When it’s my turn, I don’t even say hello to my boss. I just march in and place the seven pages on the blotter in front of him.
“What are these?” he asks.
“Progress reports from SCS-8,” I tell him. “Prepare to be amazed.”
He sifts through the papers, giving a cursory scan to each. “You’re right,” he says finally. “I am amazed—that an experienced administrator like yourself would be fooled so easily.”
I’m shocked. “Fooled? Look at those results. Okay, they’re just brief summaries, but last year these kids were all floundering. This is miraculous.”
“It would be,” he concedes, “if it was real.”
“Why wouldn’t it be real? Zachary Kermit is a fantastic teacher. Oh, sure, he was in a funk for a while—”
“I’d hardly describe twenty-seven years as a ‘while,’” the superintendent puts in drily.
“But these kids and their needs have brought him back,” I persist. “It’s wonderful.”
“It’s phony,” he retorts.
“Zachary would never falsify student reports.”
“To keep his job long enough to finish out the year he would,” he tells her. “Your Mr. Kermit has figured out what thin ice he’s on. He’d do anything to make sure he qualifies for early retirement.”
“Not this,” I say stoutly. “I admit Zachary hasn’t been the greatest teacher up until now, but his integrity has never been in question. Even at his very lowest point, he never claimed to be anything that he wasn’t. There’s a difference in those kids now. It’s not just Zachary. The phys ed coaches see it. The lunchroom monitors see it. Emma Fountain sees it. I see it. They’re not angels, but they’re better. They go on field trips. A local business leader has taken them under his wing.”
“What local business leader?”
“Jake Terranova,” I admit. “I know it’s a little odd—”
He laughs mirthlessly. “Spare me. I reject this so-called wonder of yours. In fact”—he takes out a large ring binder and begins flipping pages—“I’ve been reviewing the district contract. I’m sure you’re familiar with Article Twelve, Subsection Nine.”
“Refresh my memory,” I reply warily.
He smiles. “It states that any teacher presiding over declining test grades in a core subject for three straight years can be deemed an ineffective educator and fired for cause.”
I’m appalled. “You mean Zachary? He’s been moved around so much that you couldn’t possibly blame any class’s failing grades on him.”
“There’s a formula,” he explains. “You calculate a baseline using past performances of the individual kids. And it just so happens that Mr. Kermit’s students have shown declining results on the state science exam for the past two years. If the assessment at the end of this month goes the same way, then I’ve got him.”
I don’t even watch my words. “That’s so unfair!”
He raises one jet-black eyebrow. “How can you of all people say that? You just told me that he’s turned this class around. If that’s true, they’ll ace the test, and Mr. Kermit will have nothing to worry about.”
I bite my tongue. This man is my boss. He speaks for the school district, and what he says goes. He may be a stinker, but that doesn’t change the fact that it’s everybody’s job to carry out his instructions.
Besides, he’s just being sarcastic, but in this case he happens to be right. Zachary really has transformed that class. They don’t have to “ace” the science test; they just have to beat their scores from past years. How hard can that be? Tests like this one got them placed in SCS-8 in the first place.
I leave the office feeling a lot better about Zachary’s chances of making it through till June. Still, it can’t hurt to pass on a suggestion that he might want to do some extra test prep for the coming science assessment. Forewarned is forearmed.
Zachary Kermit is too good a teacher to lose his retirement just because a certain cranky superintendent can’t forgive him for something that was never his fault in the first place.
Twenty-Three
Kiana Roubini
“Cut it out, Chauncey!”
My half-pint half brother is crawling all over my notes, which are spread out around me on the floor of the den. His onesy is open, his diaper is sagging, and he’s teething and drooling, an action figure of a Power Ranger or Transformer clutched in his little fist. Mateo can probably ID it—I make a mental note to Snapchat him a picture.
Chauncey’s chubby knee comes down on my chart of the atomic masses of elements, shredding the paper, and I freak out.
“Louise!” I bellow. Then, borrowing Dad’s line: “Jeez, Louise!”
Chauncey is startled and bursts into tears. I feel bad about that. Pesky as he is, you can’t help getting used to a cute little guy who seems to love you for no logical reason. On the other hand, I need my chart of atomic masses just like I need my periodic table, and all the other notes I have carefully organized on the floor.
I’ll never understand teachers. Sure, I get it that Mr. Kermit has come back from the Lost Land of Crossword Puzzles. But now, totally out of nowhere, he’s gone science crazy.
“The state science assessment is on October twenty-third,” he announced last week. “This is our chance to prove that our class can do as well as any other group. Maybe even better than some.”
The way he said it—how he made it sound like it was us against everybody else who calls us unteachable—got the whole class on board the Science Express.
Elaine’s eyes were practically shining with excitement and purpose. Maybe she thought we were going to dissect somebody.
“We’re like Frodo going up against the dark forces of Middle Earth,” Mateo declared.
Okay, that’s standard Mateo. But even Aldo is sort of into it. Ribbit is framing this as a giant in-your-face to the whole school. No way Aldo can pass up a chance at that.
So that’s why I’m in the den, up to my ears in graphs and formulas, yelling at a baby. You think I’m thrilled about it? The best thing about being a short-timer is you can slack off with no consequences. And I can’t even get that right.
“What’s wrong?” Stepmonster rushes in and spies her little darling laying waste to my work like Godzilla stomping Tokyo—oh man, I really am spending too much time with Mateo!
She expertly scoops him up using one arm.
I almost bark something rude like “What took you so long?” But then I spot the tall glass of iced tea in her other hand.
“I thought you could use a study break,” she offers, setting the drink down on the edge of the coffee table. “Kiana, your dad and I are so proud of how hard you’ve been working lately.”
It annoys me. Who does she think she is—my mother?
She’s definitely not that. I know because she isn’t on a movie set in Utah, leaving me in exile.
Chauncey hangs off her hip, arms and legs flailing. The action figure flies from his little hand, landing with a ker-plop in my iced tea.
“Chauncey!” she scolds. “You ruined your sister’s drink!”
Believe it or not, I actually sympathize with her then—overworked, sleep-deprived, and saddled with her husband’s California kid.
“It’s not ruined,” I say quickly. “It’s just—” I fish the Power Ranger out, watching the level of tea go down. I drop it back in again, and the level rises. My eyes widen in understanding. “Archimedes’ first law of buoyancy—a floating object displaces its own weight in liquid! I’ve been trying to understand it all day!” I spring up and wrap my arms around Stepmonster. “Thanks for the tea!”
Chauncey sinks his newly cut tooth into his thumb and starts bawling again.
The science craze even extends to Terranova Motors. Jake buys these rolling whiteboards, and his mechanics show us how to calculate horsepower and torque. We have a contest to see who can be the quickest to label the parts of an internal combustion engine. Parker wins, even though some of his spellings are a little creative, like C
RANKSHAFT = SCARFTHANK.
Jake keeps telling us how important it is to do well on the test to make Mr. Kermit look good. He says it over and over again, until his face gets flushed like he’s really stressed about it. What’s the big deal? If, by some miracle, we ace the exam, those good grades will be ours, not our teacher’s. And if we bomb out—well, that’ll be on us too. How is it Mr. Kermit’s fault if his class happens to be dumb at science?
Or maybe we’re not so dumb. On Friday, we take a practice test, and we do pretty well. I pull off a 92, which is amazing, considering science isn’t my best subject. Elaine gets an 86, and both Barnstorm and Rahim crack 70. Even Mateo squeaks out a pass at 67, which isn’t bad for someone who can’t tell the difference between Earth and Middle Earth, and thinks the Force and magic are real.
Aldo brings up the rear with a 62, but Mr. Kermit steps in before he can get too worked up about it.
“Think about it, Aldo—three more points and you would have passed. You’re a completely different student now. You’re reading Where the Red Fern Grows, an award-winning novel. I believe in you. And on test day, I know you’ll be able to scrounge up three more points.”
“Yeah!” Aldo exclaims, energized. “If I can care whether Old Dan and Little Ann win the coon hunt, I can care about anything! Even stupid science!”
“Puffy-tails for everybody!” crows Barnstorm, waving a crutch in the air.
“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” our teacher tells us. “We don’t want to be overconfident for the real test next week. But,” he adds, “I’m proud of each and every one of you. If you put up these kinds of scores on the actual assessment, it’ll say a lot about what we’ve accomplished together as a class.”
Those words stick with me: what we’ve accomplished together as a class.
Well, okay, I’m part of the accomplishment—but I’m not actually part of the class. Technically, I’m not even part of the school.
It doesn’t make any real difference. I’m going home to LA, but not next week. I’ll be taking the science assessment alongside everybody else.
Still, I can’t help wondering how the others would react if they knew the truth about me. It makes me uneasy. I can’t get past the guilty feeling that I’m keeping a secret from my friends.
Twenty-Four
Barnstorm Anderson
Just when you think you’ve got it figured out, everything changes.
First, life’s about scoring touchdowns, shooting baskets, hitting home runs—until you get injured for the rest of middle school, which might as well be five hundred years.
Then life’s about having a sweet row of thirty-seven puffy-tails, three times as many as anybody else. But pretty soon, nobody cares about that either.
Now it’s all science, all the time. My head is stuffed so full of facts that I can’t blow my nose for fear it’ll come out paradichlorobenzene. I’ve stopped watching TV, because any new information going in might push out something that’s already there. My parents think I’m nuts; I think I’m nuts. I’m definitely not me anymore. But when that test happens, I’m going to be ready.
And then life changes again. On test day, I thump out of the house, swinging on my crutches, just in time to see the school bus disappearing around the corner.
“Hey—!” I’m so shocked that, for a second, I forget about my injury and try to sprint after it, landing face-first on the sidewalk. By the time I pick myself up again, the bus is out of sight.
“No!” My eyes turn back to home. Mom had to work early this morning, so there’s no one to bum a ride from. I’m in agony—and not just because my nose is bleeding. You know the phrase “It’s no skin off my nose”? Well, there’s actual skin off my actual nose!
But the worst part is I’ve studied for this test more than I’ve studied for every other test combined, going back to kindergarten. And I’m going to miss it! The others will kill me—and that includes Elaine, who might really do it!
Out of options, I start hobbling along the sidewalk in the direction of school. There’s no chance I’ll make it, but what choice do I have?
I’m thumping and swinging at maximum speed when one car engine roars above the others. From our many field trips to Terranova Motors, I recognize the sound of a broken muffler. An old pickup truck is zooming along in the right lane, passing cars on the inside. To my surprise, I recognize it from vuvuzela-dumping day. It’s Parker’s pickup! I spot him behind the wheel, beside some old lady in the passenger seat.
Saved!
Without thinking, I step into the road, waving both crutches over my head. With a screech of brakes and burning rubber, he comes to a halt about three inches from my skinless nose.
Parker rolls down the window. “Get out of the way, Barnstorm! I’m in a hurry!”
I yank open the passenger door. “Me too! I missed the bus! You’ve got to give me a ride to school!”
“I can’t!” he protests. “I’m not allowed. I can only drive for farm business!”
“What about her?” I demand, indicating the old lady.
“That’s different! That’s my grams. I have to take her to the hospital!”
Grams—who seems fine to me—shoves over and pats the seat beside her. “Hop in, kiddo!”
For some reason, that drives Parker crazy. “He’s not kiddo! I’m kiddo!”
I climb up to the seat, pulling the crutches in after me, and shut the door. Aggravated, Parker stomps on the gas and we lurch away, sideswiping a garbage can at the curb. I guess you don’t have to be a very good driver to get a provisional license, compared to a real one.
As we approach the hospital, Parker cranes his neck. “We need the entrance that says EMERGENCY—I’ll probably read it wrong, but you’ll see it regular.”
“You might see it regular too now,” I remind him. Parker has been seeing a special reading teacher, and he’s supposedly making a ton of progress.
“There—emergency!” We wheel onto a driveway.
“You got it!” I congratulate him. “But what’s the emergency? Your grandma looks fine.”
Grams peers at me. “Your nose is bleeding. You should see a doctor about that.”
“She’s not fine,” Parker insists. “She’s walking funny. Duck!” he adds as we approach a police officer on my side.
So I bow down out of sight, and that’s when I spot the old lady’s white Nikes.
“You’d walk funny too,” I tell Parker. “She’s got her shoes on the wrong feet.”
We pull over and Grams switches sneakers. Lo and behold, she walks fine.
So we drop her at the senior center, and Parker and I head to school.
“You’re welcome,” I tell him. “You could have been sitting in emergency all day and missed the science test.”
“I shouldn’t be driving you,” he retorts resentfully. “If I get pulled over, I could lose my provisional license.”
But we don’t get pulled over. We’ve even got a few minutes to spare before school starts. I thank him for the ride, and he thanks me for looking at his grandmother’s feet. He’s not a bad kid. We’ve gotten to know each other pretty well since being in SCS-8.
We’re on our way to room 117, when the door of the boys’ room opens and out steps Mateo.
“Hey,” we both greet him.
He doesn’t answer, which is weird. Mateo usually talks at the speed of light—186,000 miles per second, in case it comes up on the science test. His expression is weird too—embarrassed? Upset? I look down. The kid is standing in a puddle. Water drips from his clothes and even the tips of his fingers.
I’m mystified. “Dude, why are you all wet?”
My answer comes when three big guys emerge from the bathroom, shoving each other and laughing. I know them. They’re football players—my teammates, not that they want anything to do with me now that I’m on the sidelines. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out they’re the reason Mateo’s half-drowned.
The biggest of them, Faulkner, nods in
my direction. “Anderson,” he mumbles, and starts away.
I stick out a crutch and stop him. “Get the others,” I tell Parker. He runs off in the direction of room 117, and I turn back to my former teammates. “Real nice. Picking on a kid a tenth your size, three on one.”
“Like you never did it,” sneers another of the three, Karnosky.
“I did it. Once.” Last year. It was stupid. I just wanted to prove my aim was better than Karnosky’s. The trick is to stick your finger in the faucet and direct the stream of water with deadly accuracy at the target. But when I saw the kid I hit, dripping and miserable, I never did it again.
Besides, I didn’t know that kid. I know Mateo.
“So you’ve got nothing to say,” Faulkner grunts. “What’s this dweeb to you, anyway?”
“His name is Mateo,” I say stubbornly.
I hear footsteps in the hall behind me—Parker leading the rest of SCS-8. I don’t actually see them, but I know they’re there. My attention stays focused on the three football players.
Faulkner looks surprised. “Wait—you’re with them? The Unteachables?”
“They’re better friends than I ever had when I hung out with you!” I spit back.
Karnosky kicks the crutch out from under my left arm, knocking me off-balance. Rahim catches me just in time to keep me from hitting the wet floor. Aldo leaps forward and shoves Karnosky back against the wall. It’s a dumb move—typical Aldo. Karnosky is as mean as they come, and Aldo isn’t nearly as tough against real people as he is against lockers, which don’t hit back.
Sure enough, the third kid, Bellingham, takes a swing at Aldo, and I’m thinking: Here we go . . .
But Aldo ducks, and a big body steps into the path of the flying fist. The heavy blow lands on Elaine’s shoulder. It makes a loud smack, but she doesn’t budge, solid as an oak tree.
Bellingham’s eyes widen in horror as he realizes who he’s hit. Faulkner and Karnosky turn pale.
I get the feeling Faulkner’s tempted to snarl something like “This isn’t over.” But Elaine rhymes with pain. He wants it to be over.
The Unteachables Page 12
