Clauda Kishi, Middle School Dropout (5 page)

"Hey, Kristy," I said, as she came in.
"How's it going?" she asked me.
"Great," I answered honestly. I did feel pretty good about things. First of all, being accepted into Serena McKay's class had been a real boost. (I'd already told all my friends about that. They were thrilled for me.) And secondly, Rosa was a terrific tutor. I had a feeling that if she couldn't help me catch up in school, nobody could.
Stacey arrived next (looking sophisticated-yet-casual in a khaki skirt with a white blouse), and Mary Anne walked in right behind her. Abby arrived next, still glowing from her soccer practice, and last but not least were Mal and Jessi.
I checked my digital clock. It was only 5:27. For once, everybody was early. Perfect! I passed the Milk Duds to Mary Anne, the Sour Patch Kids to Jessi, and the popcorn to Stacey. "Back in a second," I said, walking out the door. I headed for the bathroom and prepared my surprise. Then I sauntered back into my room.
Kristy, leaning back in the director's chair, was just starting to call the meeting to order. "I hereby - whoa!" she exclaimed, almost falling over when she caught sight of me. Then the others looked up and saw me.
Everybody reacted at once.
"Claudia, I don't believe it!" cried Stacey. "A nose ring?" "You're crazy," said Abby.
"Your parents are going to kill you," said Jessi, shaking her head.
"I think it looks cool," declared Mal.
"What happens when you have a cold?" Mary Anne asked, with a worried look on her face.
"Claudia," said Kristy firmly. "Have you lost your mind?" I cracked up. Just the reaction I'd been hoping for. "Nope!" I said. Then I reached up and pulled off the nose ring. "It's not as if I pierced my nose," I explained. "It's a clip-on. A fake. I ordered it from a magazine. I thought it would be a great addition to whatever costume I wear to the Halloween dance." "Oh, my lord!" said Stacey. She cracked up, and the others did, too. Then I had to pass the nose ring around (I wiped it off carefully) for everyone to look at more closely. Meanwhile, Kristy declared the meeting brought to order, and the phone began to ring.
My plan had worked. I'd distracted my friends - and myself.
Then, between phone calls, Mary Anne spoke up. "Claudia," she began, putting her hand on my shoulder. "What's really going on with you? I've noticed that you seem kind of upset lately. And now the nose ring trick. I have a feeling you're trying to run away from something." Trust Mary Anne to pick up on how I really felt.
As soon as she said that, the floodgates opened. I started to sniff, and then the tears began to fall for real. I confessed everything.
Why had I even tried to hide my troubles? My friends are the greatest. Not only did they promise to support me in every way possible, but they even agreed to make sure my babysitting load was light over the next few weeks, so that I could put all my energy into my schoolwork and my art class.
"No way do we want to lose you," said Kristy, reminding me of the time my parents almost made me quit the BSC 'because I was doing so poorly in school. "The BSC is behind you one hundred percent!" With their help - and Rosa's -~- I had a feeling I could make it.
Chapter 7.
Seven days later, I wasn't so sure. About making it, that is.
Rosa was great. So were my friends. But school was turning into this gigantic nightmare for me, a nightmare I couldn't wake up from.
It didn't take long for me to realize that my tutoring sessions weren't going to make' enough of a difference. In fact, I realized it almost right away, after the BSC meeting that night. I went back to my math homework to check it one more time, and - even though Rosa had helped me through it only hours earlier - none of it made sense to me.
I felt as if I'd entered the Twilight Zone.
One minute it had all been clear to me, and the next I felt as if I'd never seen a number before in my life. Scary? You bet.
As I'd promised, I worked hard with Rosa and at school. But mostly I tried not to think about my academic problems. Instead, I focused on my new art class, which was turning out to be incredible.
The first night, I was nervous. I was so nervous, in fact, that I showed up fifteen minutes early. I'd spent the afternoon putting together my supplies, making sure that I'd have everything I could possibly need. Then I'd changed my clothes about a dozen times, trying to come up with the perfect outfit. I wanted something that said "very creative," but also said "serious artist." I mean, this wasn't the time for one of my silly theme outfits, like my tropical look or the cowgirl motif.
Finally, I'd thrown on a black sweatshirt with the neck cut out of it, black jeans (doesn't black just say "artist" to you?), and - as a lighthearted touch - my purple high-tops with the orange laces.
When I arrived,' I thought the room was empty. I strolled around, checking things out. The class was meeting in an old science lab that had been set up with easels and drawing tables. I looked for the easel with the best placement, found a good one, and set down the red plastic tackle box I use to carry my art supplies.
"Welcome," said someone behind me. I whirled around and saw Serena McKay herself standing there. She looked just like her picture, which had been printed on the flier I'd seen. She was medium height, with long wavy brown hair in a simple style., She was smiling, and her clear blue eyes looked straight into mine.
"I - I - I couldn't seem to talk.
"You must be Claudia Kishi," she said. "I really liked the self-portrait you sent in. Terrific work." "Thanks," I said, finally managing to spit out an actual word.
"I hope you'll like the class," she continued. "I think you will." I nodded. Just then, some other students arrived, and she gave me one last smile and turned to greet them. I went to work unpack-. ing my tackle box. I'm sure I looked serious and professional, but inside I was singing. "Terrific work, terrific work, she thinks I do terrific work!" I glanced around as the other students took up the easels near me, and my nervousness returned. I was the youngest person in the class. All the other students were, basically, adults. Some were younger adults - college students, I guessed - but many of them were my parents' age, if not older. And they all looked like serious artists. One guy even had a little goatee and was wearing a beret.
Anyway, the point of all of this is that once class started - and I mean the minute it started - I was fine. My nervousness disappeared without a trace, never to return. Serena McKay has this very direct, straightforward style of teaching, and I responded to it immediately. She gave us an assignment right away, and as we worked she walked around the room talking about line and form and composition and texture and all the ,,other things that go into creating' a piece of art that lives and breathes and has meaning.
She commented on every person's style, including remarks on their strengths and weaknesses. And everything she said made sense. Right away, I knew she was the best teacher I'd ever had, in any subject.
I guess you know what happens when you 'have a really good teacher, a teacher you respect. You want to do your best for her, right? So you pull out all the stops and give it everything you have. That's what I did for Serena McKay. And let me tell you, it felt great.
It felt great to be good at something. Great to know that I understood what the teacher was talking about, and that I could respond with work that proved it.
It was, like, the opposite of school.
I worked for hours with Rosa, every single day after school. And I did all my homework, every night. But even with all that effort, I was still falling further behind every day.
In 'math class, Mr. Schubert said he'd noticed an improvement but that I still didn't seem to grasp the basics.
In science, Ms. Griswold told me I'd need to go back and review before I'd be able to understand the concepts she was teaching.
Mr. Blake, my social studies teacher, said he appreciated my effort but that I'd have to pick up the pace on my reading.
And Mrs. Hall, who is my English teacher, told me I'd better start spending some time in the resource room.
Which I did. As if it weren't enough to be spending all that time on homework and tutoring sessions, now I was heading for the resource' room during lunch hours and study halls. The aide there, Mr. Matthews, was helpful. But he seemed to agree with everyone else: it was up to me to work harder, to review, to keep up.
I felt as if I were on a treadmill, and somebody kept turning up the speed. One night, working with Rosa, I would feel as if I finally understood what we were doing in science class, but then the next day Ms. Griswold would be shooting ahead to some new area I'd never even heard of.
It was hopeless.
If it hadn't been for Serena McKay's class, I don't know what I would have done. But her class kept me sane, and gave me something to look forward to.
Finally, on Thursday, everything came to a head. Once again, it was all because of a math test. This time I did a little better. Instead of forty-five I received a fifty-eight. But that wasn't enough to impress Mr. Schubert, since it was still a failing grade. This time, he didn't bother sending a note home with my parents. Instead, they received a phone call just before dinner that night. A phone call from Mr. Kingbridge.
Mr. Kingbridge is, the assistant principal at SMS. He's not a bad guy. In fact, he's pretty nice. But if there's trouble, he's on the scene. He's the one who hands out punishments, suspends people, even expels them. (Not that I've ever heard of a student being expelled from SMS. But it could happen.) Why was he calling my parents?
To "invite" them to a meeting, with him and Mrs. Amer, the guidance counselor. The meeting would take place the next afternoon, and I'd have to be there, too. I'd rather have had a date with Dracula.
I figured I was going to have to hear yet another lecture. I figured my parents would be upset, and that I'd have to promise to do better (even though I couldn't imagine what else I could possibly do). I figured it would be embarrassing, mortifying, and possibly even humiliating. And it was. But what actually happened was even worse than I ever could have imagined.
Here's the scene: My parents are sitting on the couch in Mr. Kingbridge's office, wearing their work clothes and looking very concerned. I'm seated nearby, in a plastic chair. I'm looking concerned, too. I'm wearing a black wool jumper over my favorite red turtleneck. Mrs. Amer, also wearing a concerned, look, plus a tasteful but boring pale yellow suit, is sitting in a chair next to Mr. King-bridge's desk. And a concerned-looking Mr. Kingbridge, dressed as usual in a horrifically ugly brown suit paired with a tie that looked as if he'd spilled spaghetti sauce all over it, sits behind his desk, hands folded as if he's praying.
Did I mention that we all looked concerned? We did.
Now that the scene is set,. how about some dialogue? (I'm trying to make this as dramatic as possible.) Mrs. Amer started things off by introducing herself to my parents. Everybody exchanged "pleased-to-meet-you" s. Then Mr. Kingbridge (whom they've already met) began to talk about the trouble I'd been having, in all my subjects. He listed every single late homework assignment, every missed problem, and every failed pop quiz.
Humiliating? You bet.
But not surprising, to me or even to my parents. After all, they'd watched me struggle all fall. They know it's been hard for me.
Then Mrs. Amer began to talk.
"Claudia," she said. "I don't know if you've thought about whether or not you want to go to college someday." "College?" I asked. "Um - To tell the truth, that seemed a long, long way off.
"Or even art school," Mrs. Amer continued. "Either way, it's not too early to be thinking about it. You'll have to do well in high school in order to be accepted at any college or art school, and in order to do well in high school you have to do well in junior high." "That's right," Mr. Kingbridge put in. "And in order to do well in eighth grade, you have to do well in sixth and seventh." "All of that makes sense," said my mother. "But what are you saying? Claudia's been working very hard. We've even hired a tutor." "I know," said Mrs. Amer. "But clearly, it's not enough. ' Claudia is falling further and further behind. She is lacking, the foundations that should ,be helping her learn eighth-grade material. At this point, she may not be able to catch up, no matter what she does." I gulped. I knew she was right. That was exactly what I'd started to think.
"So what do we do about it?" asked my father. He put his hand on my shoulder.
"We' take drastic measures," said 'Mrs. Amer. She turned so that she was looking straight into my eyes. "Claudia," she began. "You're going to have to repeat seventh grade. You'll start on Monday." Chapter 8.
"They're all yours!" said Mal that cold, rainy Saturday afternoon, as she greeted Abby at the Pikes' front door. Mal was on her way out to sit for Marilyn and Carolyn Arnold, identical nine-year-old twins who are regular BSC clients, while Abby was on her way in to sit for Mal's sisters and brothers.
"Great," said Abby. "Can't wait." She loves baby-sitting for the Pikes, since there are so many of them. She thinks it's a blast.
"And I can't wait to leave!" said Mal, as she put on her jacket. "They're driving me up the wall." She grinned. "Jordan's your official helper today, by the way." Jordan is one of three identical triplets (the other two are named Adam and Byron). At ten, they are the next-oldest kids in the Pike family, and not only are they old enough not, to need sitters anymore, but 'they're old enough to help out. (We used to send two sitters to the Pikes, but not anymore.) "Excellent," said Abby. "Where is everybody, anyway?" She cocked her head to listen for the sound of thundering Pikes.
"In the den," replied Mal. "Arguing about Halloween costumes," she added, before Abby could ask what they were doing. She opened the front door. "Have fun," she sang out, as she left.' Abby headed for the den, and as ,she neared that room she began to hear the sounds of a major sibling squabble. When she opened the door, it hit her full force.
"You can't be a pirate," Byron was yelling at Adam. "I'm going to be a pirate!" "I'll be whatever I want," Adam yelled back, folding his arms in front of his chest.
"I'm going to. be' a mummy," declared Nicky, who's eight. "I already bought all the bandages." "You're, going to look so dumb," sneered Jordan. "Nobody's even going to know what you are." Nicky looked as if he were about to burst into tears.' "I'll be a hippie girl, living in a hippie world," Vanessa chanted loudly. She's nine, and wants to be a poet someday. She tries to speak in rhyme whenever possible.