Authors: Laurie Halse Anderson
Teacher's Pet (6 page)
Gulp. Go ahead, MacKenzie.
“First, you have to tell Scout when he does a good job. Praise him. If you donât, he thinks he messed up. It's like if you gave us a test, then never told us what our grades were. That wouldn't teach us very much, would it?”
Mr. Carlson feels along the bench until he finds Scout's long leash. He holds it loosely in his hands. “I hadn't thought about it like that before.”
Scout sits up.
“Pet him. Give him a hug,” I suggest. “He knows something is bothering you. He wants to help. He wants to make you happy and proud.”
Mr. Carlson gingerly puts his hand out. Scout leans into it. Mr. Carlson pats his dog once, then puts his hand on the bench.
“You're being very helpful, Maggie, but I don't think you're old enough to understand how complicated this is. I want the best for Scout. That's why I think that maybe he should go to someone else. I'm not ready for him.”
The stubborn part of me flares up. “You're going to quit?” I ask angrily. “Don't you believe in that stuff that teachers always tell kids: âTry your best,' âYou can do it,' âDon't give up'? Is it all a lie?”
Scout looks at me anxiously, his tail turned in, his head lowered but in a submissive posture.
“Sorry, Scout,” I apologize. “I'm not mad at you. Mr. Carlson, you have to give yourself a chance. Working with Scout, obedience training, learning to love and respect each otherâthat's homework. You're the king of giving out homework. It's your turn to do some. Don't give up. It's too important.”
“It sounds like you've heard this before,” he remarks.
I kick at a tuft of grass. “Yeah, you could say that. I've heard it a lot.”
We sit quietly for a moment. The guide dogs and handlers are walking back from town. The park is quiet except for the calls of mockingbirds and blue jays. Mr. Carlson strokes his beard for a while, then speaks.
“How long should I give it?” he asks.
“What do you mean?”
“You're the dog expert,” he says. “How long should I try? A month? Two months?”
“A week,” I blurt out.
“A week?”
“That's all you need. Think about it. He's a trained guide dog. You areâ”
“A trained blind guy?” he interrupts with a sly grin.
“You know what I mean. You know the basics, but you have some work to do. And I can help. I've worked with lots of dogs and their owners. I could watch you work with Scoutâgive you some tips.”
Mr. Carlson laughs, a real belly laugh. “Tips would be helpful, but you know what I really need? Someone to help me map out the middle school so that we don't get lost again.”
“I can do that, I think. I got lost the first day, too. Maybe we should learn our way around together.”
“Can you meet me before school on Monday?”
“Will you spend the rest of the weekend telling Scout he's awesome and smart and wonderful? ”
Mr. Carlson nods. “I promise. It sounds like we have a deal.” He puts out his hand to shake.
I grasp his hand and shake once.
“Deal! ”
Chapter Seven
S
unday goes by in a blur because Gran goes into a rare fit of housecleaning. Zoe and I pick up, scrub, dust, vacuum, pick up some more, try to watch TV, get kicked out of the family room, start the laundry, and mop the kitchen floor.
unday goes by in a blur because Gran goes into a rare fit of housecleaning. Zoe and I pick up, scrub, dust, vacuum, pick up some more, try to watch TV, get kicked out of the family room, start the laundry, and mop the kitchen floor.
I'm actually grateful when Gran says it's time to do homework. But, man, am I tired!
OK, get a grip.
It's time to be Middle-School Maggie, ready to take on the scariest homework assignment in the world. I spread out my agenda book, folders, and binder and line up my pens and pencils like toy soldiers.
It's time to be Middle-School Maggie, ready to take on the scariest homework assignment in the world. I spread out my agenda book, folders, and binder and line up my pens and pencils like toy soldiers.
Attack!
I read my social studies chapter (the Constitutionâtakes forever), write my English essay (well, OK, it's the sloppy copy), and finish fifty math problems (argh!). I take a quick break to let out Sherlock, then sit back down to do my biology.
I am supposed to memorize my notes. How do you do that? And we have to know the whole chapter about the eye
and
the vocabulary words? Mr. Carlson's nuts. No one could expect that much out of a group of seventh-graders.
and
the vocabulary words? Mr. Carlson's nuts. No one could expect that much out of a group of seventh-graders.
I read the chapter and vocab words. Once.
There, I did it. I studied.
I hope Mr. Carlson and Scout did their homework, too.
Gran drops me off at school early on Monday morning. I sit on the front steps, watching the teachers pull into the parking lot. How is Mr. Carlson going to get here?
Here comes the answerâa bus. It drops him off at the corner in front of the building. The traffic is thick with rush-hour commuters. Mr. Carlson and Scout wait until the light changes, then cross the street safely.
“I'm over here,” I call. “On the steps.”
“Forward, Scout,” Mr. Carlson commands. Scout is pulling at the harness and Mr. Carlson looks a little off balance, but they quickly cross the lawn in front of the school. My teacher is wearing khaki pants, a long-sleeved white shirt, and a tie with an exploding volcano on it. He must have a huge tie collection. He looks tired. There are dark circles under his eyes.
“I wasn't sure if you were going to be here,” Mr. Carlson says.
“I was thinking the same thing about you,” I say. “Did you two do your homework yesterday?”
Mr. Carlson grins. “We practiced obedience lessons in the front yard until we wore a patch of grass down to nothing. Also, you should have seen the mess I made when I tried to change Scout's bandage.”
I glance down. The gauze on the dog's paw is a little uneven, but it looks clean and secure.
“You did a good job,” I say.
“And it only took an hour,” Mr. Carlson says. “But you're right. I did it. It's a start.”
I open the door and follow the pair inside.
“Scout, halt,” Mr. Carlson says.
We come to a stop in the front lobby.
“This is the part of the school I know best. I know how to get to the office, the library, my classroom, and the cafeteria. I got lost trying to get to a conference in Room 312. That's back in the new wing, near the computer lab.”
“I've never been there.” I snatch a piece of paper from a table in front of the office. “We can use this map.”
“Maggie,” Mr. Carlson says. “A paper map doesn't help me.”
Duh.
“You need a map you can feel, don't you? I saw one at the guide-dog school. It had raised lines on it.”
“You need a map you can feel, don't you? I saw one at the guide-dog school. It had raised lines on it.”
“That's a tactile map. We feel the outlines to learn where the rooms, halls, doors, and windows are located in a building. They make them for towns, college campuses, ski runs, and golf courses, too.”
I trace the corridors on the paper map with my fingertip. “I could make a tactile map of this. It would be easy. I could use Popsicle sticks or toothpicks.”
Scout's tail sweeps back and forth over the floor. Mr. Carlson thinks about it for a moment, then nods.
“That would be great,” he says. “The art teacher has some supplies you could use.”
“Excellent! But first we have to learn how to get to that conference room.” I consult the map. “We need to walk down to the library and take a left.”
“We can do that. Forward, Scout.”
We weave our way through the school, getting a few curious glances from kids who are here early to work on the school newspaper or go to band practice. Mr. Carlson concentrates, trying to picture the way the school is laid out.
Scout picks up the pace a bit and pulls on the harness. Should I say something? Scout pulls harder. He's walking too far ahead, making Mr. Carlson lean. Mr. Carlson stumbles over a bump in the carpet. I reach out to steady his arm.
“Hang on, hang on,” Mr. Carlson says in frustration. “Scout, halt.”
We stop. Mr. Carlson looks like he's silently counting to ten, the way Gran does when she's mad.
“Do you really think this is going to work? One week and we'll be fine?” he asks me.
“Absolutely,” I say. “Scout has started to form some bad habits. They can crop up quickly. He knows you like to walk fast, and you don't correct him to keep him by your leg. He's dragging you.” I remember back to what it felt like to walk with Nugent with my eyes closed. “I bet it's harder to feel the position of the handle when he's out so far in front.”
“It is. It makes me feel out of control. I need to make him heel. We worked on âRight' and 'Left' a lot yesterday. I should have thrown in a few âHeels,' too.” He takes a deep breath. “Thanks, Maggie. We're under control. Where to next?”
“We're coming up on a right turn and then a staircase.”
“Scout, right,” Mr. Carlson says firmly.
We all round the corner and start up the stairs. Scout starts to pull ahead again.
“Scout, heel,” Mr. Carlson quickly commands.
The dog pauses, then walks in the correct position by his master's leg.
“Ahem,” I say.
“Good dog, Scout,” Mr. Carlson says.
“Good job, Mr. Carlson,” I joke. “Up one more flight, and take a right at the top of the stairs.”
Scout guides perfectly.
“Here we are,” I say. “The conference room.”
Mr. Carlson puts his hand out and feels the raised numbers on the sign that hangs by the door. “Excellent,” he says. “That wasn't so bad. Thanks, Maggie. You've been a great help.”
“Do you want me to show you how to get to your classroom?” I ask.
“No, that's OK. I know where we went wrong on Friday. I took the wrong staircase. I know how to get back. But if you want to do this again tomorrow, I'd like to learn my way around the art wing.”
“I can't come tomorrow. Gran has a yoga class in the morning. How about the next day, Wednesday?”
“Perfect.”
The bell rings loudly, and Scout's ears perk up.
“Here we go again,” I sigh.
“What's wrong?” Mr. Carlson asks. “Don't you like your first class?”
“You're kidding, right? No offense, but I don't like any of them.”
Working with Scout and Mr. Carlson was a great way to start the day, but it goes downhill from there. Half of my math homework is wrong. I can't find my English essay, and I forgot my lunch. In the afternoon I drop my binder in the hall, and the entire eighth grade walks on my papers. Looking forward to seeing Scout is the only thing that keeps me going.
“Hi, Mr. Carlson!” I say as I walk into class.
Scout is sitting up next to Mr. Carlson, watching the students file into the classroom. The dog's ears are perked up and his eyes are bright. It looks like they've had a good day. It takes a lot of control for me not to say anything to Scout or sneak in a little ear scratching. But I manage. Barely.
“Hi, Maggie,” Mr. Carlson answers. “Long time no see.”
He pauses. “It's a joke. You're supposed to laugh.”
Scout wags his tail. He likes Mr. Carlson's sense of humor.
Mr. Carlson sets a transparency on the overhead projector and turns to face the class. Scout swings around to stay on his left side.
I freeze in place. Will he do it?
Mr. Carlson bends over slightly and pets his dog's head. “Good boy,” he says quietly. Scout leans his head against Mr. Carlson's hand and closes his eyes slightly. He loves the attention.
Yes! One small step taken!
“Take your seats, please,” Mr. Carlson tells the class. “Get out a piece of paper and a pencil.” He flips on the projector. Ten vocabulary words and four questions glow on the screen.
“It's the first pop quiz of the year,” Mr. Carlson says. “I hope you studied your notes this weekend.”
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