Mr. Alldredge had asked us not to let the SSASie story get around school until after he’d decided what to do about it. But since the meeting ended with him calling the school superintendent, I figured, Well, he’s decided. So when Luke phoned me that night to see what happened, I told him. Melissa must have felt the same way, because Jamie and Beth said that when they called her, she told them, too. That was how the information spread throughout the seventh grade before we went to bed.
By the time we got to advisory the next morning, Mrs. Haag had heard and wanted all the details. Jamie and Beth squealed through the whole story and asked us over and over again if we hadn’t just wanted to, like, die when Mr. Alldredge called Mr. Borden to his office.
“Everyone’s talking about you,” Luke told me in art.
Which was true. All the talk was about me standing up for the regular students in the school and not letting the kids in accelerated English get away with taking an easier test. I started thinking very positively. I was positive Chelsea was going to see what a heroic and noble thing I’d done and like me more for it.
“Everyone is really impressed,” Luke went on.
“Ah, all Kyle had to do was threaten to kick Borden’s ass,” Jake scoffed.
“Yeah, that would have gone over well,” I said.
My triumph would have been more . . . triumphant . . . if I could have reached into my backpack to sneak a peek at Happy Kid! and found a better message than “Share Your Cookies.” I didn’t want to give away Happy Kid! What if I gave it away to someone who didn’t “get” the book? What if the person laughed at me, dumped the book somewhere, and never used it? Giving it away would be kind of a waste then, wouldn’t it? To say nothing of how little I’d enjoy the being-laughed-at part.
But I looked in Happy Kid! whenever I had a chance, and there was no change. The book was determined to go to someone else.
Before social studies started, a bunch of A-kids came up to ask me how Mr. Borden liked getting called to the office. All the time I was talking with them, I could see Chelsea watching from across the room. Chelsea could see that I was with A-kids, that they wanted to talk with me. Even Ms. Cannon wanted to talk with me. I was handing in some papers at the end of the class, and she whispered, “Good for you, Kyle. You cannot imagine how much underhanded activity goes on at the university where I’m working on my Ph.D. No one does a thing about it. I could tell you stories . . .”
She looked as if she was getting wound up to tell one right then, but the bell rang and I was saved.
Then I got to English.
At first when I saw that Mr. Borden wasn’t there, I was relieved. I’d been worried about what kind of mood he’d be in. Melissa, however, didn’t look anywhere near as pleased as I felt. She looked suspicious. And in her typical Melissa way, she went right up to the substitute and asked where Mr. Borden was.
The sub looked as if she’d graduated from college just that morning. She got all flustered and said, “I’m not supposed to talk about it.”
“Well,” Melissa insisted, “how long will he be gone?”
“I think only a few days. Just until they can schedule some kind of a test. That’s all I was told.”
It was enough.
Immediately, the room felt different. People looked around at each other. There was sighing and grumbling. Somebody muttered “I hope you’re happy” to no one in particular, though I’m certain he meant for Melissa and me to hear it. Melissa must have thought so, too. She went to her seat and slowly sat down. She kept her back straight and her head up as she opened her copy of the book we were reading. As if anybody could read under those circumstances.
Never in my whole life had I been so happy to leave a class. And I’ve been happy to leave a lot of classes. I thought I’d made my escape when I heard someone calling my name.
I turned around and saw Chelsea coming toward me. I started to smile. Chelsea had called my name. She was coming to me. At last, we were going to talk. Everything was going to be all right.
She just kept coming and coming, every tall, blond inch of her.
She got right up close to me and hissed, “You moron. That test was my best shot at getting into that special English class next year. I just barely made it into accelerated English in sixth grade. I need a good SSASie score, and I would have had one with that essay I wrote. But now who knows what will happen? I could end up in a regular English class with everyone else next year. How will that look?”
Here, at last, was my first big conversation with Chelsea. I had never thought about what she might look like up close and yelling. It turned out she wasn’t anywhere near as pretty as she was when she was sitting quietly on the other side of a classroom. I was also surprised to notice that she could have used a little mouthwash.
“And what do you think is going to happen to you when you take that test over?” Chelsea went on. “You think you’re going to do well enough to get into that ninth-grade English class without having practiced the essay?”
I sure hoped so. Because if Chelsea ended up in a regular English class next year and she was still this unhappy about it, I didn’t want to be there with her.
“Well,” I said, “I do very well on the SSASies as a general rule—and without having to cheat, either.”
“Get out of my way!” Chelsea ordered.
I almost yelled, Make me! But I knew she was five ranks above me in taekwondo and probably could.
During lunch I was back to being the man of the hour. Also during health and living. By seventh period, though, I didn’t want to talk about Mr. Alldredge, Mr. Borden, or essay questions anymore. I wasn’t used to having people “Yo, Kyle” me and tell me I was the man and things like that. It was wearing me out.
I was out in the hall before science class started with Luke and a couple kids when Jake came along. Everyone but Luke took off to avoid him. Jake stopped in front of me.
“Are you still going on about that lousy meeting? You didn’t do anything but talk. Now, if you had kicked Borden’s ass, I’d be able to see what the big deal is about. But since you didn’t—”
“Jeez, Jake, would you lay off with Mr. Borden’s ass?” I snapped. “I didn’t kick it, and I’m not going to. So give it up.”
Both of us kind of gasped and almost seemed to jump away from each other. It was obvious why I did. I’d just yelled at Jake Rogers. But why would he gasp and jump back from me?
Because he was afraid of me, I realized. Ever since the state trooper had come for me, Jake had been treating me as if I were like him—someone to be afraid of. My first thought was, How nice. The guy in my class most likely to end up in juvie detention sees me as a scary person. There’s something I can be proud of. My second thought was . . . Wait just a minute here. The guy in my class most likely to end up in juvie detention sees me as a scary person. This is a good thing!
I have definitely become such a positive kind of guy.
“Hey, back off, okay?” Jake finally said, his arms raised up in front of him. “I was just making a suggestion.”
“Don’t make it again,” I said, feeling braver than I probably should have.
Jake told me I could kiss his ass and went into our science classroom. Since names can’t hurt you the way Jake Rogers’s big meaty fists can, I was very pleased with the way that turned out. But Luke said I’d better keep going to my taekwondo class because I might need to be able to do more than kick someday.
Being heroic and noble, at least to people who are not A-kids, is all very nice, but did it make my homework load any easier? No, it did not. Tuesday afternoon, things didn’t go any faster than they ever had. I just managed to get everything done in time to get into my dobok.
When we arrived at the dojang, Mr. Kowsz—Tim—was coming out of Mr. Goldman’s office. We all bowed to one another, and he said, “Mr. Goldman and I were just talking about you, Kyle. Do you know when your braces are coming off?”
“I don’t think they are, sir.”
&
nbsp; Tim laughed. “If you make green belt by the end of March—and you might, even though you have to make yellow belt first—it will be time for you to start wearing full gear when we’re sparring. That includes a mouth guard. Oh, don’t worry. You won’t be the first person to spar in braces.”
“I could make green belt by the end of March?” I asked.
“It’s up to Mr. Goldman. He decides when you’re ready to test for the next level. But, honestly, the only thing that could slow you down is your control problem. He may want you to wait to move on until you’ve learned to control yourself better so you don’t get hurt or hurt someone else. Other than that, you’re golden.”
“So, am I doing well because I’m golden or doing poorly because I’m not controlling myself?” I asked him.
Tim thought a minute. “You choose,” he finally answered.
“I’d choose that I was doing well,” Luke said happily as we followed Tim into the training area.
Luke is an incredibly positive person. I didn’t usually notice that kind of thing, but I still had to give Happy Kid! away to someone—someone, the book said, who could use it. I didn’t know who that would be, but I was sure it wouldn’t be Luke.
I was able to forget about that problem while I warmed up because I was so busy watching Chelsea put her foot in her hand and do that leg-stretching thing she always does in front of the mirror. She did look fantastic. But I could tell from the expression on her face that she thought so, too.
After Mr. Goldman had us line up and practice punching and kicking, he said, “Gear up! Yellow and white belts—tonight you can borrow chest protection from the school for sparring practice.”
Tim helped the lower-ranked students find vests that fit us and showed us how to lace them up. Then the class formed two lines so that we could turn and face a partner.
“We’re doing control drills tonight, people,” Mr. Goldman called.
I looked over at Tim, who nodded at me while Mr. Goldman said, “First round, just punching. Light contact only. Just touch the vest. And I want to hear a shout when you make contact.”
For sixty seconds my partner and I just sort of tapped at each other’s vests and shouted. Then Mr. Goldman called a thirty-second rest. We did another round together and then the lines shifted so we could switch partners.
I can do this, I thought. The control thing isn’t that hard.
We did another round of punching and then a round of kicking. Controlling kicks is harder than controlling punches, and I started to get tired. When Mr. Goldman told us to punch and kick, still only tapping our opponent’s vest, I got confused because how was I supposed to know when to punch and when to kick?
Then there was all the yelling we were all doing.
I was gasping for breath when we switched again, and I found myself standing across from Chelsea.
“Fighting stance!” Mr. Goldman called.
We both stood there staring at each other, our hands up, one leg back.
“Go!”
Chelsea went right after me with a roundhouse kick that she turned into some kind of spin and backwards thing that I hadn’t learned how to do yet. Her foot hit me so hard, I staggered back while my head bobbed forward.
“Chelsea! Light contact!” Mr. Goldman shouted.
I started moving away to try to avoid her. Which actually seemed to encourage her. She’d stop attacking me for a few seconds to sort of laugh and bounce up and down on her bare toes. Then she’d come after me again.
Suddenly, Tim was behind me. Chelsea backed off when he showed up, and he pulled me out of line.
“You have to use kicks to keep her away. Use your legs so she can’t get close to you,” he said in a low voice, keeping his eye on Chelsea to make sure she was too far away to hear.
“She can kick better than I can,” I objected. “She’s better than I am.”
“She knows more than you do right now, but no way is she better than you are. Make her think you’re going to punch, then catch her off guard with a kick. To avoid being hit, she’ll stay away from you.” He pushed me toward Chelsea. “Do it,” he said.
Do what? I thought as Chelsea put her hands up into guard position and started bouncing again. I’d already forgotten what Tim had told me to do, and even if I hadn’t, how could I have done all that in the time we had left in this round?
“Faster, Kyle,” Tim called from somewhere behind me. “You have to move.”
Move where? Move what?
I pulled my right arm back as if I were getting ready to throw a punch. Chelsea moved just enough to avoid my fist. I brought my right knee up, then quickly rotated on my left foot so that when I was ready to kick, I was turned sideways to her. My foot went forward into a very nice roundhouse kick, if I do say so myself. She would have at least been knocked to her right a few steps if I’d hit her full on the side. But I didn’t. I slowed down so I just brushed Chelsea’s vest while I shouted, “Hiya!”
She backed up and I chased her, this time brushing her with a roundhouse kick with my left foot. She was on to me by then. She moved in closer so that she’d be too close for me to get my foot up. She got me with two hard punches to the chest, but then I was able to get far enough away to do the roundhouse thing again.
When the round was over, Mr. Goldman made Chelsea do twenty push-ups in front of everybody for ignoring his instructions about using light contact.
Maybe Chelsea could use a book like Happy Kid! I thought as we were all leaving the dojang later. But I didn’t think I wanted to hear what she’d have to say after I gave it to her and told her what it was.
That was the problem with giving the book away. The people who needed Happy Kid! the most were going to be really unpleasant when I explained what it was and why I was handing it over to them. The people who would be nice about it didn’t need the book.
Happy Kid! had screamed my name at my mother while she was walking by it. Maybe if I just left it somewhere, it would scream a name to someone passing by.
I packed the book in my backpack the next morning. I had to be careful about it because I didn’t want it falling out in front of the wrong person again, but I wanted to be able to get a hold of it in a hurry if I found a good place to leave it.
Melissa was sitting by herself at her desk when I got to advisory. I went up to her and said, “What if they give us two worse questions than the ones that were on the original test?”
Melissa shrugged. “There’s a fifty-fifty chance they will.”
“You’re not even worried about taking that test, are you? You’re dead certain you’ll do well enough to get into that ninth-grade English class next year.”
“Well, Kyle, we have been taking the SSASies for years. We ought to have a pretty good idea how we’ll do on them,” she pointed out. “Haven’t you even looked at your scores?”
“Of course I have. And they’re fine. They are just fine,” I said.
“Well, then, what are you worried about?”
“I don’t know if they’re fine enough to get me into an A-kid class,” I admitted.
“They must have been fine enough in fifth grade to get you into A-kid English and social studies here at Bert P. Trotts,” Melissa said.
There was a long pause before I broke down and said, “What?”
Melissa closed her eyes and sighed. “We went through all this in social studies one day. The schools use the SSASies as placement tests for students who are moving from one school to another in the same town. The scores we got on the SSASies in fifth grade were used to decide which classes we’d be in when we got to sixth grade here.”
I lost some self-control for just a moment and exclaimed, “I’m an A-kid?”
“Haven’t we talked about this?” Melissa asked. “Why did you think you were in ‘A-kid’ English and social studies, anyway? Because of some kind of mistake?”
I just laughed as if she’d made a really funny joke. Fortunately, Melissa didn’t seem to actually expect me to answer h
er question. She went on to ask another. “Why do you care about getting into one of the high school classes next year, anyway? You don’t seem to like the accelerated classes you’re in now. Oh, wait. It’s because of Chelsea, isn’t it?”
She knew? Did everyone know?
“Well, it wasn’t a secret,” Melissa said. “She called you a moron in the hallway yesterday. Of course you’ve got to get into that English class now so you can prove to everybody you’re not one.” She shook her head. “Name-calling—it’s not right.”
I thought I heard something. Maybe it was just the beginning of an idea.
“Remember how you said you were going to tell everyone I had that book Happy Kid! if I didn’t go see Mr. Alldredge with you? Would you have really done that?”
“Of course I would have,” Melissa said huffily. “When I say I’ll do something, I do it.”
“No, you wouldn’t have. You wouldn’t have done it because it wouldn’t have been right to use something private you knew about another person against him. Just like it never occurred to you to choose the second essay topic when we took the English SSASie so you’d get a better score. You don’t do things like that.”
“I needed someone to go with me, and I asked every person in that class before I asked you. Everyone. I just don’t get it. How can people know that something is wrong and refuse to do something about it? How can they stand themselves?”
“Some people think that a person can be too right,” I suggested.
“And that’s their excuse for not doing the right thing? Ha! They’re just scared. They’re scared people will treat them the way they treat me whenever I have to do something like reporting Mr. Borden’s mistake by myself because they won’t. But you know what? They really like that I do those things for them. It means they don’t have to do them. Oh, it’s always the same. They laugh and make jokes about me, maybe they stop talking to me for a while, but then they get over it and everything is back to normal.”
“Ah, Melissa, maybe when the other kids laugh and make jokes about you, it’s not just because you’re right,” I suggested. Helpfully.
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