The Perfect Score

by Rob Buyea

  “Mrs. Magenta, I’d like to suggest at least one Hanukkah song and a few menorah crafts,” Natalie said. “We need to be mindful and respectful of other religions and beliefs.”

  “What’s your religion?” Trevor poked. “Brownnosing?”

  “Shut up!” Natalie snapped.

  “That’s enough,” Mrs. Magenta said. “That happens to be a wonderful idea, Natalie. Can you take care of that for us?”

  “Yes.”

  “Fantastic. Thank you.”

  “Brownnoser,” Trevor grumbled

  Mrs. Magenta went on to demonstrate and explain making stained-glass ornaments using tissue paper. The ornaments glittered when Christmas lights were behind them. They were very pretty.

  Gavin made a football, and I made one of those turkeys like we did at the public library. I was good at making those now. I didn’t get that much paste on my hands, either, so I didn’t feel sick to my stomach after licking my fingers clean this time. Trevor and Mark said their ornaments were stockings, but they sort of looked more like dirty socks. The craft project was fun. I was excited to put mine on the tree at the Senior Center so all the old people could see it.

  After we finished our decorations, Mrs. Magenta got us organized as a choir and handed each of us a folder with the sheet music and words for a bunch of songs. We practiced singing all of them. Mrs. Magenta said she really liked the extra-high note I hit during “five golden rings,” but that only happened because that was when Trevor gave me a wet willie.

  We did all the normal carols and hymns and one extra, which was my favorite, “Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer.” Even though my grandma wasn’t around anymore, Grandpa and I still liked that song. I was excited to sing it for a bunch of old people at the Senior Center. I knew they’d like it, too.

  NATALIE KURTSMAN

  ASPIRING LAWYER

  Kurtsman Law Offices

  BRIEF #16

  December: Caroling

  Mrs. Magenta was like a bird with its wings clipped during the school day. When we got to explore with our hands and minds and problem-solve, she soared, but now that she had to keep us doing math and answering questions, she was no longer able to fly.

  Thankfully, school administration had not interfered with the after-school program. Mrs. Magenta was an altogether different person on the days when it met, full of life and happiness. Sure, she was eccentric, but her energy was contagious—and I loved it.

  I was eager for today’s excursion to the senior center. The only drawback was the fact that we had to ride a school bus to get there.

  “Awesome!” Scott cheered. “I love the bus!”

  I couldn’t fathom getting excited about riding one of those filthy yellow rectangles on wheels. As I expected, the thing was disgusting. It looked gross, smelled gross, and felt gross—but none of that registered with Scott. He ran up the steps and headed straight to the back, plopping beside Gavin in the second-to-last seat.

  The boy amazed me. He sat with Randi and me during lunch, and then thought nothing of sitting with Gavin on the bus. He was clueless about the tension and animosity that existed between the Recruits. I actually envied him at times like these.

  Mrs. Magenta settled in the front, and I found my spot next to Randi in the middle of the bus. Before sitting down, I caught sight of Trevor and Mark in the last seat—which is where they belonged, but that also meant they were directly behind Scott. It didn’t take long for the trouble to begin.

  “Can you stop kicking my seat?” I heard Scott ask.

  Then I heard him ask again.

  And again.

  Gavin never uttered a word. He was in one of his foul moods, and I had a strong suspicion it was because of me—or, more specifically, because I’d become friends with Randi and was sitting with her now. I never intended to steal her away from him, but that’s how things had played out. In my defense, I wasn’t keeping him from hanging out with us. That was his choice.

  “Please stop kicking my seat,” Scott requested.

  Things were escalating back there, but luckily we arrived at the senior center before it got too bad.

  “Hi, Nancy. We made it,” Mrs. Magenta said, greeting the woman who was waiting for us at the door.

  “Hi, Olivia,” the woman said. “We’re ready for you. Everyone’s very excited.”

  “Great,” Mrs. Magenta said. “This is Mrs. Ruggelli,” she told us, introducing the woman. “She’s the director here. She’ll show you the way.”

  Olivia? Nancy? Obviously they knew each other.

  “Welcome,” Mrs. Ruggelli said. “Follow me.”

  She led us to the community hall, a large space where we found a crowd of old people sitting at tables, waiting for us. Trevor and Mark weren’t only the biggest jerks in the world but the biggest wimps, too. They were petrified. Of singing or of the old people, I don’t know. So what did they do? They made jokes, because somehow that was supposed to be funny.

  “Hey, Mark, which of these old geezers do you bet poops himself first?” Trevor whispered.

  “Got my money on the drooling lady over there,” Mark replied.

  “That’s hysterical,” I said. “Real mature. I bet the old-timers are saying the same things about the two wimps standing up here.”

  It took Trevor and Mark a minute before the lightbulb came on and they realized I was referring to them, but by then we had started our first carol, “Hark! The Herald Angels Sing.”

  We performed ten songs for the senior center that afternoon. The crowd favorite was our last one, “Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer,” which Scott belted. Afterward we hung our ornaments on their tree. I spotted a menorah off to the side, so I knew my decoration was right at home. To be honest, I thought mine looked the best, but it was Gavin’s football that I saw some old man touching as we were leaving.

  The holiday spirit stayed with us, and we continued singing on the bus ride back. For once my classmates weren’t bellowing that obnoxious tune about bottles on a wall; I’d suffered through that on numerous field trips before. More important, our singing also occupied Trevor and Mark, so they managed to leave Scott alone—this time.

  So what if Mark and I made a few jokes about those old farts. It’s not like they could hear us. The only reason I did it was because I was nervous as all heck standing up there in front of them. But stupid girl had to open her trap and get all goody-two-shoes on us. Boy, that rubbed me the wrong way.

  People laugh for all kinds of reasons. They laugh when something’s funny or when it’s silly or even when it’s stupid. Pretty much everyone does that. But did you know some people even laugh when they get hurt or when they’re embarrassed or scared? I’ve seen it. I’ve done it. It’s a trick I pull with my brother and his goons all the time. I never want to show them weakness, I never want them to think they’re getting the best of me, so I laugh at them—no matter what.

  Last year, after I got fitted for shoulder pads at the start of football season, Brian wanted to show me how awesome they were and how I wouldn’t feel anything when I got hit. He was trying to make it so I wouldn’t be scared to tackle, which is something a lot of new kids are afraid of when they start football. Not me. I wasn’t afraid. But Brian needed to put on a show for his goons. He took this aluminum bat he had lying in his closet and hit me on the shoulder with it. I didn’t flinch.

  “See that?” he said. “You didn’t feel a thing, did you?”

  “Not a thing,” I said, hoping he was done.

  He lifted the bat and brought it down on my other shoulder. “See? Nothing.”

  “Give me that bat,” Chris said. “You’re not doing it right if you want little Trevie to know he’s safe in those pads.” He stepped back and gripped the handle like a baseball player. “Keep your hands at your side,” he ordered.

  I wanted to run, but my legs wouldn’t go. I didn’t feel anything when he connected with the pads over my chest, but the momentum of his swing kept going after hitting me, and the bat flew up
and caught me right in the teeth.

  I jumped back and grabbed my mouth. “Ah! The pads aren’t covering my face, you idiot!”

  “Yo, I didn’t mean it, Trevie. You moved,” Chris said, blaming me. “It’s your fault.”

  The problem was, I hadn’t moved. I spit blood and felt around the inside of my mouth with my tongue. I smiled at them, and then they really started cracking up.

  “Whoa, you look like a beaver,” Chris said.

  My front teeth were broken in half. I went ahead and laughed with them even though nothing was funny. Nothing was ever funny when it came to Brian and his goons.

  I gave Mom some made-up story when she got home, and she called the dentist and scheduled an appointment for the next morning. My teeth were fixed, and Mom and Dad still had no idea about what had really happened. Brian and his goons thought that was funny, too.

  It was Christmas Eve. No school. No gymnastics. No anything. Just Jane and me at home. The silent treatment was over. This was the one time of the year when the two of us were close to what I really wanted.

  “Let’s have chili for dinner tonight,” Jane said. “It’s cold out and I want something warm.”

  “Sounds good.”

  “Want to help me make it?”

  “Okay.” The kitchen was the only room in our house where the wall between us sometimes came down.

  “I’ll get things simmering on the stove while you start dicing the vegetables,” she said. Jane hummed along to the dinner party music she had playing. It was old jazzy stuff, but I liked it. I liked how it made her happy. “Think you could do your floor routine to a song like this?” she asked.

  No, please don’t ruin things by bringing up gymnastics. I shrugged.

  “Randi, you need to dice the peppers smaller. I don’t want big chunks in my chili. Pay attention to what—”

  I stiffened, waiting for more, but that was it. Jane stopped midsentence and turned back to the stove.

  I finished with the peppers, scooped them onto the cutting board along with the onions, and carried them to the pot. “Vegetables are ready,” I said.

  “You can dump them in.” Her eyes were red, and I wasn’t sure if that was from the onion, the seasonings, or something else.

  Our chili finished cooking to the sounds of Jane’s jazz music, but we’d grown quiet—and this wasn’t more silent treatment. Dinner was very tasty, and it warmed us up, but there was still a coldness in our house that it hadn’t fixed. I hoped tomorrow would take care of that.

  Before bed I wrapped Jane’s present. I didn’t have the time to do my own shopping, so I gave Natalie some money and she picked up a new cookbook for me. Jane was going to like it. Natalie also gave me a small gift. I felt bad because I didn’t have one for her, but she said that was okay. I felt even worse because this was the first Christmas when Gav and I didn’t exchange gifts. I missed my best friend.

  Christmas was better. Jane and I had breakfast together, watched the parade, and went to the movies to catch the season’s big opening-day release. We didn’t exchange gifts until after dinner, but I liked that, because it made our special day last longer.

  Jane loved her cookbook. Then it was my turn. After I opened several small gifts, Jane gave me the one she was most excited about. I tore open the package. It was a new leotard.

  “I thought this might help motivate you and get you psyched for Regionals,” Jane said.

  “Thanks.”

  I hated it. Our special day was over.

  It was our first day back from Christmas break, and school went from bad to worse. It was like we’d come out after halftime and Mr. Allen pulled a trick play right off the bat. He called a special assembly in the gymatorium.

  “I hope everyone enjoyed a relaxing and fun-filled holiday break,” he began. “Now it’s time for us to get back to work. It may seem like a long way off, but our CSAs are right around the corner. They’ll be happening before you know it. I’ve gathered you here today because I’m excited to announce that we’ve been able to secure additional help to better prepare you for the big tests.”

  “Boo!” someone behind me shouted. That someone was Trevor. “Boo!” he yelled again.

  Mr. Allen stopped and searched the bleachers, looking for the person who’d dared to do that, but none of us were giving Trevor up, not when we were on his side. It was pretty obvious from Mr. Allen’s face that he didn’t find this very funny. He kept glaring at us as he continued with his grand announcement. “I’d like to introduce Mr. Moore, Mr. Proctor, and Miss Cohan,” he said. “This trio of experts will be administering regular practice tests in each of your classrooms over the next several weeks. The best part is, we’ll get immediate results, which will help your teachers know what to work on between now and the real thing.”

  Mr. Allen made it sound like preseason scrimmages before the opening game when we’d analyze the film and work on our weaknesses during practice. The only difference was, I wasn’t pumped about these practice tests like I woulda been about a scrimmage—and neither were any of the kids sitting around me. I didn’t see any teachers looking all that thrilled, either. Mr. Allen’s exciting news belonged in the toilet with the rest of the terrible ideas our school big shots had already sprung on us this year.

  We came back from break, and Mr. Allen dumped these mean people in our classrooms who told us we couldn’t read the good books that we wanted to read anymore. All because we had to do more of those awful tests (whose pages stunk worse than dead skunk, by the way), and then came the unimaginable—No More Recess! Instead of getting a chance to burn off some energy, we had to spend our extra time with Mr. Test Man, completing practice tests that were full of nothing but boring passages about nothing that interested me, and the questions Mr. Allen’s test experts wanted me to answer at the end of those boring passages were even boringer. It was horrible.

  “Here you go, Mr. Test Man. Here’s your dumb test,” I said. “Merry belated Christmas.”

  Mr. Test Man didn’t like my attitude. I didn’t care, because I didn’t like him. It was his fault they took away my recess. He was especially upset when he saw that I had filled in my answer bubbles in a Christmas tree pattern. He took my paper and left the room.

  A few minutes later Mr. Allen was at our door. He called me into the hall.

  “Scott, nothing about this is funny!” he yelled, shaking my Christmas tree in the air. Why was he yelling? Mr. Allen never yelled. “Do you understand me?”

  “Mr. Allen, these practice tests are boring and easy. And so are the CSAs. You don’t have to get so upset.”

  “Yes, I do,” he growled. “I need you to ace the CSAs. I need everyone to ace them.”

  I’d never seen him like this. He was turning red mad. “Will you let us have recess again when they’re over?” I asked him.

  “If you do what you’re supposed to from now on, you can have extra recess,” he said.

  “And what about Mrs. Woods being able to read to us? We want that back, too.”

  “Yes, and Mrs. Woods can resume reading aloud. But first things first. You need to ace your test.”

  I smiled. “Deal.”

  There was a light at the end of this Complex Student Abuse tunnel, and I was bursting at the seams to tell Natalie and Randi the news when we got to lunch. “Guess what?” I said. “If we do what we’re supposed to on the CSAs, then Mr. Allen will be giving us recess back and Mrs. Woods will be able to read to us again. I know because Mr. Allen made a deal with me.”

  “And what exactly are we supposed to do on the tests?” Natalie asked.

  “Ace them,” I said. I took Randi’s math sheet and raced through the problems. I got her homework done faster than ever today. Good news always gives me energy.

  NATALIE KURTSMAN

  ASPIRING LAWYER

  Kurtsman Law Offices

  BRIEF #17

  January: Test Experts and Bus Rides

  It was a relief when Mrs. Magenta announced our new community se
rvice project. She actually had a plan and wasn’t going to wing it, as I’d feared. Must be our winter break had done her good. Unfortunately, the same could not be said for Mr. Allen or many of his teachers. Rather than returning fully recharged, they looked exhausted. Something at Lake View Middle School was weighing them down—and I had reason to believe it had everything to do with our looming CSAs.

  For starters, I’d noticed more whispering among the faculty when passing them in the hallway, and they weren’t telling jokes—even their words sounded tired.

  “It doesn’t matter what I do, they’re never going to pass,” I overheard one teacher saying to another. “I thought it was bad last year, when I had kids crying and throwing up because the test was too hard, but all this hoopla is making it even worse.”

  The second teacher let out a heavy sigh. “I know,” she said. “I feel so bad for the kids.”

  This was telling, but a truly scary warning came the next day, when one of our teachers left school in an ambulance after an apparent panic attack. One would think such an event would’ve clued our administrators in that things were getting out of control, but that was not the case. I don’t know all the details surrounding the incident, so I shouldn’t say any more; I’d only be contributing to the rumor mill.

  There are two things I can report, however. First, Mr. Allen’s trio of test experts were not helping our situation. To begin with, they desperately needed lessons on how to dress. The one called Moore looked like a clown in his high-water slacks and long, shiny black shoes; he spent today walking around with toilet paper stuck to his heel, while the Proctor guy had white powder on his tie and a shirt that refused to stay tucked in over his doughnut belly. The lone woman, Miss Cohan, always seemed to have her slip showing and lipstick painted on her front teeth. The only thing missing from their outfits was KICK ME signs.