Teacher's Pet (3 page)

Blind? How can a teacher be blind? I'm still in a daze as I take my seat. Did he say just what I thought he said?

The other kids in the class are all exchanging glances. They look just as confused as I am. Scout watches the door as the last stragglers hurry in. His ears perk up as the bell rings. It's time for class to begin.

The science classroom is like the other rooms I've seen today, longer than it is wide, the far wall filled with windows. What sets it apart is the collection of cages crowded on the broad counter below the windows. The cages contain all kinds of small animals: mice, gerbils, hamsters, guinea pigs, and a large rabbit. As the rabbit hops from one end of its cage to the other, Scout watches it eagerly. I wonder what he's thinking.

Mr. Carlson stands up and walks around to the front of his desk, his fingertips gently brushing against the side of it. He looks out over the classroom. No, wait. He can't be looking, can he?

Scout starts to stand up, his eyes on his companion. He looks anxious, as if he's waiting for a command. But he doesn't get one. Mr. Carlson leans against the front of the desk and crosses his arms over his chest. Scout makes a small whining noise, but he lies back down and rests his head on his front paws.

“As you might have guessed, I'm your teacher, Mr. Carlson, and this is seventh-grade science—biology. Biology is the cool science, the study of living things. We're going to study cells, body parts, worms, rats...you're going to love it.”

I already do! A class with a dog? I'm in heaven —well, as close to heaven as you can get in school.

Mr. Carlson continues. “I've taught seventh-grade science for ten years. Middle-school students are the best. You're energetic, you're curious, and you tie your shoes by yourselves.”

That gets a few giggles. Mr. Carlson smiles and relaxes a little.

“Now, let me talk about the whole blindness thing.”

The giggles stop.

“Two years ago, I developed a condition called retinitis pigmentosa. Most people call it RP. RP made me blind. I can't see you.”

“I took last year off from teaching and went to a special school. I learned how to read Braille, a code that uses raised dots, and lots of other things that help me get around. It was hard, but I made it. Today is my first day back in the classroom.”

He stops and takes a deep breath. The class is silent.

“I am a teacher who is blind, a very good teacher. I'll use my computer a lot. It has a special program on it that reads text out loud. Anything you can read on a computer screen, I can hear. Sometimes I'll ask you to help me by writing on the blackboard. And if anyone is planning to cheat—don't. I'm blind, not stupid.”

The class groans a bit. Mr. Carlson smiles.

“Now, a few class rules. Don't raise your hand. I won't call on you.”

A couple of kids laugh at that.

“If you have a question, just ask—quietly, not at the top of your lungs. My ears work fine. I'll hold a meeting for parents next week. I suspect your folks are going to have a few questions.

“Going blind has meant a lot of changes for me. Let me introduce you to the newest one. Scout, come.”

Scout springs into action, happy to be doing something. He trots over to Mr. Carlson and sits at his feet.

“Scout is my guide dog.”

The dog looks up at the sound of his name, his mouth open and tongue hanging out. He is so sweet!

“When I have to walk somewhere, Scout acts as my eyes. I give him a direction, like forward, left, or right, and Scout walks that way. His most important job is to keep me safe. He guides me around things, like chairs that aren't pushed in or garbage cans on a sidewalk.”

Mr. Carlson leans over and picks up the handle attached to Scout's harness. Scout stands up. He's ready to go to work.

“When this harness is on, Scout is working. Do not call his name, pet him, whistle, throw things, bark, meow—nothing. If he is distracted, he can't do his job properly.”

Darn. What's the point of having a dog in the room if we have to ignore him?

“Scout, forward.”

With his head up high and eyes ahead, Scout leads Mr. Carlson down the center aisle. In the middle of the room, Mr. Carlson says, “Scout, right,” and the dog turns to the right. Mr. Carlson hesitates, feeling the air with his hand, then turns right.

“What do you do in the halls?” I ask. “They're hard enough to walk in even if you can see.”

The class laughs, and Mr. Carlson smiles. “Who's speaking?” he asks.

“Me. Maggie MacKenzie.”

“Let's just say the halls are a challenge, Maggie. Scout, forward.”

Scout leads Mr. Carlson forward a few more steps, then stops. They have reached the edge of the room and are standing in front of the counter that runs below the windows.

“Go on, Scout,” Mr. Carlson instructs. “Forward.”

Scout tilts his head to one side. He's confused. If he keeps walking, Mr. Carlson is going to run right into the counter.

“You can't go any farther,” I say. “You're at the edge of the room.”

Mr. Carlson reaches out and knocks his hand on the mice cage. “Oh. Thanks. I guess that's what Scout was trying to say, too.” His face gets a little red. I think he's embarrassed. I can tell Scout and Mr. Carlson haven't been working together for very long.

“What are all the animals for?” I ask.

“Meet Carlson's Critters.” He places his hand on top of the mice cage. “I grew up with small pets like these. We lived in an apartment, and we weren't allowed to have dogs or cats. I loved these little guys. I almost got thrown out of seventh grade for bringing a gerbil to school in my shirt pocket.”

I think he's my dream teacher.

Scout's nose quivers as he smells the rodents, but he doesn't move. I'm impressed. Most of the dogs I know would have jumped up, put their paws on the counter, and knocked over a cage by now.

“I'm looking for a volunteer,” Mr. Carlson says. “I need someone to clean out these cages and help with the critters.”

My hand shoots up in the air. Scout looks at me and tilts his head to the side.

“If nobody is interested, the janitors said they would keep doing it, but I think it might be fun...”

I wave my whole arm. I was born to do this—pick me! Pick me!

Then it hits me.
Oh
,
duh. Oh
,
double duh-duh.
He can't see my hand. He can't see me.

“I'll do it!” I shout.

Scout smiles and wags his tail with excitement.

“Let me guess,” Mr. Carlson says. “Maggie MacKenzie. Excellent. That takes care of the introduction. I need someone to pass out the textbooks that are on my desk. We are going to start the year with a quick review of the human body. Open to chapter six, and get out your notebooks. Our first unit is ‘The Eye.”'

E
ven though Mr. Carlson makes us take pages of notes and gives us way too much homework, I'm happy when I walk out of his classroom. He said I could take care of his “critters” with my friends from Dr. Mac's Place. Once he sees the great job we do, I know he'll let me play with Scout. I still can't believe I have a dog in my science class!

The bus ride home is loud and long. Everyone talks at the same time. All of my friends have stories to tell and big plans for the rest of the year. Zoe wants to run for student council, David is trying out for the play, and Brenna is planning on joining the school newspaper as a photographer. Even Sunita is happy. She remembered her combination and finished half of her homework in study hall.

“Lucky you,” Brenna says. “I'm going to be doing homework all weekend.”

A familiar feeling rumbles in my stomach. Every block in my agenda book is filled with homework assignments. I'm in the same boat as Brenna.

I'll think about it later.

When I get home, I head straight for the Dolittle Room, where Gran is examining a two-foot-long green iguana.

“I'm back! I announce, dumping my backpack in the corner.

Gran and the iguana look up at the sound of the pack hitting the floor. “You survived,” Gran says. “Good.”

“Just barely.” I crouch down for a better look at the iguana. He sticks his tongue out at me. “Guess what? My science teacher has a guide dog. He's blind. My teacher, I mean, not the dog. Scout's a German shepherd. He's the smartest, best-looking dog I have ever seen.”

“You'd better not let Sherlock hear you talk like that,” Gran kids. She takes a small light and shines it in the eyes of the iguana. The iguana blinks. “What's your teacher like?”

I sit on the floor and loosen the laces of my sneakers. “Mr. Carlson seems great, but his class is a lot of work. My hand still hurts from all the notes we had to take. He must have just started working with Scout. I don't think they've gotten the hang of working together yet. I tried to pet Scout, but Mr. Carlson stopped me.”

Gran picks up the iguana and gently feels his limbs. “You should never touch a working guide dog. That's common sense and good manners. Has Mr. Carlson ever had a dog before?”

I shake my head. “Never. He likes rats.”

“Rats?”

“OK, not rats. Mice, gerbils, hamsters, rabbits. Carlson's Critters, he calls them. The science room is loaded with them. I signed up to help take care of them. Brenna and the others are going to help, too.”

Gran nods. “That's sensible. You're the most qualified kids in the whole school. I'm glad you volunteered.”

“Umm...” I hesitate as I pull off my sneakers. “I sort of volunteered you, too. Some of the critters could use a checkup.”

Gran puts the iguana on the exam table and watches it closely as it walks to the end. She scoops it up before it leaps off. “I'd be happy to look at them. Now, tell me—how was the rest of school?”

“Except for Scout?” I take my socks off and stuff them in my sneakers. I wiggle my toes in the cool air.
Aaaah.
“School stinks. The halls are crowded, my locker is miles away from my classes, and my teachers are crazy. They gave me a ton of homework! ”

Gran pretends that she's shocked. “A ton? Two thousand pounds of homework? How cruel! I'll complain to the principal at once.” She fights to keep the smile off her face.

I roll my eyes. She's being sarcastic. Is there anything worse than a grown-up making jokes about homework?

“Seriously, Gran. I have so much to do it's not funny. Mr. Carlson is the worst. He told us to copy our notes from class
and
read a whole chapter
and
study a list of vocab words. It's going to take forever.” I lean against the wall and cross my arms over my chest. “He wants us to review our class notes every night! ”

Gran takes off her glasses and lets them dangle from their beaded chain. “You can handle it. A little bit of work never hurt anyone. And your study skills got a lot better after working with the tutor.”

Oh, blah, blah, blah. I hate it when people pretend that homework is not a big deal. You' d think that Gran would understand. We had a huge blowup about my grades last year, and that was when she brought in the tutor. I can tell we're going to have more blowups this year. Maybe we should fireproof the walls of the clinic.

Gran is winding up for another lecture on how “homework prepares you for the classroom” and “it never killed anyone” and “a bad attitude just makes things worse.” I've got to divert her.

I force a cheerful look on my face and point to the iguana. “So, what's wrong with this guy?”

Gran pauses, studying me. She has raised me since I was a tiny baby. She knows me better than anyone in the world. She can tell I'm dodging. But she nods once. The school lecture is on hold, for a few minutes at least.

“This is Iggy,” Gran says as she picks up her patient. “He's suffering from a very bad diet. Feel gently along his spine. Notice the bumps?”

I cross the room and lightly run my fingertips along Iggy's back. Iggy turns his head to watch what I'm doing. The end of his tail flicks nervously back and forth. His back feels funny, like there are little peas under his skin.

“What's wrong with him?” I ask.

“Metabolic bone disease,” Gran says, “His owners have been feeding him cat food.”

“Let me guess. Cat food is bad for iguanas.”

“You got it. He needs lots of fresh greens, with some veggies and fruit every once in a while. Iggy's bones are weak and spongy. They're close to breaking. He needs a total change in diet.”

She gently moves her green patient to a small cage. There is a pile of crisp leaves in a bowl for him. Iggy sniffs the leaves suspiciously, then turns up his nose.

“Isn't he going to eat them?” I ask.

“He thinks cat food tastes better. It's what he's used to,” Gran says as she washes her hands briskly with hot water and soap. “Changes are hard. I'm sure you'd agree. Now...” she starts, turning her full attention on me.

Gran has blue eyes. When she wants to (like now), she can make them like lasers, pinning her helpless victim against the wall.

Here it comes.

“The halls are crowded, the teachers are crazy, and you have a ‘ton' of homework,” she says. “Since you have so much of it, you should get started right away, don't you think?”

We're interrupted by the jangling sound of the bell over the front door. The next patient has arrived.

I open the door.

I don't believe it—it's Scout! He's sitting next to Mr. Carlson in the middle of the waiting room, holding up his right front paw. The fur is stained with blood. Mr. Carlson turns toward us.