Claudia's Friend

by Ann M. Martin

  She sat down next to me and pulled the books toward her.

  “Ah, Stace? What are we doing in the kitchen, exactly?”

  “We’re here because there are too many distractions in your room. And what I just did, as I think you guessed by your little comment about the stove clock, was to remove all distractions here in the kitchen.”

  “Geez, Stacey. We’re going to study! Not write a Newbery award book.”

  Stacey raised her eyebrows. (She looked very New York, if you know what I mean.) “This is just as important,” she said. “Or it should be, to you.”

  Wow. I didn’t know what to say. It didn’t matter. Stacey obviously wasn’t expecting me to disagree.

  Stacey flipped open the English book. “Use the following words as modifiers in a complete sentence,” she read aloud.

  I won’t say time went by quickly. I personally think it is twice as hard to study without a clock to watch. And I personally was sick of the “following words” as modifiers or as anything else by the time we finished my homework. But Stacey wasn’t.

  I admit it, my mouth dropped open when she pulled a neat package of 3 × 5 index cards out of her bag.

  “What are those?” I said.

  “Flash cards,” she announced. “Or they will be.”

  “Flash cards. Like little kids use?”

  “Like anybody uses to help with her spelling,” Stacey told me. “Here. Write each word on a card and we’ll go through them a few times.”

  “A few times?” I said. My voice rose.

  “Claudia, do you want to pass this test, or don’t you?”

  I sighed a little sigh. I looked around the kitchen. No clocks. No radios. No telephones. It was like a weird art piece. I wondered if I could do something with it somehow. Maybe …

  “Claudia!”

  I pulled the cards toward me and began to write.

  My father got home just as we were finishing.

  “Hello Stacey, Claudia. Working hard?”

  “Yes,” I said. I tried not to sound glum about it.

  “Good,” said my father. He disappeared in the direction of the den and I looked at the stack of cards.

  “Again?” I said.

  “No, that’s enough for today,” replied Stacey. “You don’t want to be too tired to do your other homework.”

  “Gee, thanks,” I said.

  Folding her arms, Stacey gave me a Look. “Claudia, this is serious. Do you remember what happened the last time your schoolwork took a slide? Do you?”

  “I guess so,” I said.

  “Like your parents saying you’d have to quit the Baby-sitters Club?”

  “I know.” I felt guilty then, for giving Stacey any grief at all. “I’m sorry, Stace. I don’t know. Somehow complaining seems to make things easier.”

  Stacey’s face relaxed into a grin. She began gathering up her notebooks and books and pens. “I know, I know. Kvetching.”

  “Kvetching?”

  “It’s Yiddish. And New Yorkish … it means complaining as an art form.”

  “Kvetching.” I tried the word out again. It sounded just like what it was. “I like that.”

  “I have to go,” Stacey said.

  “Thanks a lot, Stace. I really appreciate this.”

  “Until next time, then.”

  “Until next time,” I echoed.

  “Right. Meanwhile, keep going over those words.”

  “Yes, ma’am!” I said.

  I walked Stacey to the door, then went back to my room. My brain felt like mush, but I’d had an idea about those flash cards. If I had to look at them over and over, at least I could make them better to look at. In my room, I cleared off my desk, then spread the cards out on one side of it and my colored pencils on the other.

  “Embarrass,” was the first card. That was easy. The card deserved a red theme because when I get embarrassed my face turns red.

  By the time dinner was ready, I’d decorated most of the vocabulary cards with the colored pencils. I was actually enjoying myself.

  I must have looked pretty pleased when I sat down at the table. Janine finished unfolding her napkin and then said to me, “You appear to be in remarkably salubrious spirits, considering your situation.”

  “Are you talking about the tutoring?” I asked.

  “I was referring to your coursework review, yes.”

  “Oh, I’m not kvetching,” I said airily.

  Janine’s eyes widened, and I burst out laughing.

  I decided I’d better ask Stacey how to spell “kvetching.” It was possibly my new favorite word.

  After school on Wednesday Mary Anne reached the Rodowskys’ as soon as she could, which meant she was a little early. She wanted to make sure she had a chance to talk to Mrs. Rodowsky first. It was a good thing she did give herself that extra time, because Mrs. Rodowsky had quite a bit she wanted to tell Mary Anne.

  They went into the den and Mrs. Rodowsky closed the door behind her.

  “I want to explain to you what Shea has been through,” she told Mary Anne.

  Mary Anne was relieved. She had a lot of questions, but she wasn’t quite sure where to start. She was glad Mrs. Rodowsky was going to begin.

  Folding her hands in her lap, Mrs. Rodowsky said, “Shea has always had trouble in school. But just recently we realized that he might have a specific learning disorder. When we did realize that, Shea had to go through a number of tests to determine if that was the problem.”

  “What kind of tests?” asked MaryAnne.

  “He’s been evaluated by neurologists, eye doctors, hearing specialists, reading disorder specialists, reading disorder counselors, and special educators. A number of things had to be ruled out, you see.”

  “Oh,” said Mary Anne.

  “Once we had ruled out all the other possibilities, we realized that what Shea has is dyslexia. You may have heard of that before.”

  “I have, but I’m not sure what it means.”

  “It’s a pretty broad term. In Shea’s case, it means he has problems recognizing letters and words, and sometimes numbers, on the printed page. He reverses letters, like ‘b’ for ‘d’ and words, like ‘was’ for ‘saw.’ He might see a ‘6’ as a ‘9.’ Very young children do this when they are just learning to read. But for some children, it persists even after they are older.”

  Mary Anne said thoughtfully, “Shea must have had to work twice as hard, just to keep up.”

  Mrs. Rodowsky leaned forward and put her hand on Mary Anne’s. “Yes!” she said. “In a lot of ways, he’s had to be twice as smart. Unfortunately, he doesn’t feel that way. The tests show Shea is above average in intelligence. But with all these tests and tutoring, he’s convinced himself he’s just the opposite. He … he calls himself a ‘dummy.’ ”

  “But he’s not,” said Mary Anne.

  “That’s where I’m hoping you can help. You’re closer to Shea in age. Maybe he won’t feel so pressured if he’s working with you. He’s so suspicious now of us adults and all our tests …” Mrs. Rodowsky shook her head. “Maybe you can help.”

  An enormous crash from the kitchen brought both Mrs. Rodowsky and Mary Anne to their feet.

  “Jackie!” exclaimed Mary Anne. Then she looked quickly at Mrs. Rodowsky, hoping she hadn’t hurt her feelings by assuming the crash had been caused by Jackie (also known among his baby-sitters as the Walking Disaster).

  But Mrs. Rodowsky wasn’t fazed. “Jackie,” she agreed. “Shea’s in his room. Why don’t you go join him?”

  So instead of hurrying to see what Jackie had crashed into, knocked down, fallen on, or tripped over, Mary Anne went to Shea’s room.

  Shea was hunched over his desk, his hands balled up into fists and dug into his cheeks. Lopsided stacks of books and ragged-edged piles of papers covered the surface. Shea wasn’t looking down at them, though. He was staring out the window above the desk.

  Mary Anne stepped inside the open door and said, “Shea?”

  Shea h
alf turned his head without moving the rest of his body. “Yeah?”

  “It’s me. Mary Anne.”

  “Hi, Mary Anne.” Shea didn’t sound very enthusiastic.

  Mary Anne walked into the room and said, “Do you mind if I pull up a chair?”

  “Okay,” said Shea. His level of enthusiasm didn’t change.

  “What are you working on?” asked Mary Anne.

  Shea unballed his fists and waved his hands, as if he wanted to shoo the question away. “Homework.”

  “Which homework? Math? Geography? English?”

  Shea made the same gesture, with an added sort of hopelessness in it. “I dunno.”

  “Okay. Why don’t you see what your homework is, and then decide what you want to work on?”

  “That’s what Mrs. Danvers said to do,” Shea said. “She’s my teacher. She said I should make a list of my homework assignments and the books I’ll need.”

  Mary Anne nodded. “Sometimes even making a list is a pain, but that sounds like a good idea.” She eyed the chaos on his desk and said, “Okay, for a start, what are your subjects in school?”

  Shea told Mary Anne what his subjects were. Then they made a list of the subjects for which Shea had homework assignments that night. Beside each assignment, they wrote down everything Shea would need for it: books, notebooks, notes, handouts, pens, pencils, paper, whatever.

  Then, finally, they started on the homework.

  “For English,” Mary Anne said, studying the list, “you’re supposed to write a letter to someone you admire.”

  Shea frowned.

  “Anybody you admire,” said Mary Anne. “Who’s your favorite … athlete?”

  Shea shrugged. Then he said, “I like Jackie Robinson. He was a hero.”

  “I think Jackie Robinson is, ah, dead, Shea.”

  “My teacher didn’t say we had to write to a live person.”

  “True,” said Mary Anne. “Okay, why don’t you write to Jackie Robinson. What do you need?”

  “A pencil and some paper,” said Shea, grabbing his pencil and pulling a sheet of paper toward him. “First we write our name and address and the date in the right hand corner.”

  He bent his head, started to write in the left corner, erased, moved to the right, then back to the left, and finally settled on the right. He wrote laboriously. “Then we write the person’s name and address below that.” He wrote for a minute longer, then said, “What address do I use for Jackie Robinson?”

  Where do you send a letter to a dead person? Mary Anne wondered. Then she remembered that Jackie Robinson had played for the Dodgers. “You could send it in care of the Dodgers. In Los Angeles,” she suggested.

  “Okay.”

  For a long time after that the room was quiet as Shea wrote and erased and wrote some more. Finally he looked up. “Here,” he said. He handed Mary Anne his letter.

  “It’s a good letter, Shea,” Mary Anne said. “But I think it needs a little more work.”

  Shea threw down his pencil. “It’s all wrong, isn’t it. I can’t do anything right.”

  “That’s not true,” began Mary Anne.

  “It is, too,” said Shea. “I’m stupid and dumb and dopey.”

  “No, you’re not!”

  Shea didn’t look convinced. “If I’m not, how come my letter’s not right?”

  “Nobody’s perfect,” said Mary Anne. “You’re better at some things than others, so you have to work harder on some things.”

  “I’m dyslexic,” said Shea bitterly. “That means I’m dumb.”

  “It means you learn things differently from most other people. It does not mean you’re dumb.”

  Shea folded his arms and scowled.

  “Come on,” said Mary Anne. “We’ll make this letter perfect. But to make something perfect, you have to make some changes, sometimes. Mostly you just need to fix your spelling.”

  At last Mary Anne persuaded Shea to work on the letter. And bit by bit, he got it right.

  A funny thing happened while they were working, though. Mary Anne kept getting the feeling she was being watched. And sure enough, once when she turned around, Jackie and Archie were standing in the doorway of Shea’s room.

  “Hello,” said Mary Anne.

  “Hi,” said Jackie.

  “Hi,” said Archie.

  “We’re working right now,” Mary Anne told them.

  “We know,” said Jackie. He grinned his jack-o’-lantern grin. With his red hair (all the Rodowsky boys have red hair) he even looked sort of Halloween-y in a cheerful way.

  Mary Anne turned back to Shea.

  A few minutes later she looked over her shoulder. Jackie and Archie were still there. Jackie leaned over and whispered something to Archie and they both grinned.

  Were they laughing at Shea? Mary Anne didn’t think so. Jackie was a Walking Disaster, but he was a good person.

  “Jackie, Archie? Can I do something for you?”

  “No,” said Archie.

  “No,” said Jackie. They both just kept grinning.

  “Fine, we’ll keep working then.” Mary Anne turned back to the desk again. A moment later she turned around. Jackie and Archie were still there.

  “Good-bye,” said Mary Anne firmly.

  “Oh!” said Jackie. “Good-bye.”

  “ ’Bye,” said Archie.

  Reluctantly, the two of them slid away. A few minutes later she heard Archie shriek, “Look out!” from the back of the house and she knew he and Jackie had found something else to occupy them.

  Mary Anne decided the boys must have been jealous because Shea had her undivided attention. Or maybe they were confused because Mary Anne had switched from baby-sitter to tutor.

  “It’s a good letter,” said Mary Anne at last. It was a little smudged, but spelling-wise, it was perfect. “An excellent letter.”

  Shea took it and carefully put it between the pages of his English notebook. “I guess.”

  Looking at her watch, Mary Anne said, “Uh-oh. I’d better go. It’s almost time for my Baby-sitters Club meeting.”

  She thought Shea would ask her questions about the meeting, or say something. But he didn’t.

  His head sank onto his fists. He stared out the window. “Okay,” he said.

  “You did good work, Shea.”

  “Sure.”

  Mary Anne paused. She didn’t know what else to say. “Well, ’bye,” she said at last.

  “Good-bye,” said Shea softly. He sounded as discouraged and sad as he looked.

  “Baby-sitters Club,” Jessi answered the phone crisply. She wedged the receiver between her ear and her shoulder, grabbed a pencil with one hand and her notebook with the other, and began to scribble down information.

  It was Wednesday afternoon and business as usual. In fact, maybe a little more business than usual.

  I’d already taken one job, and that was all I was going to allow myself with the test coming up. Jessi hung up and I watched as Mary Anne flipped through the book to schedule the appointment.

  “You can just write down ‘studying’ for me for every afternoon, evening, and weekend,” I said mournfully.

  “In between your art lessons and the BSC meetings?” asked Mary Anne innocently.

  Mallory gave me a poke with her elbow and I grimaced. Mary Anne finished logging in the latest job and then said, “You know, I was with Shea Rodowsky this afternoon.”

  “That’s right,” said Jessi. “How did that go?”

  Mary Anne grimaced. “I’m not really sure. I talked to Mrs. Rodowsky first and she explained more about dyslexia.”

  “You know, I just remembered,” said Dawn. “A friend of mine in California has dyslexia. I remember she was a real brain. She could figure out how anything worked. But she had trouble reading basic instructions.”

  “What happened to her?” asked Kristy.

  “Nothing.” Dawn looked surprised. “She took some special classes for awhile, and she started tape recording all her regula
r classes because she took notes so slowly. She was building a sailboat when I left. Said she was going to finish it in time for high school graduation, then sail around the world.”

  “I wish Shea could meet your friend, Dawn,” said Mary Anne. “He thinks he’s stupid and hopeless and dumb. Dopey, that’s what he called himself.”

  “Shea’s not dumb!” said Stacey indignantly. “Anybody who’s spent any time with him would know that.”

  “That’s right. In fact, his mother told me he’s above average in intelligence.”

  “What does dyslexia mean, anyway?” asked Mallory.

  “It’s a learning disability, or learning difference,” Mary Anne replied. “A dyslexic person doesn’t see things the same way other people do. He reverses letters or words. He might read ‘was’ for ‘saw.’ He doesn’t even know he’s doing it. He just knows he’s not keeping up with everyone else in his class. So he figures he’s dumb.”

  “Wow, scary,” said Mallory.

  “It must be, a little,” said Mary Anne.

  “But now that the Rodowskys know what the problem is, they can deal with it, right?” That was Kristy, of course.

  “I’m not sure it’s that easy,” Mary Anne replied.

  “I didn’t mean it was easy,” said Kristy. “I just meant that they have a solution to the problem.”

  “Yes. But knowing what the problem is, and knowing how to correct it, isn’t making Shea feel any better. And I’m not sure what we can do.”

  “Give him lots of praise and encouragement,” suggested Jessi.

  Mary Anne nodded. “That’s a good idea. But it has to be genuine, or Shea’s going to think we’re just trying to make him feel better.”

  “True,” said Kristy. “And that would be even worse.”

  “Like when you give a really lousy dance performance,” Jessi said, “and everyone says how wonderful you are. You feel fifty times worse than if someone said something a little more truthful …”

  “Like you were awful?” Mallory raised her eyebrows at Jessi.

  “No! Just something more truthful. I don’t know. Like, this part of the performance looked good, but that part needed work.”

  “It depends on who’s saying it, too, don’t you think?” asked Dawn.

  Mary Anne said, “But what about …”