“Wait—Hopper, you know what would make this pizza party even more perfect?”
“Uh, no.”
“Wait here, I’ll be right back!”
I come back to the pizza party with Crescent in his little guinea-pig pouch.
“Mrs. Grey, can I borrow some red peppers? They’re Crescent’s favorite veggie.”
“Sure thing, Quinny, but we have a house rule—no rodents at the kitchen table.”
That’s not a fair rule if you ask me, but I mind my manners.
“Sorry, Mrs. Grey, I forgot to ask if Crescent was invited to the pizza party.”
“Apology accepted,” she says.
“Let’s do a pizza picnic in the hall,” says Hopper.
Oh, that boy is full of good ideas! We spread a beach towel in the hall, which makes me think of summer, even though it’s November. I sniff that towel. The beautiful smell of chlorine reminds me I want to go swimming again. (I definitely need to work on my cannonball.)
The pizza comes out of the oven all bubbly and crispy, and I chomp a big bite. I give Crescent some crust and his blurry little mouth does some super-speedy munching.
“Quinny, take it easy, you don’t want to choke,” says Hopper.
I take a breath and chew more carefully. My tummy feels so happy and relaxed.
But then, when my plate is finally empty, it hits me: the pizza is all gone, but my math homework is still all there, waiting in my backpack.
“Well, thanks for the pizza,” I tell Hopper. “But I better go home and do some math since I’m such a dummy at school.”
“Quinny, stop saying that, you’re not dumb.”
“Tell that to the quiz I flunked. And did you know I have to start going to Ms. Jasani in Math Lounge?”
“So? Lots of people go there. Ms. Jasani is really nice.”
Daddy said going to Math Lounge will be good for me. He said it’ll be like my own private math class. But who in the world would ever want their own private math class?
“It doesn’t matter anyway, because my report card will still be full of F-minuses.”
“There’s no such thing as an F-minus,” says Hopper. “And report cards won’t come out for a long time. You don’t know what your grades will be.”
“Yes, I do. School is always hard for me and my report card is never too fantastic.”
I didn’t ever tell Hopper that before, because I didn’t want him to think I was a big giant dodo-head. I’m wobbly at math, but even at reading I’m not so hot. I’m a fantastic reader when it comes to picture books, of course—I read those out loud to my little sisters a lot, or at least I used to before I started doing so much soccer—but the problem is that thicker books without pictures make me hungry by the time I get to page eight or nine. Even if there’s no food in the book! It’s the weirdest thing. And, believe me, third grade has tons more thicker books without pictures. Plus, math that’s so fast and so confusing, it might as well be a magic trick. The teachers want us to keep getting smarter and smarter, until our heads explode, I guess.
“Maybe the problem isn’t you—maybe it’s the report card,” says Hopper.
“I know, I wish I could just burn that thing up before my parents see it.”
“No, I mean, report cards aren’t the only way of being smart. You do stuff every day you’re smart at, Quinny. Like being kind, funny, and nice. That stuff isn’t on a report card.”
I roll my eyes at him. “Because those things don’t count.”
“Of course they count. Smart is…like pizza toppings. There’s lots of different flavors. Don’t you see? You’re smart at being with people—everyone wants to talk to you, and play with you, and be your partner for projects. You make the pizza more delicious.”
That’s a lot of words Hopper just said. But they don’t make much sense to me.
“Hopper, thank you for saying I’m delicious, but school doesn’t really care about pizza, or being friendly—they care about grades and homework and quizzes.”
“I can help you with your homework.”
“Not now. I’m tired from soccer.”
Plus, from eating a whole pizza with six toppings. Crescent helped, but not much.
I rub his little ears in his pouch, and then we get up. “Say bye, Crescent. Say thank you.”
“Wait, there’s dessert.” Hopper gets up, too. “Mom made lemon bars.”
“Lemon bars?” I slump against the wall. “Oh no, Hopper, why did you just tell me that? Don’t you remember the lemon bars that Izzy brought in for her birthday last month? They were delicious. But that’s never going to happen again, because my petition to save the cookies is a big giant failure, too—”
“Quinny—”
“Good-bye. I’m going home now to be sad under my covers.”
“Quinny, wait—what if…”
Hopper walks across the hall and picks up a book sitting on a table. It’s the book we made together last month about his tonsils surgery. I don’t know why he’s staring at it now.
“What if I know a way to get Principal Ramsey to change the food rules?” he says.
“What?” I laugh at him. “No way.”
“I’m serious. Go get that petition, and I’ll show you.”
I stare at the tonsils book, with my name and Quinny’s name on the cover.
“What if I know a way to get Principal Ramsey to change the food rules?”
Quinny laughs. She doesn’t think I’m being serious.
But I’ve known Principal Ramsey a long time. If we take all the whining out of the petition and add in a compromise, I bet he’ll change the rules.
“We need to think of a compromise.” I hold up the tonsils book.
“Hopper, that sounds like an awful word, whatever it means. And why are you holding up our tonsils book? It’s a fabulous book, but it has nothing to do with cookies or petitions.”
“You remember how we both wanted our names to go first on this cover? So we talked about it and decided that my name would go first, because they were my tonsils that were getting taken out, but your name would be bigger, because a lot of the ideas in the book came from you. That’s a compromise. We could ask Principal Ramsey to change the food rules a little so you get some of what you want, but he still gets some of what he wants.”
“But Hopper, I want everything I want! That’s why I made the petition.”
“Get real, Quinny, he’s not going to say okay, bring back all the cookies, just like that. If you don’t offer a compromise, he won’t take you seriously, no matter how many kids sign their names. And the petition also needs to be shorter and calmer. We need to revise it.”
Ms. Yoon talked to us about revising before she left school to have her baby. Revising means making sure your spelling and grammar are correct. It also means finding a better and clearer way to say what you’re trying to say, and improving the ideas behind your words.
“Revising? Snore,” says Quinny. “The words in my petition are already fantastic.”
“Pretend you’re Principal Ramsey. Would you rather read a long petition full of cranky words, whining the same thing over and over, or a short, calm one that offers a compromise?”
Quinny doesn’t say. I can tell she knows the answer but doesn’t want to admit it.
Then I suggest a compromise that she can suggest in her petition.
Quinny crosses her arms over her chest, but she listens.
Her face gets softer as I talk. And then she starts bouncing a little.
“Okay, Hopper, maybe you’re right…it’s worth a try, let’s go get that petition and calm it down with your compromise.”
We go over to Quinny’s house. But Cleo is screaming for her Binky again, so we come back to my house, where it’s quieter. We go up to my parents’ room. Quinny talks, and I talk, and then I type the best parts of all our talking onto Mom’s computer:
Dear Principal Ramsey,
This is a letter about the new rules that get rid of cookies and swe
ets from hot lunch and classroom parties. We disagree with the rules, because sweets add a lot of fun and happiness to school. We know it is important to be healthy and we understand if you have to take the dessert out of hot lunch. It doesn’t always taste so great anyway. But here is a different idea that still lets us have some fun in school, but also has less sugar. This idea is called a compromise:
1) Can you please let us have sweets once a month for a group birthday celebration in our class? So we’ll still get to have birthdays, but there will be fewer cupcakes and cookies total.
2) Can you please still let us bring treats for the winter holiday party? A holiday party without holiday cookies is a very dull party. For Halloween we get candy from trick-or-treating, so we don’t need sweets in school as much, but for the winter holiday party, we would really miss those cookies. And you could make a big rule that says none of the cookies that people bring in can ever have tree nuts or peanuts in them. (Or even dairy, if you want.)
We think this compromise is a smart way to keep us healthy and also keep us happy. Please let us know what you think. We are free to talk anytime. Especially Quinny, who started this petition in the first place.
Sincerely,
Full name grade homeroom
1) Quinny Bumble 3 Mrs. Flavio
2) Hopper Grey 3 Mrs. Flavio
3)
4)
Quinny looks at the new petition and then she turns to me, her eyes all wide.
“Oh, Hopper!”
She wraps a hug around me and I freeze. This is the third hug Quinny has ever given me and, as usual, it’s too tight. The only good thing about it is that her hair smells like peaches (from her shampoo, I guess). I hold still, with my arms stuck to my sides. I’m relieved when Quinny finally lets me go.
“Principal Ramsey is for sure going to love this super-brainy and very, very, extra-very polite petition!” she says. “All we need now is a bunch more autographs on it. And can you draw some cookies on it, again? Wait, wait! Can you draw a picture of kids doing homework while eating cookies? Because cookies make it easier to do homework, and homework makes you smarter, so cookies for sure make you smarter.”
Quinny might be surprised to hear this, but I don’t think homework makes you smarter.
I think helping people and solving problems and finding something to feel curious about makes you smarter. I think making stuff, and making stuff up, definitely makes me feel smarter.
I’m happy that I’m helping Quinny. Even if I have to get hugged for it.
“Hopper, this beautiful new petition calls for a celebration.” She drags me back down to the kitchen. “Let’s eat some of those amazing, delicious lemon bars right this minute.”
Quinny is so cheered up that she eats three lemon bars. Meanwhile I get my charcoal pencils and draw some kids eating cookies while doing homework on the revised petition. I don’t think it’ll make a big difference to Principal Ramsey, but you never know.
“Hopper, thank you for being the smartest cookie ever.” Quinny’s smile is full of crumbs. “What would I do without your talented charcoal pencils and your big, giant brain?”
It’s nice that Quinny thinks I’m so brainy, but it also bothers me a little. She’s still acting like smart is something that belongs just to me.
After she goes home, I go back upstairs to my room and get out my sketch pad.
There’s got to be a way for me to show her how smart she really is.
It’s the day before Thanksgiving and I’m thankful Victoria is not by the lockers. But I also want to see her, because I have a million questions about why she’s such an awful friend.
In class, we’re supposed to start the day with morning meeting, but instead Principal Ramsey comes in with a big important look on his face. And, wow, Victoria and Alex come in with him, and they scurry over to their seats. Victoria looks dazed and kind of queasy. Alex is making that face where you try to pretend that something big isn’t a big deal.
“Kids, Mrs. Flavio, good morning everyone…settle down now, I’d like to have a few words, in light of a certain piece of paper that made the rounds yesterday afternoon.”
Principal Ramsey tells us he knows about the Smart List, and that it was hurtful and dishonest, because “you are all bright, capable students” and he reminds us we have a no-bullying rule at school. While he talks all his grown-up talking, Victoria slouches in her seat. Principal Ramsey doesn’t say her name, but everyone can tell who he’s talking about. I see other kids glare at Victoria, and I’m glad, because she deserves all the glares in the world.
After Principal Ramsey leaves, Mrs. Flavio says, “And that’s the end of that. Onward!”
We zip through morning meeting and then we have ELA, which I like because it’s made up of words, not numbers. Today, since it’s early dismissal, Mrs. Flavio reads an out-loud story instead of making us do our own reading or writing. I’m excited, because I like out-loud stories more than flat stories on paper. Listening to a story is also MUCH better than writing, because you don’t have to think about spelling or grammar, and you don’t get graded—you can just relax and listen. (And I love out-loud stories with pictures the best, because looking at pictures during a story feels more like you’re doing something.)
After ELA it’s time for math, which I don’t like since it’s made up of gobbledygook. But it turns out that I don’t even stay for math, because Mrs. Flavio sends me over to Ms. Jasani, who lives in a smaller room down the hall. And that’s called the Math Lounge.
“Quinny, welcome,” says Ms. Jasani, who is one of the shortest and most colorful grown-ups in the whole school. “I’m your support teacher for Math Lounge. I’m so happy to meet you.”
I don’t say anything, because telling her I’m happy to meet her, too, would be a lie.
Here’s the truth about Math Lounge: it’s where the dummies go if they can’t understand a normal math lesson. But I’m surprised to see Darren and So-Mai in here, at a table in the back. They’re fourth graders from my bus. They’re not dumb—they’re friendly and funny—so why are they here? One of them, So-Mai, even won the STOMP award last month. (STOMP stands for student-of-the-month-prize and Principal Ramsey is very picky about who he gives it to.)
“Take a seat, Quinny,” says Ms. Jasani. “Or have a ball, if you prefer.”
She rolls out a big blue bouncy ball from under the table! And I get to sit on that ball instead of a boring old chair. I wish we had these in my classroom.
“Ms. Jasani, thanks for the fantastic sitty ball, but don’t get your hopes up. I can’t do decimals, I don’t care about sticker rewards, and I don’t even like numbers in the first place.”
I share all of this awful information, but she doesn’t look horrified.
“Understood, Quinny. We’ll take it one step at a time. Tiny step by tiny step, together.”
“But you don’t get it—the smartest girl in my class just made a list that said I was the dumbest kid in my class, so you really don’t have a chance.”
Ms. Jasani rests her chin on her hand and smiles, all sad and curious. “You know what I think, Quinny? The smartest person in your class would never make a list calling herself the smartest person. Part of being smart is being humble and kind. Now, let’s get started.”
Actually Ms. Jasani is wrong. Being humble doesn’t help you much with math and grades and quizzes. But okay, she sits down with me and we go over decimals from the very beginning, like from when Mrs. Flavio started talking about math back in September.
“Quinny, what do you already know about numbers?”
“Not much, that’s why I’m here, I guess.”
“Well, what are numbers, anyway? And fractions and decimals…?”
“Numbers are…annoying things I have to memorize or I’ll flunk out of school. And fractions are numbers in a bunk bed. And decimals…have something to do with fractions.”
“All right. Did you know that numbers are really just pencils, or socks or…cookies?”
Ms. Jasani pulls out a chocolate chip cookie—only it’s made of paper. “Numbers are symbols that represent something else. Whole numbers are like whole cookies. Here’s the number one.”
She holds up a paper cookie.
Then she spreads out a bunch more paper cookies and counts from one to ten. I guess I know this stuff already, but the way Ms. Jasani is talking about it now makes it feel…less scary.
Then she shows me how to turn those cookies into fractions, by folding each cookie in half, and then in half again.
Then she shows me how to turn those cookies into decimals, by drawing lines on each cookie that splits it into ten slices. So one whole cookie is ten out of ten slices, or 10/10, or 1.0. And each slice is one out of the ten slices that make up a whole cookie, or 1/10, or .10.
I feel like my brain is starting to melt a little now.
But Ms. Jasani explains everything all slow and gentle. And boy, does she like to repeat herself! She doesn’t make me nervous, so I can actually hear what she is saying. (Sometimes when I’m nervous my ears don’t work too well.) I still don’t understand every single thing she’s saying, but I don’t feel as weird about not understanding it. I realize I’m not afraid of Ms. Jasani the way I am of Mrs. Flavio.
Then she pulls out my math quiz from yesterday. I got a 61 out of 100. Yikes.
But she says if I help her do a word problem right now, I’ll get ten points of extra credit on that quiz, which means my grade will go from a 61 to a 71, which is an amazing grade.
A word problem is like a cross between numbers and words and a horrible riddle.
Words = Yay!
Word problems = Yuck.
“Ms. Jasani, I would love extra credit, but you’re barking up the wrong person. I got a 61 on the quiz, remember, so I’m not too good at figuring out real live word problems.”
“Quinny, take a look. This word problem is about something I think you’ll like….”
Amina walks into a bakery with $4.00 and a growling stomach. She can’t decide which cookie to buy: a snickerdoodle ($1.30), a blondie ($1.60), or a black-and-white cookie ($1.10). Does she have enough money to buy all three cookies?
Smart Cookies Page 8