The Perfect Score

by Rob Buyea

  I said good night to my parents and gave my mother a hug. “The future is bright,” she whispered. I squeezed her, hoping she was right, then headed off to bed, but I struggled to fall asleep. All I could think about was throwing game-winning touchdown passes. I couldn’t wait to tell Randi I was gonna be able to play, and then I remembered the other news I had for her.

  Tell you the truth, I never wanted to join Magenta’s program. I only asked about it for Randi. I never expected that I’d end up doing it. Don’t get me wrong, it was gonna be nice having the day free from Meggie duty, and the art part sounded okay—but that wasn’t enough to get me excited. I left that to Randi.

  The next day, when I told her my news about football, she was really happy for me, but she was pumped when she found out I could do Magenta’s program. “Really? That’s awesome!” she cried.

  “You owe me one,” I said.

  “It won’t be that bad,” she promised.

  That’s what I kept telling myself, but then I found out who else was gonna be doing this thing with us. She definitely owed me now.

  “Hey, I’m joining that program, too!” Scott said. He’d heard me and Randi talking in the hall. You woulda thought he’d just scored a touchdown, the way he was celebrating. “Mr. Allen’s making me do it, because I’m good at helping people,” he said.

  I choked. Good at helping?! Good at messing up, was more like it.

  “I’ll see you guys there,” he said, holding out his hand for me to slap him five.

  This was typical Scott, acting like we were best buddies or something. I’d only ever hung out with him once, and that wasn’t ’cause I wanted to, but ’cause I had to after we got in trouble thanks to one of his brilliant stupid ideas back in kindergarten. Brilliant stupid ideas had been Scott’s talent for as long as I’d known him. And this year was no different. He really came up with a whopper this time around. One that changed everything.

  Woodchuck wasn’t fooling when she told us she’d be the judge and the jury in our classroom. She was a straight shooter who never hesitated to tell us exactly what she thought. Make no mistake about it, she was a mean, crotchety old lady.

  “I’m appalled,” she said after taking one look at our papers. “It’s October and your spelling is still atrocious. By the looks of these, we should be studying diphthongs, never mind open-response questions and CSAs. You children probably don’t even know what a diphthong is, do you?”

  Natalie Kurtsman’s hand shot up in the air. I swear, sometimes I didn’t know if I hated her or Woodchuck more.

  Good ol’ Mark didn’t give her a chance to answer. “Diphthongs!” he crowed. “I know what those are! They’re a type of underwear!”

  “Ha!” I busted out laughing. “Yeah, they give Natalie constant wedgies. That’s why she’s always so uptight.”

  Gavin liked that one. He was snickering now, too.

  “Ugh!” Natalie gasped. “How dare you!” She glared at us.

  I don’t know what she thought she was going to do, but it didn’t matter. Woodchuck came to her pet’s rescue.

  “I’m glad you find that so funny, Mr. Joseph. You can spend your recess writing an essay on diphthongs along with your buddy Mr. Kassler.”

  “What? That’s not fair!”

  “Life’s not fair, Mr. Joseph. It’s best you learn that now.”

  “Wait till my father hears about this,” Mark whispered. “She’ll be kissing our butts after that.”

  “And, Mr. Kassler, I know your father is on the school board,” Mrs. Woods said. “That doesn’t concern me. I happen to know him. He was my student once, too.”

  —

  At least Mark was missing recess with me today, so I wasn’t stuck alone with Woodchuck again. We had our desks pushed together, and I was flipping through one of the books Woodchuck had given us while Mark wrote out a few sentences on the paper he was going to hand in. This was all his fault, so I told him he could do the writing for me, too, and I’d put my name at the end.

  “Dude, my dad signed me up for Mrs. Magenta’s after-school program,” he said. “It starts this afternoon.”

  “What? You didn’t tell me that.”

  “I just found out this morning, and I haven’t had a chance to tell you until now.”

  “Why’d he do that?” I asked.

  “You know how it always looks good for him if I get involved in this stuff. I guess it helps his image as a school board member or something.”

  “Wow. That sucks. Have fun with that, bro.”

  “I told him I didn’t want to do it.”

  I put my book down and sat up straight. “Really? What’d he say?”

  “He said he’d pay me to join. He wants me to be his spy and give him insider information. That way he knows the real story and not the sugarcoated version that he gets at his board meetings.”

  “Whoa. So what’re you going to do?”

  “I’m in if you come, too,” he said.

  “Pff! Yeah, right! Sorry, bro. I’m not doing any flower-power thing after school. Your dad’s not paying me.”

  “So what you’re telling me is you’d rather spend the afternoon with your brother and his goons?”

  I leaned forward. “I’m not doing your stupid program,” I said.

  “Gentlemen, I’ll take your papers now,” Woodchuck announced, startling us from behind.

  What! I wasn’t ready. I hadn’t signed my name. That idiot Mark had done so much blabbing about this after-school thing that I’d forgotten—and he hadn’t even written a word on my paper!

  “I see you’ve managed to produce the same thing again, Mr. Joseph—nothing.”

  “I lost track of time,” I said, searching for an excuse. “I was going to write something. Honest. It was a mistake.”

  “A mistake, huh? I see. Well, we can talk about mistakes some other time. The good news is I’m going to let you off the hook for today, but only because I overheard you two talking. Your friend is right, Mr. Joseph. You should join that after-school program. I’m sure Mr. Kassler’s father knows it will be good for you boys, which is the real reason he’s pushing it. Besides, I don’t recall seeing Mrs. Magenta’s name listed as one of the synonyms on your last paper, but I do seem to remember a few others. Consider the program, Mr. Joseph.”

  I didn’t say anything because Woodchuck was letting me off easy, but there was no way I was doing that program, especially if she was suggesting it. No way. No how. Not ever.

  With October came Rachel Livingsten’s birthday—our first one of the year! Birthday celebrations were my favorite. I didn’t get to have a party in school, because my birthday was on June twenty-ninth, right after school was out. The one time I tried having my party at home, no one could make it. Everyone said they were already too busy with summer plans. And since I wasn’t ever asked to any of the other parties, I always looked forward to the ones in the classroom. The moms never failed to bring in cookies or brownies for everyone to share. Rachel’s mom showed up with these ginormous vanilla and chocolate frosted cupcakes. They were awesome!

  “Remember your manners and make sure you clean up after yourselves,” Mrs. Woods reminded us.

  Using our manners meant we waited for Rachel to pass out all the cupcakes before touching ours. Then we sang “Happy Birthday,” and then we ate our treats. I devoured mine. They were so yummy I licked all the crumbs off my desk and chair and the rug under me so Mrs. Woods didn’t need to worry about any messes. I thanked Rachel’s mom a bunch and told her she made the best cupcakes in the universe. She liked that. The only people who didn’t eat one were Mrs. Woods and Randi. I tried, but Mrs. Woods wouldn’t let me have hers.

  After we were done and had cleaned up, Rachel’s mom left and Mrs. Woods moved on with things, but she did that by making an announcement none of us were expecting. “When you get to be my age, you’re not much for celebrating birthdays,” she said, “so I happen to think you should take advantage of the opportunity when you’re young. So
how about it, Miss Livingsten—what would you like for your birthday? Free time? No homework?”

  I ran up and hugged Mrs. Woods.

  “Sit down, Mr. Mason. It’s not your birthday.”

  “I’d like it if you read extra to us,” Rachel said.

  I jumped up and ran over to hug Rachel, but she held out stop-sign hands.

  “Sit down, Mr. Mason. It’s still not your birthday,” Mrs. Woods said.

  “It sure feels like it!” I exclaimed.

  Besides birthday parties and recess, Mrs. Woods reading aloud was the other thing I loved about school. We were almost done with our third book already. After finishing Wonder, Mrs. Woods smelled and read Ungifted by Gordon Korman so we could hear another story with multiple perspectives, and now we were reading Shiloh by Phyllis Reynolds Naylor. Not only was Mrs. Woods the best at reading with expression and different voices, but she knew that the way to enjoy a story was not to open the book once a week or to make kids do a gazillion reader-response questions or activities, but just to read it.

  When we ran out of time and she closed Shiloh today, I was sad, but then I remembered the second thing October brought with it—Mrs. Magenta’s program!—and that was next! I’d been waiting for this day ever since Mr. Allen and I had made our deal. I jumped up and rushed to get my stuff jammed into my backpack. Not even Mrs. Woods could’ve slowed me down.

  It really bugged me that Scott was so excited about this stupid flower-power program, so I crammed one of Rachel’s extra cupcakes into his backpack when he wasn’t looking. I hated Woodchuck and I hated that she was going to think I was listening to her, because I wasn’t, but I hated going home after school even more. I forged the stupid permission slip, grabbed my stuff, and headed to the art room instead of to the bus. I’d get a lift home with Mark after we were done.

  I was doing this for Mark. Let’s leave it at that.

  NATALIE KURTSMAN

  ASPIRING LAWYER

  Kurtsman Law Offices

  BRIEF #8

  October: Mrs. Magenta’s Program Commences

  Even though the art room wasn’t Mrs. Magenta’s regular classroom, we assembled there for our first after-school meeting. It was a lovely space with beautiful paintings hanging everywhere, yet despite the inviting atmosphere, I was already concerned—on account of two reasons. First, I got stuck sitting next to Scott Mason. The boy was a colossal mess, so naturally, packing up took him forever; hence, he was the last one to arrive.

  “Better late than never,” Trevor remarked when Scott finally spilled into the art room.

  “I couldn’t get my bag to zip,” he said.

  “Dude, you’re going to be late for your own funeral,” Mark jabbed.

  Dude, like what’re you two even doing here? I felt like saying. But it was true; Scott was late for just about everything. By the time he showed up, the only stool left open was the one next to me. Nobody had bothered to sit in it, and up to that point I didn’t care. Nobody would’ve been better than Scott. If I weren’t mature, I would’ve made a fuss and told him to move away from me, but that wasn’t my style. I simply turned my back to him.

  The second item that had me concerned was the obvious absence of any art materials. I thought I’d signed up for an art and community service program, but it appeared we wouldn’t be doing any art—at least, not today.

  “Welcome, caring souls and creative spirits,” Mrs. Magenta began.

  “How do you know we have caring souls?” Scott asked, already interrupting her.

  “Because you’ve chosen to join this program.”

  “I didn’t choose. I’m here as a consequence,” he clarified.

  “Oh” was all Mrs. Magenta managed in response.

  “But I don’t mind being here,” Scott said. “I like helping people. This is my consequence because it’s a perfect fit for me.”

  His comment prompted a chorus of laughs. We all knew that was a joke.

  “Good one,” Mark said.

  Mrs. Magenta sighed. I understood. Our spirits couldn’t very well fly if this was turned into an after-school prison. I began to wonder if there were any other prisoners in our midst we didn’t know about. Seriously, what were Trevor and Mark doing here?

  “Young apprentices,” Mrs. Magenta continued, “it’s a crying shame that we do not have a library here at Lake View Middle School. Libraries and books are vital necessities for creativity, dreams, hope, and so much more. This is why we’ll be visiting the public library for our first community service project. We’re going to help make it a place where everyone wants to go, young people especially. Every child needs to get lost in stories. Every child should be reading all the time.”

  “You sound like Mrs. Woods,” Scott said. “She reads to us every day after we do those boring CSA worksheets all morning long.”

  Mrs. Magenta smiled. Not a big, toothy smile, but one that I would categorize as sheepish. It was one that said “I’m happy for you” but that hid something on the inside. Peculiar.

  “Her read-alouds are way better than those worksheets,” Scott continued. “Those worksheets—”

  “Okay, Scott,” I said, cutting him off. “We’ve got it. Let Mrs. Magenta finish.”

  My classmates laughed. They were always laughing at Scott.

  “Okay, then,” Mrs. Magenta continued. “We’ll be walking to the public library in just a few minutes, once I’ve taken attendance and have everything organized. Scott, I will need your permission slip before we go. The rest of you are all set.”

  Scott unzipped his backpack and started rummaging through it. No wonder it took him forever to pack up. The thing was crammed full of all kinds of stuff: crumpled papers, a half-eaten bag of chips (which could’ve been from fourth grade), several battered books, a glove with two fingers missing, a couple of rocks, an action figure, and a huge pile of junk mail. And smooshed around among everything else was one of Rachel’s cupcakes! Gross! All that but no permission slip. Or at least, not one that he could find.

  “Mrs. Magenta, I can’t find it,” he said, clearly upset.

  Maybe it would help if you cleaned out your backpack, I thought.

  “Don’t worry,” Mrs. Magenta said. “Go down to the office and have them call your mother. She can give permission over the phone for today. In the meantime, I’ll get you a new slip that you can take home and have filled out before our next meeting.”

  I huffed in disgust. Because of Scott’s extreme disorganization, we had to wait. I was more than a little annoyed.

  “Natalie, please accompany Scott to the office. I never like to send students alone.”

  I suspect Mrs. Magenta recognized that Scott could be unpredictable, and sending somebody to help keep him on track was certainly a good idea—but why me? Honestly.

  The moment we stepped into the hallway, I started speed-walking ahead of him. I was not interested in taking a stroll with this boy. And I did not care that I was acting bratty.

  I pushed open the door to the office. Mrs. Lane, our school secretary, looked up from her desk. I stepped back out of the way. This was Scott’s problem, not mine. He could do the talking.

  “Hi, Mrs. Lane. I lost my permission slip, so Mrs. Magenta sent me down here to call my mother.”

  “Sure thing, sweetie.” She handed Scott the phone, and I watched his fingers push the buttons.

  “Hi, Mom. I’m really sorry, but…um…I can’t find my permission slip.”

  I could hear her exasperation through the phone. Scott cringed. So did I.

  “It’s okay, Mom. You don’t need to drive over,” Scott said, his shoulders sagging. He looked defeated. “I know you’re busy. You just need—”

  That was when Mr. Allen came out of his office. He must’ve overheard the conversation. He gave me a quick smile, and he took the phone from Scott.

  “Hello, Mrs. Mason? Hi, it’s Mr. Allen. I understand Scott has misplaced his permission slip….Yes, I know. It’s okay to give permission over the phone for
today. We can get that slip filled out for next time….No problem….Have a good day, Mrs. Mason.”

  Mr. Allen hung up the phone.

  “Thanks,” Scott said.

  “Hey, we had a deal. I wanted to make sure you were going to keep up your end of the bargain.” Mr. Allen squeezed Scott’s shoulder and winked at me.

  What deal? I wondered. Was Mr. Allen the one who had decided Scott should attend this program?

  “It’s nice to see you, Natalie,” Mr. Allen said.

  “Likewise.”

  “You two have fun this afternoon.”

  “We will,” Scott promised.

  “Thank you, Mr. Allen,” I said.

  We left the office and started back to the art room—but this time I didn’t speed-walk ahead of Scott.

  When I found out that Natalie Kurtsman was also doing this after-school thing with Magenta, I was ready to wring Randi’s neck. She owed me big-time! A good football player knows how to channel his anger and keep control, though, so I took a deep breath, gripped the laces on my football, and ignored the girl on the opposite side of the room. Besides, when Magenta announced that our first project would take place at the public library, I suddenly had more to worry about than snobby Natalie Kurtsman.

  I knew where that building was and what it looked like on the outside, but I’d never been inside before. All my life teachers had talked about how important reading was and how fun it could be when you found the right book, but I couldn’t see how I was ever gonna enjoy it when I was always stuck in the groups using the baby books. And there was no way around that. I needed the baby books, ’cause then I could figure out most of the words, but those stories were for little kids.

  My teachers in elementary school never wanted to label my group the dumb bunch, so they tried creating sneaky code names. Calling us by different colors or animals didn’t make one bitta difference. Everyone knew who the best reader was—and the worst. Maybe I struggled to sound out words, but that didn’t mean I was stupid. A good football play had a much more complicated system than reading groups.