The Report Card

  for my son,

  John Edward Clements

  Thanks

  to Harrison Collins for giving me my first job as a teacher;

  to Alfie Kohn for his book The Schools Our Children Deserve;

  to Charles P. Pierce for his Boston Globe Magazine article “Testing Times”;

  and to Howard Gardner for his work to establish a broader definition of intelligence.

  Contents

  Chapter One: Bad Grades

  Chapter Two: The Facts of Me

  Chapter Three: School and Stephen

  Chapter Four: The Reading of the Grades

  Chapter Five: Solitary Confinement

  Chapter Six: Stakeout

  Chapter Seven: The Element of Surprise

  Chapter Eight: Roadkill

  Chapter Nine: Cornered

  Chapter Ten: For Now

  Chapter Eleven: Mounted Under Glass

  Chapter Twelve: Intelligence

  Chapter Thirteen: An Observation

  Chapter Fourteen: Changes

  Chapter Fifteen: Partnership

  Chapter Sixteen: Phase one

  Chapter Seventeen: Hard Test

  Chapter Eighteen: Logic

  Chapter Nineteen: Too Much

  Chapter Twenty: A Short Vacation

  Chapter Twenty-One: Rebellion

  Chapter Twenty-Two: The Next Good Thing

  one

  BAD GRADES

  There were only about fifteen kids on the late bus because it was Friday afternoon. I sat near the back with Stephen, and he kept pestering me.

  “Come on, Nora. I showed you my report card. I want to see if I beat you in math. Let me see what you got. Come on.”

  “No,” I said. “No means no. I’m not opening it. I had to go to school every day, and I had to sit there and take the tests and quizzes when they told me to. But I have a choice about when I look at my grades, and right now I choose not to. So ask me on Monday.”

  Stephen is my best friend, but I’m not sure he would have admitted it. If any of his buddies had been on the bus, he wouldn’t have been sitting anywhere near me. In fifth grade a guy’s best friend isn’t supposed to be a girl—which is one of the most immature ideas in the universe. Your best friend is the person you care about the most and who cares back just as much. And that’s the way it was with me and Stephen. It wasn’t a girl-boy thing. It was just a fact.

  Stephen was persistent. He’d been having a hard time with his schoolwork for the past ten weeks, and he was obsessed with grades. So he wouldn’t shut up about my report card. On and on and on. And our bus ride home took twenty minutes. “Come on, Nora. It’s not fair. You know what I got, but I don’t know what you got. I wanna see your grades. C’mon, lemme see ’em.”

  Another fact: Sometimes no doesn’t mean no forever. There was only about a block to go before our bus stop, but I couldn’t stand Stephen’s whining another second. Besides, the truth is, I was dying to know my spelling grade. I was sure about my grades in all the other subjects, but I thought I might have messed up in spelling. So I pulled my report card out of my backpack and slapped it into Stephen’s hands. I didn’t even care that my whole name was printed right on the label: Nora Rose Rowley.

  “Here,” I said. “This is your prize for being the most annoying person in the world.”

  Stephen said, “All riiight!” and he had those grades out of the envelope in about three seconds.

  Stephen’s face went blank and his mouth dropped open. And it was like he couldn’t talk. Or breathe. He finally spluttered and said, “No way, Nora! This can’t be right! Mrs. Noyes . . . and Mrs. Zhang . . . and everybody! These are the wrong grades!”

  I ignored his amazement. I said, “Just tell me what I got in spelling, okay?”

  Stephen’s eyes flickered down the page and then he said, “You . . . you got a C.”

  “Rats!” and I kicked the seat in front of us. “I knew it! A lousy C—how could I be so stupid!”

  Stephen was wishing he hadn’t begged to see my grades, and his face showed it. He gulped and said, “Um . . . Nora? I hate to tell you, but all your other grades are . . .”

  I cut him off. “I know what they are.”

  Stephen was completely confused. He said, “But . . . but if you know what the others are, then why are you mad about the C in spelling? Because all the others are . . . Ds! You got a D in everything! All Ds—except for that one C.”

  “Rats!” I said again. “Spelling!”

  Stephen struggled on. “But . . . but spelling is your best grade,” and to reassure himself he said, “. . . because a C is better than a D, right?”

  I shook my head, and then I said more than I should have. “Not always,” I said. “C is not better if you’re trying to get a D.”

  That really confused Stephen. And I didn’t want him to have time to think about it. I grabbed my report card back and said, “So what did you get in spelling?”

  I knew the answer to that question because I’d already seen Stephen’s report card. Plus, spelling is always his best subject.

  Stephen said, “I . . . I got an A.”

  “And is that the grade you were trying to get?”

  He squinted and then said, “Um . . . yeah, I guess so.”

  “Then you got what you were trying for, and that’s good. That’s a good grade, Stephen.”

  He said, “Um . . . thanks.”

  We got off the bus at the corner and started walking along the street toward our houses. Stephen didn’t say another word.

  I could tell he was worried about my grades. And that was just like him—to be worried about someone other than himself. Which is why it was a good thing that Stephen had someone like me looking out for him.

  Because I had gotten those Ds on purpose. I had meant to get all Ds. And those Ds were probably going to get me into big trouble.

  But I didn’t care about that.

  I had gotten those Ds for Stephen.

  two

  THE FACTS OF ME

  My room was “a mess.” I was supposed to “get it all straightened up” before dinner. “Or else.” Mom’s orders.

  But I wasn’t in the mood to clean. Or scared enough. So I just lay there on my bed, thinking. Which wasn’t unusual. And the thought came very clearly that a messy room was the least of my problems. That was a fact.

  I’ve always loved facts. That’s because facts don’t change. And I think that’s why I sometimes hate facts too.

  I’ve been discovering facts about myself for a long time. It’s like I’ve been doing experiments for years so I can figure out what makes me me—the facts of me.

  Here’s one fact I’ve discovered: I have the opposite of amnesia. I don’t think I’ve ever forgotten anything. I can remember all the way back. I can remember the smell of the soft, blue cloth my mom tucked under my chin to catch the drips when I drank baby formula from a bottle. I can remember each red polka dot on the hat of the stuffed clown puppet I slept with in my crib—twelve dots. I can remember the yellow-and-white diamond pattern on the plastic liner of my playpen and the taste of those biscuits I chewed on before my teeth popped through my gums. I remember all that stuff.

  And lying there on my bed, I remembered back to when I thought everyone else was just like me. Because that’s the way it seemed to me in the beginning. I couldn’t tell the difference between myself and everybody else. I thought everyone else was thinking and feeling and seeing the same things I was. But that was not a fact.

  There—the way I was thinking just there? That’s another fact about me. I do that constantly, that kind of analyzing. I’ve always been like that.

  Then my mind went racing through its filing system, and I remembered every detail of the day w
hen I first started to see I was different.

  It happened because of my big sister, Ann. She was six years older, so it was like we lived on different planets. Whenever we got anywhere near each other, Ann’s planet usually crushed my planet.

  It was a Saturday morning right after I had learned how to walk, and Ann dumped a big, five-hundred-piece jigsaw puzzle onto the floor in our family room. The picture on the box showed a scene from a Muppets movie.

  Ann thought she was this huge puzzle expert, and when I went over to watch, she said, “No, Nora. This isn’t a baby puzzle. Get away!”

  I moved back a little, but I kept watching. I’ve never been scared of Ann. That’s because I’ve always understood her. All Ann has ever wanted is for everybody to beg her to be the queen of the universe.

  First Ann turned all the pieces picture-side up, and then she picked out all the pieces with straight edges. Those were the frame pieces because Ann always puts the frame of a puzzle together first.

  After the frame was done, Ann started looking for a part of Miss Piggy’s ear. So I leaned forward and put my pointer finger on a puzzle piece.

  “Hey!” said Ann, and she pushed my hand away. Then she saw. I had pointed to the piece she was looking for. She picked it up, turned it around, and pushed it into place. Narrowing her eyes at me, Ann said, “Where’s the one that goes here?” and she put her finger on a piece at the bottom edge of the frame.

  So I pointed again and that piece fit too.

  “And the next one?” asked Ann.

  Again I pointed and again it fit. Because it wasn’t hard for me. I could see all the pieces at once and I could see exactly where each of them went. They were right there, plain as day.

  Then Ann got an idea, and it wasn’t a very nice one. Reaching toward a part of the puzzle that was all Kermit-green, she put her finger on one piece and said, “What goes . . . here?”

  I ran my eyes over all those puzzle pieces scattered next to the frame. There must have been a hundred that were mostly green. Ann thought I was stumped. But I wasn’t. I reached out and picked up one piece and gave it to her.

  Ann said, “Nice try, Nora. At least you got a green one. Like I said, this is not a baby puzzle. So go away.” Then Ann looked at the piece in her hand and the part of the frame she still had her finger on. She turned my piece around once and brought it closer to the frame. It was the right piece.

  “How did you do that?” asked Ann. Now she was more curious than jealous.

  But I just looked at all the pieces and picked up another one. And Ann put it in the puzzle, hooking it on to the other piece I had found.

  Then Ann said, “Here, Nora. You put some pieces in the puzzle. You just have to push each one down, like this, with your thumb. Start right here.”

  I could feel how Ann was watching me. She had never looked at me that way before. I didn’t know I was doing anything unusual—because for me, the puzzle was so easy. I didn’t have to look and look and try out ten pieces to find a right one. I could just see the next piece. I didn’t have to slow down and I didn’t make any mistakes.

  Ann ran and got Mom. Then I felt two pairs of eyes staring at me. So I stopped.

  “Go on, keep doing the puzzle, Nora,” said Ann. “Show Mommy. Find the piece for right there.”

  Then Mom said, “Go on, honey. Help Ann do the puzzle. Go on.”

  It felt like they were pushing me with their eyes. They wanted a performance. But I was just being me.

  So I did nothing.

  Ann said, “Come on, Nora. Just one piece. Come on,” and she grabbed my hand and pulled it toward the unmatched pieces.

  I yelled, “No!” and I yanked my hand away. That was it for me. Puzzle playtime was over.

  But later, when I was supposed to be taking a nap, I climbed out of my crib and crawled backward down the stairs. I went into the family room and sat down on the floor and put the whole puzzle together. I took a long look at Miss Piggy and Kermit and Fozzie Bear and Animal, and then I took the puzzle apart and left everything just the way it had been. And then I took my nap.

  That day I learned some important facts about me. I learned that what seemed normal to me seemed strange to other people. I also learned that I didn’t like to perform. And that I hated to be pushed around.

  For a week or so after that, I could tell my mom and Ann kept watching me. And my dad and my big brother, too. They were all watching to see if I would do anything else that was smart or clever. So I was careful, which might seem weird, but it was a fact. If my mom or dad or Ann or my big brother or any of the kids at day care started looking at me funny, I would stop whatever I was doing. I didn’t want to be stared at. So I was careful.

  And a few months later, when I figured out how to read, I was careful about that, too. Reading was amazing and wonderful and exciting, but I didn’t tell anybody. And there were reasons. My brother’s name is Todd, and he’s three years older than I am, there in between me and Ann. When I first started reading, Todd was in kindergarten, and he didn’t know how to read at all. So I figured that if little baby Nora let anyone see she could read, it would be a big deal. And I thought it might also make Todd feel bad, or mad at me, or both. Plus, I didn’t want my mom and dad to make me read my own stories at bedtime. So I kept the fact of my reading a secret.

  I was still lying on my bed, thinking and thinking. And then I remembered my report card—the Ds on my first report card of fifth grade. Those Ds had become a fact. It had been nice to forget about them for a few minutes. But forgetting about a fact does not make the fact go away.

  And I knew that pretty soon my mom was going to yell that it was dinnertime.

  I got up off my bed, walked over to my desk, grabbed my report card, and licked the flap of the envelope. The glue tasted terrible. I waited a second and then pressed the flap shut. Now the report card was hidden away, sealed inside its ugly, brown, recycled-paper envelope. And I even flattened out the little tabs of the brass fastener.

  Then I instantly analyzed what I’d done, and I knew why I had sealed the envelope. Those Ds were like a time bomb—tick, tick, tick, BOOM! The explosion was inevitable. I was putting it off until the last possible second.

  I had thought about getting those Ds for a long time. I felt pretty sure that my plan made sense—but still, my mom and dad had always been crazy about grades.

  And I had to face a fact: Those Ds were going to have to be explained.

  But not the part about Stephen. About how those Ds were related to him.

  The part about Stephen wouldn’t have to be explained until much later.

  Maybe never.

  three

  SCHOOL AND STEPHEN

  Soon my mom was going to call me downstairs for dinner. And after dinner would come The Reading of the Grades. And then, BOOM!

  My whole life was flashing in front of me like a report on the six o’clock news. Memories kept flooding in. I couldn’t help it. And I realized that this explosion had been building up ever since I first went to school.

  Another fact from the memory files: I had gotten off to a bad start in kindergarten.

  That’s mostly because I spent my first two weeks at Philbrook Elementary School hiding under a table in Mrs. Bridge’s room, pretending I was a cat. I meowed and hissed, and at snack time I poured my milk into a plastic bowl I had brought from home. That was so I could lap up the milk with my tongue.

  I acted like a cat until 11:53 every day. Then I would get up, dust off my knees, put on my jacket, and get ready to ride the bus to my afternoon day care.

  The cat business had started a month before kindergarten began. I had read this great article in National Geographic about leopards, and then I had learned everything else I could about cats. And I had decided that cats were amazing and wonderful, and I thought it would be fun to see what it felt like to be a cat. That’s where the idea came from.

  But the real reason I began being a cat at school was because I knew that if I started doing s
choolwork in kindergarten, it would be too easy. Everyone would have thought I was too good at it. Being too good would have made me seem too different. It was so much easier to be different by being a cat.

  No one would suspect that a cat liked to read the Encyclopaedia Britannica. No one would guess that a cat had memorized thirty-eight of the poems in A Child’s Garden of Verses.

  No one would suspect that a cat had taught herself to understand Spanish by watching the Univision channel. And no one would suspect that a cat was interested in maps and history and archaeology and astronomy and space travel and the Latin names for animals—like Felis catus, the domestic cat.

  I was smart, but I didn’t have much experience. I was still a five-year-old kid. So I made a miscalculation. Because I thought that once everyone at school had gotten used to the idea that I was pretending to be a cat, they’d pretty much leave me alone.

  But, of course, that wasn’t the way it worked at school.

  Right away Mrs. Bridge called my mom. My mom got upset, and then she told my dad and he got upset.

  I’ve always loved my mom and dad, but they tend to get excited too easily, especially about school stuff. That was why I always kept one part of myself hidden from them—the smart part. So back when I was in kindergarten, my parents didn’t even know I could read. And really, it hadn’t been that hard for me to keep my smart part a secret. My mom was working for a real estate company and my dad was running his own business, and then there was the housework and the yard work plus three kids to take care of. Fact: My mom and dad have always been busier than sparrows. I never tried to get attention and I didn’t cause any problems, so everyone left me alone most of the time. I was careful never to give my mom and dad anything to worry about. I spent a lot of time looking at books when I was little, and I’m sure they noticed that. But they must have thought I just liked to look at the pictures. And I also spent a lot of time watching TV.

  But it’s not like I was some kind of weirdo zombie tubehead hermit bookworm, because that would have really made them worry. I had friends at day care and in the neighborhood. And I liked to play soccer and mess around outside. Mom and Dad had thought I was an ordinary kid.