The Report Card by Andrew Clements
I said, “Maybe. But it’s sort of like I have immunity. I’m smart, and I know I’m smart, and I know that when I have to prove I’m smart, I’ll be able to. My grades won’t matter so much, not like they do now for a lot of kids. And even if I do get into some trouble, I don’t care. I’m not doing this for fun. And I’m not doing it for myself.” I paused, and then I said, “And I think I can do it without any help . . . at least, I hope so.”
That was bait. And Mrs. Byrne knew I was fishing. And she went for the hook anyway.
“What sort of help do you think you might need?”
And I knew. I had been right about Mrs. Byrne. She was one of the good guys.
I smiled up into her face. “You’d do that? You’d help me?”
Mrs. Byrne said, “I didn’t say that. But I can’t see any school rules that you’ve broken. Your parents would probably like to know they’ve got a brilliant child living in their house, and I certainly think you should tell them. But that’s between you and them.” Her eyes searched my face. “I don’t know if I could help you in any direct way. But there’s nothing in my job description that requires me to report on every conversation I have with every student. So this can be between us. At least for now. Do you understand?”
I nodded. “Yes, and that’s a big help . . . for now. Thanks, Mrs. Byrne.”
She nodded and smiled at me, but just barely. Underneath that smile she was worried. I wasn’t sure if she was worried for me or for herself.
Probably for both of us.
eleven
MOUNTED UNDER GLASS
“Nora! Welcome!”
It was the beginning of fifth period. Dr. Trindler motioned me to a chair across from him at a square table. He seemed a little too happy, but I didn’t mind. I was his big project for the afternoon, and I figured that the man must love his work.
Dr. Trindler had two jobs. He was the guidance counselor for our school, but he was also the psychologist for the three elementary schools and the junior high school in Philbrook. Plaques and diplomas and certificates covered two walls of the office, all of them mounted under glass like some flat, colorless butterfly collection.
As my eyes jumped from rectangle to rectangle, suddenly I pictured myself pressed thin as paper, trapped in a frame on his wall, my nose jammed against a sheet of glass. And then I saw myself like a specimen between two glass slides, with Dr. Trindler peering at me through a microscope. I pushed those thoughts away.
Dr. Trindler’s assistant was Mrs. Drummond. She was the counselor when he was out working at other schools. She sat at a desk about ten feet away from the table where I was sitting, but she was in a different room on the other side of a wall that was mostly one big window.
“So,” Dr. Trindler said, “are you ready for some fun today?”
I nodded. “Sure, I guess so.” But I still felt like a sheet of glass was pushing on my nose.
“Good,” he said. “Then let’s get going. I’d like to give you a test, but it’s not like a regular classroom test. It’s a test that’ll help me and all your teachers understand the best way for you to learn, okay?”
I nodded and he kept talking. “We’ll start with some questions. I’ll read them out loud one at a time, and you’ll answer each one as best as you can. And I’ll keep track of your answers on this sheet, okay?”
I nodded again and said, “Okay.” I could see the sheet he was writing on. On the upper right-hand corner it said WISC III. I knew what that meant. Dr. Trindler was giving me an IQ test. On an IQ test you get a score, and then sometimes they divide your score by your age. Which is why IQ means Intelligence Quotient, because of the division. It’s kind of complicated, and I had only read a little about IQ testing on the Internet.
And that’s why I started to get worried about this test. The Connecticut Mastery Testing had been easy. I got an average score because I had been able to look up the scoring information on the Internet. That’s the way I knew how many to get right and how many to miss on each part.
This test was different. I had never seen it before.
Dr. Trindler didn’t waste any time. First he asked me a bunch of questions, and I had to answer them out loud. And I had to group some things into categories, then do some math problems, then match a bunch of word definitions, then answer more questions about what I’d do in different situations, and then I had to remember the order of some numbers and repeat them back to him. Then I looked at pictures and had to say what was missing, and I had to copy marks from one page to another, and then mess around with some colored blocks and some puzzles. The test went on and on—over a dozen different parts. It took almost two hours to finish.
And all the time I was worried. I didn’t know how I was doing on this test—because I didn’t want my score to be too high. Or too low, either.
All I could think of was to try to mess up on three questions out of every ten. That made sense to me. I figured that would keep my score at about seventy percent, and that would be like a C—which would be normal. I kept watching Dr. Trindler’s face for clues to see how I was doing, but it was like he had a mask on.
And then finally he said, “There. We’re all done—that wasn’t so bad, was it?”
I shook my head and said, “No. It was fine.” Then I said, “When will I get to see my scores?”
“That will be up to your parents, Nora. On this kind of test we never give the scores to the student.”
I couldn’t believe it. I said, “You mean I have to take the test, but I don’t get to see the score?”
He shrugged and smiled. “It’s just the way it is with a test like this. Your score is sort of like a tool, something for me and Mrs. Hackney and your parents to use. You really don’t have to worry about it at all.”
I felt myself getting angry, because I hate stuff like that—when grown-ups treat kids like they’re stupid. Or like they can’t be trusted. It’s very annoying. Smart old Dr. Trindler with the long, skinny fingers could know my scores because he had all that paper hanging on his wall. But me, the kid who just beat her brains out for two hours, I wasn’t allowed to know anything.
And I said to myself, But so what? Grownups run everything and it stinks and there’s nothing kids can do about it because that’s the way it’s always been and that’s the way it’s always going to be. Big news.
Then I caught myself.
I hate to catch myself thinking like that. That kind of attitude has a name. It’s called being cynical. It comes from the Greek word for dog, kunikos. Because there was this bunch of losers in ancient Greece, sort of a club, called the Cynics. The Cynics had no respect for anything or anybody. Like a dog who chews up your best shoes and then wags his tail. Or makes a mess on your front lawn right while you’re watching. The kunikos doesn’t care and it does what it wants to, and it assumes everyone else is the same way it is.
But I had caught myself. I didn’t let myself be cynical. Because that’s too easy. And because I knew better.
People like Dr. Trindler didn’t do things because they’re mean. Or cynical. They did things because most of the time they actually believed those were the right things to do. He thought it was bad for someone like me to know my own IQ score. And maybe he was right. If the score was low, then I might think I was stupid. And if the score was high, then I might think I was better than somebody else.
But then I asked myself, How are these IQ scores different from grades? Or the Mastery Testing scores? How come they don’t hide all the grades and scores from kids? Teachers need to know the grades so they can figure out how to help kids do better and learn more, but why do kids need to know them? After all, those CMT scores didn’t help Stephen—not one bit.
Anyway, Dr. Trindler said good-bye and Mrs. Drummond wrote me a pass to go to last period. And after two hours of thinking, gym class was wonderful because all during the fall we played soccer almost every day.
When I was three years old I saw a soccer game for the first time on the local Sp
And soccer was such a mental game. The best players had the whole field and all the other players completely inside their heads. The field wasn’t out there. It was all inside. And then, “Gooooooooooool!” Fantastic!
Ever since first grade the soccer field had been the only place where I really let myself loose. I had never had to hide anything out on the soccer field. I could be as smart and creative and talented as I wanted to—because nobody ever treats a gifted athlete like she’s weird. And that’s not true if you’re a gifted student.
So during gym class it was me, four other girls, and six boys against another mixed team of eleven kids. And Stephen was on my team. It was a good, quick game, and we won it four goals to three. I scored two of our four goals.
But the best part wasn’t the winning or the praise from Mr. McKay or the high fives from my teammates. I hadn’t been trying to beat anyone or prove I was great.
For me the best part came when the game was tied at three all, and there were less than two minutes on the clock. With my hair pulled back into a ponytail and my legs and arms and lungs pumping away, I felt like I was a hundred feet above the field, calmly looking down. The need to think and analyze and plot and plan melted away. Ideas were the same as actions, and I didn’t have to hold anything back. And when Stephen sent me a perfect pass, I drove to the center, dribbled through three defenders, and then beat the goalie.
It was pure play—no questions, no worries, no walls, no frames hanging on nails, no sheets of glass trying to press me down flat.
For twenty-five minutes on that Tuesday afternoon, I was free.
twelve
INTELLIGENCE
On Wednesday morning at the end of homeroom, Mrs. Noyes called me up to her desk.
“Nora, Mrs. Byrne wants you to bring all your overdue books back to the library before noon.”
I said, “But nothing’s overdue.”
Mrs. Noyes said, “Well, you’ll have to tell that to Mrs. Byrne.”
And then I understood the message.
Mrs. Byrne didn’t need to see me about overdue books. There was some other reason. And for the first time, it struck me how good it was to have someone else know the real me. And also how strange and new it felt to have someone else know that I wasn’t . . . normal. Then I thought of a good tongue twister: No more normal Nora—five times fast.
All that ran through my mind in less than a second, so I nodded to Mrs. Noyes and said, “Okay. I’ll go to the library right now,” and I started to leave.
Then Mrs. Noyes said, “Oh—another thing, Nora. I saw Dr. Trindler in the teacher’s room this morning. He wants you to come to his office again this afternoon during fifth period.” I was halfway out the door by then, so I just nodded and said, “Fifth period. Okay.”
When I got to the library, Mrs. Byrne was busy checking out books for a third-grade class. But she caught my eye and motioned me over to the front desk.
“Here, Nora,” and she handed me a stack of student name cards. “Would you sort these alphabetically, please?”
I said, “Sure.” There was another chair, but it was easier to sort the cards standing up.
About three minutes later all the third graders were gone, but Mrs. Byrne was still busy. Without taking her eyes off the computer screen, she said, “That test—the one you took yesterday with Dr. Trindler? What was that like?”
“Kind of fun,” I said. “It was an IQ test. First time I’ve had a test like that.”
Mrs. Byrne kept tapping on her keyboard. “And how do you think you did?” she asked.
I said, “Well, I tried to get about three things wrong out of every ten. It was all I could figure out to do. I was trying to get about seventy percent right. You know, about average.”
Mrs. Byrne said, “I see.”
She started sorting through some papers, but her hands were all jerky and nervous. Then she stopped and looked me right in the eye. “I found something out this morning. The test you took was scaled for children up to sixteen and a half years old. Your score translated to an IQ of one hundred and seventeen, and that’s above average.”
I interrupted and said, “That’s not really a big problem, is it? I mean, tests like this aren’t always right, are they?”
Mrs. Byrne said, “There’s more to it than that. One hundred and seventeen? That’s what your IQ would be if you were sixteen years old. But since you’re only eleven, your score translates to a higher IQ. Much higher. According to that test, you have an IQ of one hundred and eighty-eight. That’s way up near the top of the scale. And Dr. Trindler doesn’t know what to think.”
My legs felt a little weak. I sat down. “What . . . what else did Dr. Trindler say to you?”
Mrs. Byrne shook her head. “He didn’t tell me anything at all. He hasn’t talked about this to anyone but his assistant, Mrs. Drummond. The only reason I know is because Mrs. Drummond’s car is in the shop. We live near each other, so I drove her to school today. And she was bursting to tell someone. Dr. Trindler said your IQ contradicts your whole academic record, so he thinks the test must be wrong.”
Mrs. Byrne stopped talking and pressed her lips together into a frown. She said, “I know I shouldn’t be telling you this, Nora. But I couldn’t help it.”
“I won’t tell anyone you told me.”
She smiled. “I know that, Nora. That’s not what I’m worried about. You’re getting yourself into a tricky situation here. I don’t want you to get . . . hurt. I don’t want anyone to get hurt.”
We were both quiet. Then Mrs. Byrne said, “So what do you think you’ll do?”
I shrugged and tried to smile a little. “I’ll have to see what Dr. Trindler says. I have to go there again for fifth period.”
Mrs. Byrne said, “He could be planning another test for today.”
I stood up and said, “Well, I won’t know until I get there. And right now I guess I’d better get to art class. May I have a pass?”
“Of course you may,” she said. Then she gave me a big smile, a real one, and she said, “I don’t think I would have ever been brave enough to try something like this when I was a girl, Nora. Even now, I think I’m more worried than you are!”
I smiled back. “Don’t be worried. Tests and grades don’t matter that much—remember?”
Mrs. Byrne laughed and said, “That’s right. I’m sure there’s nothing to worry about.”
She handed me the pass and I said, “Thanks, Mrs. Byrne.”
And I didn’t mean just for the pass. And she knew that.
And she said, “You’re so welcome, Nora.”
thirteen
AN OBSERVATION
It was Wednesday, so the smell of almost-spaghetti filled the cafeteria. I sat with my friend Karen and five or six other girls. We ate at our regular table, right next to the one where Stephen and his friends usually sat.
I’m not proud of this, but I’ve always been an eavesdropper. I’ve never gone out of my way to eavesdrop—except maybe once or twice. But if I happen to be close enough, and if people happen to be talking loud enough, I always listen. If people want to keep secrets, they should learn how to whisper.
I probably wouldn’t have started listening to the boys sitting behind me, but I heard Merton Lake say, “Don’t be such an idiot—no one will ever travel to the sun. It’s a huge bunch of burning gas, stupid.” We had been learning about the solar system in science class, and I had been doing some research about the sun on my own. So when Merton said that, my ears perked up.
Then S
“Yeah,” said Merton. “Or ‘like maybe’ if they can find someone as dumb as you to volunteer!”
And then all the other guys at the table started laughing.
I wanted to turn around and tackle that Merton Lake, knock him right onto the floor. He was one of the smartest boys in fifth grade and also my least favorite. Merton had been in our fourth-grade class, too, and he had gotten one of the highest scores on the Mastery Tests. After he found out Stephen’s score, he teased him about it for a month, calling him names like “retard” and “brain-dead.”
This year Merton was in the gifted program, and he loved coming back from his special classes so he could show off about what he had learned. Plus, he had already announced to anybody who would listen that his big brother and his dad and his grandfather had all gone to Harvard University, and that he was going to go there too. One kid like Merton can almost ruin a whole school year.
But one of the great things about Stephen is that he keeps on trying. Even before the other boys had stopped laughing at him, he said, “But how about when all the gas is used up? The sun’ll have to go out someday and then I bet someone could go there.”
I didn’t have to turn around to see the nasty smirk on Merton’s face. I could hear it in his voice. “Nice try, moron. The sun’s never going to burn out.”
And the rest of the boys kept on laughing.
It was too much, hearing him treat Stephen that way. A new fact burst into my mind: The only way to stop a kid like Merton is to overpower him. And something inside me snapped.
I whipped around on my lunch stool and I jabbed my pointer finger toward Merton’s face and I said, “You are wrong, Merton! Wrong! The sun will go out. The sun is using up its supply of hydrogen because the hydrogen atoms are being converted into helium atoms. And that atomic conversion is not the same as burning gas, which is what you just said, moron. And only seven tenths of one percent of the available hydrogen actually converts into heat energy, and the best estimate is that it will take another one hundred billion years for all the hydrogen to be used up. So at the end of one hundred billion years, the sun will, in fact, go out. So Stephen is right. And more important than that, you are WRONG! So just stop acting like you are the most brilliant person in the solar system and do everyone a big favor and shut up and eat the rest of that disgusting spaghetti!”