Not again! Earlier this fall Mrs. Flavio already talked to my parents about how I’m bad at being a normal person in her class. Now she told them I’m bad at math, too?
“Mrs. Flavio, I promise I’ll get better at math, you didn’t have to tell my parents—”
“You’re not in trouble, Quinny. Ms. Jasani and I have some ideas for how to help you.”
I’ve never met Ms. Jasani, but I know who she is, because she always smiles at everyone in the hall. She’s not the boss of her own classroom, exactly, but she’s got this room down by the cafeteria called Math Lounge. I think she gets stuck with all the dummies. I can’t believe I’m actually one of them now.
I don’t even remember what happens in art. That’s how bad I’m feeling.
Luckily, school is over right after art. I go to my locker to get ready for dismissal, and that’s when I see a folded piece of paper on the floor, right in front of it.
I pick that paper up, because littering is not okay, and I notice that it says SMART LIST at the top. And then it lists the names of everyone in our class.
Victoria’s name is in the number one spot.
And guess whose name is in the last spot?
I can’t even breathe.
I look at my name at the very bottom of that very, very, extra-very awful list.
Then I look over at Victoria. Because this list is in her very own handwriting.
“What’s that?” Kaitlin looks over my shoulder.
I try to move the paper away, but she takes it from me.
Kaitlin looks at it with McKayla. Other kids come and look, too. I reach for it but can’t get it back. People look confused, some of them giggle, some of them look shocked.
I walk over to Victoria. “Why did you give me that mean list?”
“What?” She sees people looking at it now, too. She looks panicky. “But I didn’t.”
“It’s your writing!”
Victoria shakes her head. She looks really confused.
I’m not confused at all. I know for sure that I hate Victoria Porridge.
“Quinny, where did you get that?” Her voice is all trembly.
“From you. Because you wrote that awful thing.”
“But I…that’s not…I didn’t even…” Victoria can’t get her words out. And there is a look on her face that I’ve never seen there before—an embarrassed, guilty, helpless look.
Some boys are looking at that list now. They’re laughing. They’re looking at me.
It’s official. I’m the dumbest dodo-head of my whole class, and everyone knows it.
Mrs. Flavio comes over to remind us to line up for dismissal, but no one is paying attention to her because everyone is passing that Smart List around, and whispering and pointing and laughing at the dummy at the bottom of the list (me).
And then Alex (number ten on the list—not bad) figures out that my last name, Bumble, rhymes with Dumble. He shares this information with the whole entire world.
Quinny Dumble.
I suck in a sniffle and it burns the back of my throat. I wish I had a better brain that was good at math and school and all that brainy classroom stuff. But I’m always in trouble for having my personality, for just being alive in my own way, and now for not understanding decimals when the entire rest of the class thinks they’re easy. I can’t wait until I get home, so I can cry for real. But if you’re stuck at school, crying in the bathroom is the next best thing to crying at home, so I run off to that bathroom.
And I don’t even stop when Mrs. Flavio calls after me.
I was afraid this would happen.
I should have ripped up that stupid Smart List when I had the chance, back when Kaitlin showed it to me on the Friendship Bench last week.
Now it’s out in the open, and everyone is looking at it and going berserk.
Quinny’s face is red and crumpled. Victoria looks confused and shocked. Kaitlin is making a big, surprised fuss with a bunch of other kids by the lockers. She’s acting like she has never seen that Smart List before. Something’s not right about that.
I try to get Quinny’s attention, but she turns and runs.
I go after her. It’s my job to help her feel better. That’s what friends do.
But I’m not allowed into the girls’ bathroom.
Nurse Mira is, though. She shows up a few moments later and sends me back to Mrs. Flavio, who makes us all get back in line for dismissal.
I follow the bussers outside and on board, like always. I sit in my seat and wait for Quinny to come sit next to me. The bus fills up with kids and growls to a start. Quinny gets on at the last minute. Her face is all blotchy and puffy, and her eyes won’t look at me.
She sits right up front, next to Darla the bus aide.
If she were sitting next to me, I would pull out my neon-green juggling sacs and toss them up into a three-ball cascade. (I don’t like juggling in public, but I’d make an exception for Quinny.) I would tell her she has twenty thousand hairs inside each of her ears, and so does everyone. I would remind her that Victoria doesn’t get to decide who is smart. I would talk about the new chickens and distract Quinny from her feelings, and she would forget to be sad.
But I can’t do any of that, because she sat up front.
When the bus finally gets to our stop, Quinny gets off ahead of me and walks away.
“Quinny, wait—let’s go see the chickens,” I call out.
“I’ve got soccer,” she mumbles, and keeps walking.
She doesn’t have soccer until four. That’s also when my brothers go, straight from middle school. “You have a few minutes until you have to leave,” I tell her.
Quinny whips her head around and shoots back a teary glare and steps toward me. “You knew I was dumb this whole time and you didn’t even tell me?!”
I back up a little. “Quinny, you’re not dumb.”
“I’m not going to the chickens and I’m not going back to school ever again. My cookie petition is all wrong and I flunked my decimals quiz and everybody was laughing because I am at the bottom of the list and they were all laughing and pointing and…”
Quinny gulps some air and hiccups. I wish I could hand her a glass of water. I wish I could make her see the truth: that everyone at school seemed mostly shocked and upset at Victoria. I don’t think they were really making fun of Quinny.
She takes off again before I can figure out how to say this.
“Hopper, what happened at school?” says Quinny’s dad.
I tell him about the Smart List. I tell him about the awful name Alex called Quinny. The more I tell him, the more he groans and rubs the back of his neck.
“Thanks for telling me,” he says. “I’ll talk to her once she’s calmed down and we’ll work this out with the school. But for now, let’s just give her some space.”
We don’t really have much choice, since she just ran off.
I go to the Chalet des Poulets by myself. I fill up the spray bottle and sit with Pumpkin. When she tries to peck me, I spray her in between the eyes. One of these days, she’ll learn.
Poodle hops down from the rafters, brave enough to limp closer now that I’m here to protect her from Pumpkin. Polar Bear won’t come out of the henhouse. None of them have laid any eggs yet. They’re all still kind of shocked to be here, I guess.
I spot something moving by the door. It’s not a squirrel or a predator, it’s Piper.
Piper has a mini-Quinny face, but her personality is different. She likes to sneak and lurk and hide—once Quinny and I even caught her spying on us from up in Mrs. Porridge’s fig tree.
Piper creeps into the Chalet des Poulets now and tucks herself in a corner.
“How’s Quinny?” I ask her.
She shhhes me with a finger. Her dad comes by a moment later, with her backpack. He looks tired.
“How’s Quinny?” I ask him.
“She ate some pie and left for soccer. And I left a message for Principal Ramsey,” he says. “Piper, I know you’re i
n there. You can’t just run off like that.”
Piper peeks out at him. “Hopper needs help with the chickens,” she says.
I look at Piper and then at her dad. “I need help with the chickens,” I say.
“Sweetie, you need to do your language-arts homework,” he says. “C’mon now.”
This is not the first time I’ve seen Piper hiding from her homework.
“Mr. Bumble, let her stay and do it here with me. I’ll bring her back right after.”
Mr. Bumble looks at me like I just offered him a million dollars.
I know Piper is having trouble learning her letters and doing her worksheets. I’ve heard Mr. Bumble complaining about this to Mom at the bus stop.
“She’s all yours, Hopper,” he says. “Good luck.”
He hands me her homework and a pencil, and he bolts. Okay. I never had these kinds of worksheets in kindergarten. They look easy (for me) and boring (for Piper). I get that she has to learn her letters, so she can learn words, so she can learn sentences and paragraphs and eventually learn how to read books. I get that. She has to start at the beginning.
Unless, of course, she starts at the end, where it’s actually interesting. With a book, itself.
“Piper, wait here, I’ll be right back.” I get up. “Just stay right here and spray Pumpkin between the eyes if she tries to peck at you, okay?”
Piper looks excited and takes the water bottle. I run back home and upstairs to my room.
Here is what I know: Piper likes chess, numbers, trees, chickens, worms, and pretty much anything gross. She doesn’t like language-arts worksheets, but she loves it when people read to her. She’s good at memorizing things. She already knows her times tables better than Quinny.
I go to my closet. I pick out some big picture books. I don’t have any books on chickens, but there’s one on poop—close enough, since chickens make a lot of it.
I bring a pile of books out to the Chalet des Poulets.
And that’s when I see Pumpkin pecking away at Piper’s language-arts worksheet, like it’s the most delicious worksheet she’s ever tasted.
“Pumpkin, no!” I call out. “Piper, spray her with the bottle. What are you doing?”
“She’s letting the chicken eat her homework, obviously,” answers Mrs. Porridge, watching from her back porch. “Good riddance, if you ask me.”
“Your dad will be mad. You’re supposed to do your homework, not feed it to a chicken.”
“I’m perfectly happy to take the blame,” says Mrs. Porridge. “Or the credit.”
“Look, I brought some stories.” I show her the books. “Which one should we read?”
Piper looks reluctant.
“Polar Bear still seems worried and scared to be here,” I say to her. “If you read to someone, it helps them feel better. Let’s try, okay?”
I open a book—Peanut Butter and Brains. Piper pretends to gag, but stays close to me.
I read out loud to the chickens. I do the voices, just like Ms. Yoon used to do at school before she left to have her baby. Polar Bear pops her head out of the henhouse. Poodle watches us through her poufy bangs. Walter and Cha-Cha lounge by a tree, paying attention.
Even Pumpkin, still chewing bits of Piper’s homework, settles in to listen.
Everyone is looking at me reading out loud. Piper giggles. The chickens bock and bip. I usually don’t like being the center of attention, but this time it feels okay since I’m just saying the book’s words, not my own words.
When I’m done reading, Piper claps. She hands me another book—The Snurtch.
This time, I try something different. I read a page out loud, and then I ask Piper to read that same page out loud with me. I point to each word as we say it together.
Polar Bear lingers in the henhouse doorway.
Poodle hops closer and stares at us harder, as we read.
Pumpkin, finally done with her homework snack, cozies up to Piper’s side and bip-burps.
Walter has fallen asleep, with Cha-Cha relaxing on top of him.
Piper leans against me as we keep turning the pages and reading out loud.
I don’t know if this is the right way to teach a person how to read. (I can’t even remember how I learned, it was such a long time ago.) But I do know…I never had to do all those worksheets in kindergarten. And I still learned how to read, somehow.
I’m almost done reading the second book with Piper when Mom walks over to the Chalet des Poulets. She’s wearing her running stuff. She listens to me and Piper finish the book.
“Wow, guys, that was terrific. Hopper, I’m going for a run. Want to come along?”
Piper looks disappointed.
“I’ll keep reading with her, you go.” Mrs. Porridge nods at me, like she’s happy for once.
Now would be a good time to ask Mrs. Porridge to sponsor me for the Turkey Trot and help raise money for the Little Free Library. The race is in just a couple of days. I’ve e-mailed my relatives and all my parents’ friends. But I have a hard time asking people face-to-face.
I open my mouth and try to say a sentence about the race to Mrs. Porridge.
But I chicken out.
Mom and I go for a run.
I notice it’s easier for me to talk while I’m running than while I’m standing still. Maybe pounding my feet on the ground shakes loose more words from my brain.
I tell Mom how I was trying to help Piper with her reading, and also help the chickens.
“It didn’t look like you were trying,” she says. “It looked like you were succeeding.”
I tell her what happened at school today with Quinny and the Smart List.
“Oh, that’s terrible,” she says. “Kids can be so cruel. That Victoria is such a puzzle.”
Victoria is a puzzle. She looked just as surprised and upset as Quinny did to see that Smart List, even though she’s the one who wrote it. Kaitlin is kind of a puzzle, too. She pretended she’d never seen that Smart List before, even though she showed it to me last week.
“Well, I’m glad Quinny has a kind, thoughtful friend like you,” says Mom. “She’s an awesome kid with so many great qualities. I bet you’ll find a way to cheer her up.”
I bet I will, too. I just can’t think of one right now.
“Hopper, slow down.” Mom gets out of breath.
I don’t want to slow down. I’m not even running as fast as I can—I’ve been going slower just so I can stay with Mom. I’m excited to train for the Turkey Trot, and not just because it will help raise money for the Little Free Library. I also want to see who wins the race. It might even be me, if I run fast enough. Normally I don’t care about winning, but this time feels different.
“Go too fast and you’ll burn out in the end,” says Mom. “You need to pace yourself.”
“But I still have lots of energy.”
“Sweetie, all runners have to learn to pace themselves. Sometimes the fastest way to get where you’re going is to…slow down.”
Okay. Fine. I slow down. Even though I don’t want to.
“Now, there’s something I need to tell you,” she says. “It’s not great news, I’m afraid….”
That’s when Mom says I can’t run the Turkey Trot. You have to be ages twelve and up to get an official race number and T-shirt. I won’t be able to win, even if I’m the fastest one.
“Sorry, Hopper. I should’ve looked up the rules. But we can still keep running together for fun, and I’ll share half the money from my sponsors with you for the Little Free Library, okay?”
I nod. That definitely cheers me up.
When we’re almost done running, I think of a way to cheer Quinny up, too.
It’s something we only do on special occasions. But helping a friend feel better is special enough, I think. I look up at Mom. I try to remember what’s inside our fridge.
“Mom, do we have any pickles?”
The best thing about being at soccer is that no one here knows about that Smart List.
&n
bsp; My brain may not be all that brainy, but my feet feel pretty smart bossing that ball around. I kick and run and dodge and twist past everyone. I bang myself into anyone who comes too close. I am fierce and fast and I am ONE WITH THE BALL.
That is something Trevor and Ty like to say. And now I like to say it, too.
But then Alex Delgado shows up, to do a makeup practice.
“Look who’s here, Quinny Dumble!”
Great, my new nickname. Before it was Big Mouth. Then it turned into Big Foot, since I’m such a ferocious kicker. Now Alex changed it again. But who even gave him the right?
I know it’s not okay to kick a person (like Alex) in the shins in regular life. But if he gets in my way when I’m kicking a soccer ball, that’s not my fault, is it? And there’s no rule against picturing Alex’s face on the ball I’m about to kick, right?
THWWWAAACK!!
I’m super tired after soccer. I used every single muscle inside me and now I’m just a limp noodle. Ty and Trevor thumb-wrestle on the way home, but I remember the bad stuff from school and close my eyes as Mr. Grey drives. When he turns onto our block we slow down, which jolts me awake, and I see Hopper sitting on my front steps. He stands up when he sees me.
I thank Mr. Grey and walk up my driveway toward our back door.
“Quinny, wait.” Hopper walks after me. “I have a surprise for you.”
That’s not fair—he knows I can’t resist surprises.
“Fine, what is it? But make it quick because I just want to go inside and be slumpy.”
Hopper leads me back to his house, and into his kitchen, where the table is set for a MAKE YOUR OWN PIZZA PARTY with a gazillion bowls of toppings and balls of squishy dough and fluffs of flour and plates and a big jug of strawberry lemonade, which Mom never lets me have because I’m already too hyper. One of those toppings bowls is full of pickles. Another is full of crumbled bits of bacon. Pickles and bacon are my two favorite things about having a tongue. (Coconut snowball cookies are a close number three.)
Hopper had a different pizza party earlier this fall, but I missed that pizza party (long story), so now is my chance! I squish the dough and spoon sauce onto it and load my pizza with yellow cheese and white cheese and green peppers and red peppers and mushrooms and olives and of course bacon. I save the pickles for when the pizza is already cooked.
Smart Cookies Page 7