I Just Got a Letter from Allyson Pringle

by Anya Bateman

  The only reason people have been noticing me lately, I felt like saying, is because Allyson Pringle pays attention to me. That’s it. I didn’t say that, however. I just kept my head down, smiled, and mumbled, “Well, thanks, Sister . . . I mean Mrs. Carruber, I appreciate that.”

  But Sister/Mrs. Carruber wasn’t finished. She sniffed and, looking around, said even more quietly, “Maybe you’d better not repeat this little conversation. I wouldn’t want to be accused of favoritism.”

  “Okay,” I told her. “I understand.”

  A few minutes later, Patrice Walters, who also did some tutoring, called to me across the hall. “Hey, Kenny, wanna hang out with a group of us tonight? We’re meeting at my house around eight.”

  Kenny? I was Kenny at school now? I’d thought I was Kenny just to my mom and sisters and, okay, once in a while to Alysse when she was teasing. I wasn’t sure I wanted to be Kenny to Patrice Walters.

  “I really can’t tonight,” I called back. “I’ve got a freight load of homework.” I also needed to help Dad with a problem at the warehouse, and I’d told Juan Phineas, the kid I tutored during lunch twice a week, that I would call him. We’d made a breakthrough in math and it was always a good feeling when somebody’s eyes lit up with that “Oh, I get it” look. I planned to reinforce what he’d learned with one more problem, just to solidify it.

  “Oh, come on,” said Patrice. “Homework?”

  I lifted my hand. “Yeah, the big H word. Seriously, don’t tempt me.”

  It wasn’t easy to turn down fun, even when offered by someone who called me Kenny, but I had come to the point where I was dealing with an emergency. If I didn’t come up with a decent science project, I could kiss away even a B-plus in physics. You can get behind fast, and my A had already done a vanishing act. This social stuff was new to me, and I was finding out that being in demand had its challenges. I admired Alysse for fitting as much into her life as she did. No wonder she didn’t waste time.

  “I’m locking myself downstairs,” I told my mother as soon as I whooshed into the kitchen along with a gust of snow and wind. Mom was apparently taking a little break from the sewing room and was sitting at the kitchen table earnestly folding together what looked like some kind of fabric flowers.

  “Well, it looks like you have plenty of research material,” she said, making an effort to smile over her glasses. She was right, I did have plenty of material. I’d talked Arnold into swinging by the Kalamazoo City Library with me on the way home, and I also planned to get right to the computer as soon as I got downstairs. I’d begged off going to the warehouse.

  Mom broke off a piece of thread with her teeth. “You want to talk about your project? I can listen while I sew these together.”

  “That’s okay.” We’d batted ideas back and forth before, but it was pretty obvious, by the way her lips remained stretched across her teeth even after she’d bitten off the thread, that she was stressed to the hilt with wedding stuff. Dad had picked up on her tension a few days before and had mentioned that he was worried about Mom’s blood pressure. He’d been trying to talk Mom into taking a break and going with him for a few days on a business trip to New York.

  I hoped she would. I was worried myself about how she’d been groaning loudly the last few days and banging things around in the sewing room. “You can help me by not answering the phone,” I said, reaching down to pat Lucky Duck, who was licking the snow off my boots.

  “Well, you have been getting a lot more phone calls lately,” my mother said.

  “You might say I’ve been discovered,” I told her. She watched me pull off my boots, which I had realized were tracking in mud.

  “Well, I can see why. I’m glad you’re having fun.”

  “Only I’ve been having a little too much fun lately. In fact, I’ll leave this upstairs.” I reached into my backpack and slid my phone across the table. “I need to work without interruption. It’s an emergency.”

  Anticipating a late night, I’d finished my Spanish during lunch and started my English homework on the way to the library. Within seconds after I got downstairs, I was working on the physics assignment that was due the following day so that I could devote a couple of hours to my science project. At least I had finally come up with an idea.

  I gave Juan a call after I finished my basic homework, then rushed up to dinner—the straight-from-the-freezer kind again. The freezer thing was fine with me, I let Mom know—faster than takeout. And I hurried down as soon as I’d stuffed in the last potato “dollop.” This time I got so involved in my project plans and outline that I kept my focus for a good three hours. By ten o’clock I was stretching with satisfaction, feeling fairly good about the progress I’d made. There was still a lot to do, but I’d gotten a good, solid start and it had been a productive afternoon. Lucky could sense my satisfaction and again beat his tail happily against the floor.

  After family prayer, all I had time to do was to finish my English. I’d dedicated so much time to my project, there was no time for history, and I hadn’t so much as glanced at my textbook or notes for several days, but I really wasn’t worried. I had accurately predicted Thorndike’s previous three “pop” tests. As I pulled my pillow up over my face around eleven, I remember thinking: What if Mr. Thorndike pulls a fast one tomorrow? I quickly assured myself that it wouldn’t happen. It was far too soon for another test. We hadn’t covered nearly enough material. No, there was no way.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Students, remove all books and papers from your desks please,” said Mr. Thorndike at the beginning of history that next day.

  “A test,” someone at the far side of the room moaned.

  “That’s right,” said Mr. Thorndike. “I’m assuming that those of you who are complaining haven’t kept current on the material like I warned you to do. I believe I told you about the importance of reviewing the chapters and class notes daily. If you don’t learn that in high school you’ll have a rude awakening in college.” It was something we’d heard before, like maybe five dozen times.

  Shooooot. Without looking around, not even at Allyson, I shut my eyes and gritted my teeth. I’d been so sure Mr. Thorndike would wait until we finished a few more sections of the chapter that I hadn’t even done a once-over of the material.

  Some kids are bright enough to wing tests. I just didn’t happen to be one of them. In other words, my good grades have always been a result of hard work, not amazing brainpower.

  I lowered my head to my desk, my temples throbbing. This was bad. I’d be getting my lowest grade ever. I figured there was a good chance I’d even flunk this test—a first for me. Why had I let myself get so carried away this past week with all the social stuff? I was pretty miffed at myself and felt I should have known this would happen. Good-bye, scholarship. My head lowered, I pressed my fist against my forehead, then lifted my eyes to watch Mr. Thorndike count out the tests for our row with what I was sure was a self-satisfied look on his face.

  After a copy of the test reached me, I left it on the desk facedown for a good ten to fifteen seconds. Finally, I reluctantly flipped over the familiar off-white sheet with blue lines and looked at question number one. “Who was elected president in 1856?” It was a simple, straightforward question. Unfortunately, I didn’t know the answer. Not a good start. I could name the first four or five U.S. presidents, but we were talking eighty years after George Washington. In fact, Thomas Jefferson and John Adams had died about thirty years before that, on the same year and the same day: July 4th. I’d read that once in one of those little-known history facts books; it was the kind of thing you remember, but I doubted it would be on the test. I tapped my pencil.

  The only president I could think of who would have been living around about that time was good old “Honest” Abe, who not only saved our country but filed important papers in his top hat—another one of those useless facts I’d once read. I filled in his name, took a deep breath, and moved on to question number two, a true/false: “Abra
ham Lincoln defeated Stephen Douglas in the senate race of 1858.” Okay, so much for Abraham Lincoln being president in 1856. I erased his name and exhaled slowly before I went to the next question.

  “In the _______ ________ case, the Supreme Court ruled that slaves were only property,” question number three read. I didn’t have the slightest idea what belonged in the blanks. I moved to four, then five. I thought I knew the answer to question number six, but again wasn’t sure about seven. By the end of the test I’d left three-quarters of the answers blank. It was time to start guessing, especially on the true/false, where I’d at least have a fifty-fifty chance. But there were only six true/false questions. “And now,” said Mr. Thorndike, clicking his stopwatch, “you have precisely thirty seconds to finish your test. When I say stop, you will immediately lay down your pencils.” I hurriedly began filling in the true/false. Figuring the odds would be with me if I filled in all one or the other, I decided on true and wrote the word out six times. Thorndike didn’t like us to just put a T or an F because it was too easy to get them mixed up. I’d swirled my last e when Mr. Thorndike belted out, “STOP!” After we’d all placed our pencils on our desks, he asked us to pass forward our tests. I reluctantly relinquished mine, then leaned my face in my folded hands. There had been only seven or eight answers I’d been fairly sure about—mostly review questions—and that was it. To add to my humiliation, Mr. Thorndike let us know that we would be correcting one another’s tests immediately. Grinding my molars, I blinked slowly and pulled myself up, but not very straight, as I wondered who would get my test and think I was a first-rate dunce. It was at this point I glanced at Allyson, who wagged her eyebrows at me twice, pretending as usual not to have a care in the world.

  Carefully flipping through the tests, Mr. Thorndike was taking the usual pains to make sure that none of us would end up correcting our own. Kerrie Masanto’s test came to me. Kerrie was possibly the most studious girl in our entire grade, and I knew if she hadn’t done well probably nobody else had either. A second later I marked her first answer correct. It was James Buchanan who was elected president in 1856. Kerrie got number two right as well. I’d guessed correctly on that one myself. It was a pretty well-known fact that Abe Lincoln didn’t win much of anything until he won president.

  I’m sorry to say that when Mr. Thorndike read the answer to number three, the Dred Scott case, and Kerrie missed it, I wasn’t all that unhappy about it. And when she missed numbers five and ten as well, I didn’t exactly mourn for the girl. By the end of the test, Kerrie, who was generally a hundred-percenter, had missed seven. Out of respect, I’d marked fairly small Xs on her wrong answers and good-sized Cs by the correct responses. I knew from experience that there were people in our class who enjoyed making giant Xs, but I wasn’t about to be one of them. In fact, when I saw Kerrie glancing around the room, she looked so much like one of those little cartoon hound dogs that I felt compassion for the girl, and actually found myself wishing I could turn some of her Xs to Cs. Missing seven was uncharacteristic for the girl with the thick glasses and heavy braces, and I figured she was feeling about as lousy as I was. And I was feeling lousy. The gamble I’d taken by filling trues into all the true/false slots had backfired. All but one of the answers was false. No, it wasn’t my lucky day.

  “Now, if you’ll please pass the tests you just corrected forward,” said Mr. Thorndike, “I’ll record these tonight and get them back to you tomorrow.”

  Can’t wait, I thought.

  For the rest of the class period I kept my head low as I tried to figure out how much this one test would cost me. I really needed a scholarship if I wanted to go to school in Utah. Now that my physics grade had slipped, I’d been counting on at least an A-minus in history. I was pretty upset with myself for not using my time more wisely and felt I could have done a far better balancing act. I would need to get almost perfect scores on the remaining test and the final in order to keep my grade point up in the high Bs. I pulled myself up in my seat and vowed there’d be no more second-guessing this teacher with the bifocals, scowl, and bouncing bow tie. I should have remembered how much Thorndike enjoyed keeping people guessing. I pictured him saying to his wife later that night (with satisfaction in his tone), “There were quite a few surprised students when I announced we were having a test today, dear.” No, I should have known Thorndike would do his best to catch us off guard.

  By the end of the class period, however, I’d decided that it was counterproductive to kick myself too hard. I just needed to “gird up my loins,” a scripture term that my brother always made fun of during our family’s attempts at scripture study time, but that I personally kind of liked. In fact, I decided that that was exactly what I’d do: I’d gird up my courage and motivation and move on. No more social stuff on weeknights; I’d limit that to weekends and keep it down even at that. After class I pulled out my assignment book and made a lengthy list of things I needed to do that week.

  I didn’t have a tutoring appointment that day, so I had hitched a ride with Arnold. While he drove home, happily talking nonstop about the Australian outback to another friend, Beezer, who’d also needed a ride, I reviewed the headings of the upcoming sections of the history chapter, skimming through everything quickly.

  The kitchen was empty when I got home, and a note on the fridge let me know Mom had gone to get more lace. It was just as well. I had my action plan ready, and without even stopping for a snack I headed for the computer/sewing room, where I quickly caught up some business entries so I could get to history pronto. By the time Mom walked in, I was at the desk in my room and had already finished reviewing five sections of chapter fourteen in my history book—“The Post Civil War Era.”

  “Looks like you’re going at it again, huh?”

  “Yeah,” I grunted. Then I looked up with a smile. “And so are you.”

  She nodded but hung around. “Dad’s still trying to talk me into going with him on his business trip to New York, and Lynette’s trying to convince me to go too. There’s a seamstress in her ward who she thinks can help get things finished up.”

  I looked up and smiled. “Go for it! Seriously.”

  “Kenny, I can’t. We’re just a few days away from the wedding.”

  “I’ll bet it’ll be just fine. You say Lynette has a seamstress she could line up?”

  “What if that didn’t work out? And you’d be here alone.”

  “Mom.” I gave her one of my looks.

  “Well, it’s still too risky and close to the wedding.” She patted my shoulder and then headed down the hall.

  As soon as I heard her machine going again, I started on an outline for my English term paper. I was so used to the background whirring of the sewing machine by now, it was almost as if I relied on it. After finishing the paper and sticking it in my folder, I went back to history and reviewed again what I’d just reviewed. Then I pulled my science project stuff from the top of my chest of drawers. It wasn’t until time for family prayer that I went upstairs and checked my messages. There were three more invitations for me to hang out.

  The next day in Spanish, Alysse asked in a fairly casual tone, “So, how’d you do on yesterday’s history test?”

  It wasn’t really something I was anxious to talk about. “Umm, not so good.”

  “How not so good?”

  “About as not so good as a person can do,” I admitted unhappily. “I was thinking we had at least another two or three days, maybe even a week before Thorndike pulled another test on us. I guess he’s trying to squeeze in as much as possible before the holiday break. How about you? How’d you do?”

  “I passed by about this much,” Alysse held her thumb and index finger a pencil-width portion apart. “Actually, make it this much,” she said, bringing them even closer together. “I had an advantage, though. I heard through the grapevine that Thorndike might be planning another test, and I had a chance to thumb through the chapter really fast.”

  “Well, I guess I’m not a part
of that network,” I said a little bitterly.

  “I should have let you know. Sorry,” said Alysse. “But hey, you never know. Be an optimist! I predict you did way better than you think you did.” Her overly cheerful tone should probably have sent little flashing signals my way.

  Instead I huffed out a scornful laugh of disagreement, mumbled, “yeah, right,” and thought nothing more about her comment or even the fact that she again wiggled her eyebrows up and down three instead of only two times in a row.

  Chapter Seventeen

  I should have caught on for sure that something was going on when, in sixth period, Alysse and those around her—Jake and Molly, for instance—kept glancing my way as Mr. Thorndike passed back our tests.

  “Not your generally perfect score,” I heard Thorndike say to a mortified Kerrie. I didn’t have much time to feel sorry for her because he was moving toward my side of the room. I readjusted myself in my seat, wondering what clever comment he would make to me when he handed me my grade. Instead, without a word, he handed Jen Fern hers. I caught a quick glance at a minus eighteen just before Jen rammed the sheet into her folder.

  When Mr. Thorndike flipped me my test, I laid it facedown on my desk, thinking maybe I’d just avoid turning it over for, say, the rest of my life. But then Mr. Thorndike threw me a curve. “Congratulations, Kendall, you got the high in the class. Twenty-nine out of thirty correct.”

  My eyebrows knotted together, I stared at the bald spot on the back of Thorndike’s head as he walked away, then lifted the top corner of my test. Sure enough, there in large, bold, even underlined print was the number 29. Impossible. “Excuse me, Mr. Thorndike,” I said, raising a couple of fingers, “but this can’t be my test.”

  “What do you mean?” Thorndike took the few steps back to me, his normally sour expression even more surly. Adjusting his glasses, he took the test paper from me. But then he smiled in that kind of prunelike way of his. “I was under the impression your name was Kendall Archer. Isn’t that still your name?”