His mother shook her head sadly. “What were you hoping would happen, Jared? Did you think that Mr. Keaton would forget all about it over the weekend? After writing this?” She smoothed out the letter. “If Jared’s performance in math doesn’t improve dramatically, he could very well lose the year,” she read, then looked at her son and sighed. “Here it is the middle of October and already your teacher is talking about the possibility of your failing grade six.”
“You know about me and math, Mom—”
“Yes, Jared, I know about you and math. God knows you’ve had enough trouble with it over the years. And I certainly haven’t been able to help you with the new curriculum they’re teaching, which is why I spent that money on a tutor last year. I never regretted working the extra shifts to pay for it, because I thought it was something you needed.” She shrugged. “Even then you barely got through.” She sat down beside him. “But you promised me that things would be different this year, that you’d get extra help at noon and after school, that you’d really buckle down with your homework. You were staying after school, weren’t you? What were you doing when you didn’t have soccer?”
Jared looked down at the bowl, feeling like the shape of each Cheerio: a great big zero. “Me and Steve—”
“Let me guess,” his mother interrupted. “Playing basketball, right?”
Jared nodded.
“Well,” she said, shaking her head sadly, “the chickens have come home to roost.”
Jared had no idea what chickens had to do with anything, but he was pretty sure his goose was cooked.
“I…ah…I’m really glad you came,” Mr. Keaton said as he held out his hand to Jared’s mother. “I…uh…always find a face-to-face meeting more…ah…more helpful than a…than a telephone call.”
Jared stared at the teacher, who was red in the face and stumbling over his words. Usually he was as cool as ice.
Jared’s mom shook Mr. Keaton’s hand firmly. “Thanks again for your letter. And I appreciate your seeing me on such short notice.” She was referring, of course, to the call she had placed to the school that morning.
“Please,” said the teacher, “have a seat.” He directed her to a desk beside Jared. She slid into it while the teacher stood—seemingly frozen—for an awkward moment, then sat down in a seat across from her.
Jared looked away. He had been dreading this moment all day. Language arts, science, and social studies were a blur, and he hadn’t even tried to pay attention in math. What was the point? I’m with Stupid. Yeah, they certainly were.
The teacher straightened his tie and opened a folder containing examples of Jared’s math work. Handing them to Jared’s mother, he said, “You’ll see…ah…you’ll see that Jared’s problems don’t…uh…they don’t just involve computation errors.”
Jared looked at Mr. Keaton again and was surprised to see a faint sheen on the man’s forehead, and his face seemed to have grown even redder. His clothes were always stylish and crisply laundered, but the shirt he was wearing now looked moist under the arms, and Jared suddenly wondered if the teacher was coming down with something. The flu, maybe?
Mr. Keaton cleared his throat, then continued more strongly. “There are some very real gaps in Jared’s understanding of basic concepts and strategies that prevent him from…”
Jared let the words flow over and around him. They were talking like he wasn’t even there. He could probably go shoot some hoops right now and they wouldn’t even miss him. He thought about how, at noon, he and Steve had played one on one, forgetting for a few minutes what the afternoon would bring. He remembered one particular shot, how he’d faked right—which Steve had anticipated—and then followed his fake, leaping into the air, the ball leaving his fingertips, climbing clear of Steve’s hands and swishing through—
“Jared?”
“Huh?”
“Earth to Jared.” His mother shook her head. To the teacher she said, “Is this what he’s like in class?”
Keaton grinned. Not like a teacher, though. Like a kid. Almost goofy. “No,” he said, “not most of the time.” Even the roots of his hair seemed to be turning red. “But he can get this way during math sometimes. Can’t you, Jared?”
Now it was Jared’s turn to flush. “Yes, sir,” he mumbled.
“In case you didn’t hear him, Mr. Keaton has a suggestion that might help,” his mother said.
Jared was pretty sure they didn’t mean a brain transplant and, aside from that, he didn’t think there was much anyone could do. “What?” he sighed.
The teacher was still looking at his mother. Then, with what seemed like a tremendous effort, he turned toward Jared. “Cornwallis has an after-school tutorial program that pairs students who have difficulties in a particular area with students who have demonstrated strengths in that area. It takes the first five or six weeks of school to identify both groups of students, and we’re just about ready to begin the program again. I’d like to pair you up with a student who is especially strong in math.”
Jared gave his teacher a startled look. “Pair me up?”
“You’ll work one on one with that student at least three afternoons a week. Or, if you wish, you can work fewer afternoons and spend some time together on weekends.”
“Look, Mr. Keaton, I had a tutor last year. It didn’t help much. Mom’ll tell you that.”
The teacher wasn’t deterred. “I know. I saw it in your file. But that tutor was an adult, and adults who aren’t in the classroom working daily with the material often don’t have a clear sense of what problems exist. That’s why this program has worked so well here. Students who are learning the concepts usually understand better than adults what things can trip up another student. And,” he continued, “because teachers meet with the tutors on a regular basis, they can monitor how things are going and suggest ways to overcome any difficulties.”
“Why can’t I just get extra help from you?” Jared said, a pained expression on his face.
The teacher grinned. “Oh, you’re still going to get extra help from me. Don’t you worry about that. You know I spend every noon break in my classroom, working with students who ask for extra help.”
Jared groaned inwardly. Yes, he knew that only too well. But it interfered with noon basketball on the courts behind the school.
His mother turned to him. “So, Jared,” she said, placing a hand on his, “what do you think? Are we going to give this a try?”
Jared sat quietly for a moment. He knew he didn’t have a choice, but he at least wanted to maintain the illusion that he did. And who knew? Maybe it would work. As long as it didn’t interfere with basketball, he guessed it was worth a shot. He almost grinned at his unintentional pun. “Okay,” he said finally. “Who are you pairin’ me up with?”
Jared could see a twinkle in Mr. Keaton’s eyes as he spoke. “A wonderful student. She’s in your class. Ellie Brejovic.”
CHAPTER 5
“Uh-uh,” Jared said, shaking his head fiercely. “No way!” He forced the words through clenched teeth as he stormed ahead of his mother across the school parking lot toward the bus stop.
“Jared—” his mother began, but he cut her off.
“Don’t even think about it!” he spat. But his tirade was directed more at himself than at his mother. “Tutored by her? Right. I can just see it now…” If his classes that day had been a blur, that was nothing compared with the fog he sat through once Keaton dropped his bombshell. Jared hadn’t heard another word of the conversation. Images of Ellie yawning over a math book while he struggled to solve some lousy problem about best buys or sales tax blocked everything else from his mind. Smelly Ellie: his tutor! Right.