The Report Card Page 8

  I’ve always felt like I could understand things instantly. Whenever a question came along, all I had to do was think, and zip!—an answer was right there. No busy signal. No waiting.

  This question was different. I was thinking hard, but I got nothing. I said, “I don’t know. I have no idea why I’m this smart. And . . . and if I don’t know the answer . . . then maybe I’m not as bright as I think I am. Is that it? Is that what you mean?”

  Mrs. Byrne smiled again and shook her head. “I’m not saying that. I think you’re every bit as intelligent as the evidence suggests, and then some. It’s just that I’ve met all kinds of kids with all sorts of amazing talents. And for me the big question has always been: Why? And then, usually much later, I begin to learn the answer. I get to see what they do with their lives. It’s interesting, don’t you think?”

  I nodded.

  Mrs. Byrne said, “So tell me what comes next for you, Nora. You certainly have gotten everyone’s attention. What’s next?”

  Yesterday I would have been able to answer that question. I’d have said, “Just you wait! Stephen and me? We’ve got big plans. Watch out for lots of action and all sorts of fireworks and plenty of loud noises!”

  But I didn’t feel that way anymore. So I said, “I’m not sure. There are too many variables. Everything’s kind of weird now.”

  “Hmm.” Mrs. Byrne said, “I wish I could tell you what to do, Nora. But I can’t. I can tell you this, though. Of all the possible things we can do at any moment, one is usually better than the rest. So that’s the one to look out for. All you ever have to do is the next good thing. Make sense?”

  I smiled and said, “Very logical. Sounds like something a librarian would say.”

  That got a laugh out of her. Mrs. Byrne said, “Well, I think it’s true, all the same. I know you can figure this out. And I’ll be watching to see how you do.”

  I said, “That’ll make two of us. Plus every other kid and teacher in the school.”

  The speaker below the clock let out a long bell tone.

  I said, “See you Monday, Mrs. Byrne.”

  And she said, “Have a nice weekend, Nora.”

  I went back to my table and got my things ready for the bus ride home.

  Mrs. Byrne hadn’t given me any answers, and she hadn’t solved any of my problems. In fact, now I had more questions than before I’d talked to her. Even so, I felt better.

  Which wasn’t logical.

  Because the fact is, logic only works up to a certain point. Beyond that point, it takes a different kind of thinking. More like listening. And watching.

  That was what I needed to do. I needed to listen and watch.

  I needed to be on the lookout for that next good thing.

  And if I spotted the next good thing, then would come the hard part. Because then I’d have to do it.

  nineteen

  TOO MUCH

  When my mom came home late Friday afternoon, she was hugging a stack of papers.

  She laid everything out on the kitchen table. “See?” she said. “Look at this, Nora. The admissions counselor over at Chelborn Academy, Mr. McAdams? Such a nice man. He was very happy to meet with your dad and me. And you should have seen his face when we told him about your IQ test. He thinks you might be able to begin as an eighth grader next fall, so we have an interview scheduled for next Tuesday, right after school—isn’t that exciting? Look at this brochure . . . here. That’s the new library. That whole building was a gift from one person. Lots of money at a school like Chelborn. And look at this list. These are all the colleges that Chelborn graduates got into last fall. I couldn’t believe it—almost one third of the class went to Ivy League schools! Isn’t that fantastic? And look at what Mr. McAdams gave me—it’s a Chelborn Academy sticker for the back window of my car.”

  My mom was making plans and spinning out dreams faster than they make burgers over at Wendy’s. Fact: Keeping my intelligence a secret for the past five years had been one of the best decisions of my whole life.

  But now my mom and dad were trying to make up for lost time. They were going to set up a thousand hoops so their little baby-girl genius could jump through all of them, one after another.

  Mom turned away to fill a pan with water and put it on the stove. Then she said, “Oh—I almost forgot. Mrs. Hackney called me at work this morning. She wants to move you into the gifted program as soon as possible. She said something about you being bored with your classes, which I can understand completely. So we’re going to have a meeting about the gifted program on Monday. Isn’t it wonderful? Everything is falling into place so perfectly!”

  I wanted to scream. I wanted to shout, Have you lost your mind? Did you stop for one second to think about how I might feel about all of this?

  But I didn’t. That didn’t seem like it would do any good at the moment. So I just nodded and tried to smile.

  The whole weekend was like that. Mom and Dad were like two little kids with a new toy—me. By Sunday afternoon they had practically planned the whole rest of my life. If they could have picked out a husband for me, and then gone shopping for my wedding dress, I think they would have.

  Todd was actually happy to have the spotlight aimed completely at me. He liked the shadows—it was much safer there. But I felt bad for Ann. She liked being the center of attention and she was used to it. She had always been the smart one, the talented one, the one who was finishing high school early so she could go to a big-name college. And now annoying Nora had become the star of the family show. Ann didn’t say one word to me all weekend.

  Stephen tried to call me twice, once on Saturday and once on Sunday. Both times I pretended I couldn’t come to the phone. That was a rotten thing to do, but I didn’t know what to say to him.

  After Stephen called the first time I thought, Maybe I should call back and tell him that we need to wait a week or so before we do anything else—sort of give ourselves time to think.

  When he phoned the second time I thought, Maybe I should tell Stephen that we have to call the whole thing off, just stop it right now and forget about our plan. Then I’ll apologize to him for making such a mess of things. And then I can start trying to figure out how to apologize to all my teachers. And to Mrs. Hackney and Dr. Trindler and my mom and dad.

  And then I thought, Maybe I should just change my name, dye my hair black, and move to Argentina.

  I went over the whole situation again and again. It was too much to think about. And I had to admit it: I was lost. I had zero facts. I was listening, and I was watching, but that next good thing was nowhere to be seen.

  So I did nothing. All weekend long I lay low. I tried not to think about anything, which never works.

  I knew I’d have to talk to Stephen at the bus stop on Monday morning. And I knew something would have to happen after that.

  Because that’s one of those completely dependable facts: Something always happens next.

  twenty

  A SHORT VACATION

  Ann had earned a perfect attendance record in grades four, five, six, eight, and ten. She loved going to school. And Ann had never, never tried to stay home from school on purpose, not once—at least not during my lifetime. That’s why I had been forced to turn to my big brother, Todd, to learn the fine art of malingering.

  Todd pretended to be sick about once a month, usually about three days after he got a new computer game. Todd knew how to make himself throw up. He could make his face break out in red blotches. He could seem to come down with a sudden fever, and he could manufacture toilet noises that made Mom or Dad pound on the bathroom door and shout, “Todd? Todd! Are you all right in there?!” Todd was the master.

  I only faked being sick when I absolutely had to, and that’s how I felt on Monday morning. I couldn’t deal with Stephen or Mrs. Hackney or my mom or dad or anybody. I needed to be alone.

  So first I waited until Dad left for work because he’s always more suspicious than Mom. Then I got myself nice and hot by stepp
ing up and down on my desk chair about thirty times. Then I climbed into bed, pulled up the covers, and called, “Mom? Could you come in here? My stomach doesn’t feel so good.”

  One hand on my forehead was all it took. “You feel a little feverish, too. Poor dear . . . probably one of those bugs that’s going around. This is such a miserable time of year!”

  A few minutes later Mom brought me a tray with a glass of Sprite and some dry toast. As she fluffed my pillows and tucked in my quilt, she said, “I’ve got three appointments this morning, Nora, but I’ll check in by phone, okay? I called Mrs. Faris next door, and she’s at home all day today. She’ll come over to check on you in an hour or so—she’s got a key. And I’ll come home at lunchtime. If you need anything at all, you call me or your dad, all right? And you stay right here and rest.”

  I only nodded. I was too weak to speak.

  Five minutes later a beautiful silence settled over the house. And finally I felt like I could actually think.

  Except I didn’t. I went downstairs to the family room and did the opposite of thinking: I turned on the TV. I flipped to The Learning Channel and toured castles in Ireland for a while, then explored the Great Barrier Reef, and then went digging for dinosaur bones in Wyoming. I was on vacation.

  At about nine-thirty Mrs. Faris opened the front door and called, “Yoo-hoo, Nora, it’s me, Mrs. Faris.” She came into the family room, fussed around for a few minutes, and then left.

  I was just beginning a submarine journey to the wreck of the Titanic when the phone rang. I hit the mute button on the remote, and using my sickest voice, I said, “Hello?”

  It wasn’t Mom. A lady said, “Hello . . . may I speak with Mr. or Mrs. Rowley?”

  I’ve always been told never to let a caller know that I was home alone. So I said, “My dad’s out in the backyard with Rolf—that’s our German shepherd. May I have your name and number so my dad can call you back in a few minutes?”

  There was a pause and the lady said, “Nora? Is that you?”

  And then I knew that voice—it was Mrs. Hackney. I gulped and said, “Yes.” And to stall for time I asked, “Who is this?”

  “It’s Mrs. Hackney, Nora. I need to speak with your mother.”

  The tone of her voice told me that this was not a social call—probably about the meeting for getting me into the gifted program.

  I said, “Well, I stayed home sick today—and my dad’s not really here right now. And we don’t really have a dog, either. And my mom had to go out for a little bit. But she has a phone with her.” Then I gave Mrs. Hackney the number.

  She said, “Thank you,” and she hung up before I could even say “You’re welcome” or “Good-bye,” or anything. Seemed pretty rude, but I didn’t think about it because I went right back to my exciting undersea exploration.

  Just as the first submarine was getting its remote camera into the dining room of the Titanic, my mom came bursting through the front door. She was halfway up the stairs to my bedroom before she heard the TV, and then in two seconds flat she was standing in front of me.

  With her eyes flashing and her voice down low in the danger zone, Mom said, “Shut off the TV. Go upstairs and get on your school clothes. Now.”

  “But I’m sick.”

  Mom said, “I doubt that, but frankly, right now it doesn’t matter. Get dressed. We’ve got to be at school in ten minutes. So move it.”

  “Why?”

  She shook her head. “Hush. Hurry.”

  Three minutes later we were backing out of the driveway. I hadn’t even brushed my teeth. I said, “How come we have to have a meeting about the gifted program today? What’s the big rush?”

  My mom kept her eyes on the road, both hands tight on the steering wheel. She shook her head. “That’s not what this meeting is about. Not by a long shot. This meeting is about zeroes, Nora. Like the ones you got on those tests on Friday.”

  My heart started pounding. “I . . . I was going to tell you about that, Mom. That was just a crazy idea I had. But it’s all over now. I’m not going to do that anymore. Honest.”

  My mom darted a sideways look at me, then back at the road. “Well, that’s fine for you. But what about all the other kids?”

  “The other kids? What are you talking about?”

  Glancing at me again, Mom said, “Don’t play dumb with me, Nora. That’s never going to work again. I’m talking about the social studies quiz that Mrs. Noyes gave this morning. Mrs. Hackney just called me and said that all but two students on the whole Blue Team got zeroes on the quiz—that’s forty-two zeroes. And because of what happened on Friday, Mrs. Hackney would like to have a little talk with you. And with me . . . and your father.”

  Mom was done sharing. She pressed her lips together into a thin, hard line and drove the car. It was about another two minutes to the school.

  Mom hadn’t given me a lot of information, but I processed all the available data.

  Three seconds later I knew. I knew exactly what had happened: Someone had had a busy weekend.

  And I knew something else, too: When Stephen had tried to call me on Saturday and Sunday, I should have talked to him.

  twenty-one

  REBELLION

  The principal’s office looked way too familiar to me. The one big difference was that today there were so many people in the room that they couldn’t all fit at the round table.

  One lady was sitting at Mrs. Hackney’s desk. I knew who she was because I’d seen her on cable TV. It was Mrs. Tersom, the school superintendent.

  Mrs. Byrne sat on a folding chair next to the principal’s desk. Mrs. Drummond, the guidance counselor, was there too, and beside her was Mrs. Anderson, the school secretary. She had a notepad on her lap, ready to keep track of who said what.

  Mrs. Hackney sat at her usual spot at the table. Dr. Trindler sat on her left, and then there were Mrs. Noyes and Mrs. Zhang.

  My mom’s eyebrows went up when she saw Stephen and his mom and dad sitting at the table. I wasn’t surprised at all—I’d have been amazed not to see them. But then came Merton Lake and both his parents, and I had no clue why they were at the meeting.

  Stephen caught my eye as I took a chair at the table, and I saw the slightest flicker of a smile. I looked away. There are times when nothing is more dangerous than a smile. This was one of those times.

  About ten seconds after Mom and I sat down, my dad came rushing in, nodded a few quick hellos around the table, and took the seat next to me.

  Then Mrs. Hackney said, “It’s been quite a morning here at Philbrook Elementary School. Mrs. Noyes, please begin by telling us what happened during your third-period social studies class.”

  Mrs. Noyes nodded at Mrs. Hackney and said, “I had prepared a twelve-question quiz from the weekend reading assignment in the social studies book. We talked about the chapter, and then I passed out the quiz—it was just one page. When everyone was finished, I had the students exchange papers, take out their red pencils, and we began discussing the answers. There was a lot of laughing as we corrected the quiz, so I began walking around the room. And I saw that almost every student had written a nonsense answer to every question.”

  Mrs. Hackney said, “A nonsense answer?”

  “Yes,” said Mrs. Noyes. “For example, on the question, ‘Who was the president of the United States at the start of the Great Depression?,’ students wrote answers like, ‘Donald Duck’ or ‘Elvis’ or ‘my uncle Lenny’—very silly. And wrong.”

  Mrs. Hackney said, “And what grade did most of your students get on this quiz?”

  Mrs. Noyes glanced at me before she answered. “Zero. All but two of them got a zero. And then during fourth period, when the other half of the Blue Team has social studies, I warned the class before the quiz that there was to be no funny business. But when the quizzes were graded, it was the same thing—all zeroes, except for two of the students who didn’t participate in the . . . silliness.”

  I’d have bet anything that one of tho
se two kids was Merton Lake. But it wasn’t important at the moment.

  Mrs. Hackney said, “Who wants to start explaining this?”

  Stephen and I both said “I do” at the same moment, but I was the one who kept on talking. “It’s all my fault, Mrs. Hackney. I got this idea that if I got some zeroes on tests, and then if we talked some of the other kids into getting some zeroes, we could get people to notice how everybody is so crazy about grades and test scores all the time, and how that’s kind of a problem. So this whole thing was my fault.”

  Stephen shook his head and said, “That was my idea, the part about getting zeroes. And then we worked on the plan some more together. But that part was my idea, remember?”

  At that moment I wished Stephen could have been a little less honest—because then he would have seen that I wasn’t trying to steal the credit for his idea. I was trying to keep us both from getting run out of town by an angry mob of teachers and parents.

  But Stephen wasn’t clever that way, and there wasn’t a sneaky bone in his body. Which is one of the things I’ve always liked best about him.

  So I said, “Okay, yes. That part was your idea, but I was the one who was putting the idea into action. I was the one who started things off by getting some zeroes last Friday, and then we didn’t talk this weekend, and I guess you must have called a bunch of kids, right? And that’s why everyone else got zeroes today. But it’s still really my fault. And I’m sorry. And now it’s all over.”

  Mrs. Hackney said, “I wish it were that simple, Nora. But it’s not. First, there’s the matter of this handbill that Stephen was trying to pass out in the halls today.” She passed sheets of paper to her left and right. I stared at my copy as Mrs. Hackney read the words out loud.

  CALLING ALL KIDS!!

  Tired of stupid tests???

  Tired of fighting for grades????