Shelby, new this year, bats heavily made-up eyes at me with no comment. Her young face looks freshly powdered, and she’s wearing a tight dress that accentuates her curves. To her left, sitting prim at the conference table, is Donna, whom a number of us on the staff speculate to be a good ten years past retirement age. Donna can’t weigh more than eighty pounds wet. A gold-colored chain loops around her neck, connecting a pair of wire-rimmed glasses. Donna makes it clear that she already knows everything there is to know about teaching, so I rarely have anything to say to her. I smile and nod; the three teachers shuffle grade books and planners.
“Will Penny be coming?” I ask.
“She has students at this time,” Jan says.
Of course. A tremor of irritation rises in my throat, and I try my best to respond calmly. “It’s too bad this meeting couldn’t have been scheduled at a time when all of Kaylee’s teachers could be present.”
“It’d take a month to get on the SIT schedule, and this is the only time all three of us have planning together. Besides, we did share our concern with Penny.”
I sigh nice and loud, and then I say, “Good. I’m glad you collaborated with her. She’s very good at figuring out how to help children compensate for weak skills. She’s a wonderful resource to have.” I look each of them directly in the eye because I’m sure Penny would have given me a heads-up if she knew what I suspect is going to happen.
I notice a stack of papers in front of Jan. On the top, I make out Kaylee’s name. Below are two or three scrawled sentences; without punctuation, it’s hard to tell. Jan follows my gaze and holds up the heartbreaking writing sample.
“This is Kaylee’s report on the life cycle of moths.” She then displays the next two papers—entire pages filled with correct paragraph structure. “And here are two samples of what most third graders produce.”
My body stiffens. Obviously, Jan has chosen the most gifted students as comparisons. “Children who struggle with reading typically have even more difficulty with writing,” I say.
“Of course, we understand this,” Jan says. Shelby nods, and Donna adds her expert endorsement in the form of a muffled “uh-hum.”
No, you don’t understand.
“She doesn’t have problems with ideas and concepts,” I continue. “I bet Kaylee can dictate a fabulous report. Her challenge has to do with recalling how to form each letter and figuring out the spelling. It saps her ability to express her ideas.”
“We understand,” Jan chirps too quickly. “And Kaylee has been receiving resource-room support with Penny all year. Our concern now”—she pauses, briefly making eye contact with Shelby and Donna—“is fourth grade.” Her voice drops on the last two words.
“But of course she’ll continue to receive support from Penny next year,” I counter a little too loudly. No one responds. My palms are sweaty. Stay calm.
Jan shifts her gaze to Donna, who throws her shoulders back. Her frail frame shakes with a mild tic that causes the thin strands of silver springing from her head to shimmer. Her voice is anything but frail.
“Even with special-ed support,” Donna says, “it would be a shame to send this child on to fourth grade when she’s barely reading beyond a first-grade level.” She glares at me as though it is the first time I’ve heard this argument. But I hear this every spring as I sit in meetings with teachers afraid to allow children to move on to the next grade, fearing failure. What they don’t understand is that flunking is the ultimate failure.
Even so, I feel the sting of a fresh slap upon my face as they make their claims. My heart speeds up—as if I were the one threatened with being held back a year. I take a deep breath, ready to dispute their position, but when I look into their eyes, I regress to a nine-year-old with a voice that is soundless.
Jan says, “I’d love to have Kaylee another year; it would give her a chance to develop her literacy skills and build confidence.” Shelby vigorously nods. Jan pauses, sizing me up.
I struggle to keep a neutral expression. I’m not going to lose it.
“Since Kaylee and her family know and trust you, Dr. Meyers,” Jan continues, “we thought it would be helpful if you would attend the spring parent conference when we share what we think is best for her.”
So that’s what they want.
“But . . .” There’s so much to say. “I don’t agree.”
The air thickens. I listen to the clicking of the wall clock. In that moment of hush, I wonder if they can hear my heart pounding.
Donna, the “expert,” speaks first. “She can’t possibly be successful in fourth grade. She’ll get further and further behind. I’ve seen it happen.”
Jan chimes in, “We want what’s best for her. She’ll feel defeated trying to make it next year.”
“It would be an absolute tragedy to move her on.”
“While I would love to have her another year, she could have Donna or Shelby.”
No screams deafeningly inside my head. I open my mouth, scrambling to find words, but they hide from me. Again, I try to speak, but my voice is lost. I squeeze my eyes shut and remind myself, I’m Dr. Meyers. I bring my gaze back to Jan’s gray hair, bobbing up and down with assertion. My face reddens. I pull in a deep breath, willing calm. Instead, a mountain of embers ignites from somewhere deep. I’m on my feet.
“Why would you do this to her?”
“Dr. Meyers . . .” Donna, Jan, and Shelby stare at me.
“Do you have any idea how humiliating it’ll be?” My legs are shaking. I have to get out. But first, I say, “Just because she can’t read doesn’t mean she can’t think!” And now it is dead quiet. I must leave. But there’s more they need to know. “She wants to be a scientist, and you’re destroying her dream.” I stride out the door and slam it, but not nearly loudly enough.
My office is suffocatingly small, and I welcome the confines of its walls. I close myself in and drop to my desk, holding my throbbing head between my palms. This isn’t me. I’m the one who guides teachers, draws upon research. I don’t lose it—it’s my job to calm those who do.
The rhythmic thump in my head fades, and a woozy vacuity slips in. A wave of nausea rolls up from the back of my throat. The slightest scent of food, and my stomach will heave. I breathe deep to stabilize, and the lump in my throat threatens to take over; it’s demanding I curl myself into a ball and cry. I place my hands on my desk and make myself sit up.
I shake my head and train my eyes on the stack of student files to the left of my computer, each an overstuffed manila folder, collectively on the verge of toppling over. All I need to do is open one and get started.
The file I begin with, the one on top of the stack, is that of Marcos Del Quintos, ten years old, referred three weeks ago. He comes with a dense outside psychiatric report. Reading the evaluation is the place to start. I focus on the words, but my eyes swim over the letters, over and over them, until I notice a period and realize I haven’t read a single word. Not one in the entire sentence. Like Kaylee, I can’t read a goddamned thing. My eyes blur and I wipe them dry, but still they’re blurry. I can’t read.
~CHAPTER 4~
1967
MRS. ZINC STANDS like a statue, with steel-gray hair bundled tight, waiting for the six of us to sit soundlessly with our hands in our laps. Then she smiles her pretend smile—the one that tries to say, “This is fun”—as she holds up a card with a bright red apple on it.
“Okay, Sparrows, let’s review. Remember, you need to know the vowel sound to read the words.”
Six voices chime together, “A, apple,” and then make only the beginning sound of apple: long and drawn out as if we’re about to sneeze, but only the a part of achoo comes out.
The day I found out I’d be a Sparrow for the second year in a row, I zipped my black coat up tight. I was cold. Later that evening, I waited until Mom and I were alone to share the disappointing news.
“It’s not fair. I was a Sparrow last year. I’m in third grade now, and I know all about wha
t Sparrows do—it’s boring.”
Mom was busy frying onions and ground beef to make spaghetti sauce. The smell made my stomach growl. I thought she might ask me to stir the pot, but instead she said, “Sweetheart, Mrs. Zinc’s a good teacher. Rob had her three years ago. I think she knows what’s best for you.” I didn’t want to stir anymore.
Mrs. Zinc holds up the next picture card, an elephant. It’s the same set of cards from second grade. I let my voice get lost with the others. I make myself look in Mrs. Zinc’s direction. I see Mrs. Zinc hold up the card with the letter o and an octopus, and I chant along, like during dinner prayers, but my imagination takes me flying in a whole different direction. I imagine Mrs. Zinc’s smile changing to the one that means a good surprise is about to happen.
Mrs. Zinc flings the cards across the room and announces, “Children, it’s a beautiful day, and you’ve all been working so hard. We’ll skip reading and go outside for a game of kickball!”
I reach the playfield first, ready to kick a home run, except bratty Bobby Wallace sneers his chip-toothed face at me and insists on being the first one up, so I let him. He kicks the ball hard. It flies sideways and smack! hits Mrs. Zinc squarely in the head.
Mrs. Zinc’s head bobs back and forth as if attached to a spring. I see stars circling above her eyes as she falls to the ground in a big heap, her cream-colored dress all dirty and wrinkled. While everyone is trying to figure out what to do, I take off for the hospital where Mom works. I know exactly how to get there, and since I can run faster than anyone, I reach the emergency room before the others can even get to the office secretary to explain that Mrs. Zinc is knocked out cold.
I’m bursting through the hospital doors when Mrs. Zinc interrupts.
“Madelyn.”
I jerk my head up, blink, and tell myself, To be continued.
“You’re not following along. How do you expect to get better at reading if you don’t pay attention?”
The pause is long enough to make my face turn red. I imagine shouting out, This is boring! Instead, I do my usual and say nothing, but I scoot further down into my chair until my knees bump against the desk bottom.
“Cheryl, will you kindly help Madelyn find her place?”
I zip up my coat. Even though my face burns red, I’m cold. I reach for the hood, ready to pull it up, and then remember: Mrs. Zinc no longer allows it. Cheryl sits up in her chair as tall as her short body can. She tucks her long blond hair behind her ears and points to where the previous round-robin reader left off.
No one expects me to read this next sentence; besides, it’s a stupid story. I place my finger where Cheryl points, even though it makes me feel like a baby.
Whoever invented letters must have made them confusing on purpose—why should it matter what side of the circle the straight line is on? If it were up to me, I’d make d’s, b’s, p’s, and q’s all the same letter so no one would have to work hard at trying to remember which is which.
“We’re all waiting for you,” Mrs. Zinc says, and then, with a sigh adds, “Cheryl, since Madelyn was not paying attention, would you mind repeating the last two sentences?”
“Over the hills,” Cheryl reads, “and under a bridge, that dog Spot ran with glee. Then he saw the tall jackrabbit off in the distance.”
Oops. I looked up. My finger slipped down the page, and I’ve lost the place again.
“Start here,” Cheryl whispers.
I blink hard and then begin to sound out, one letter at a time, the four letters in the first word. “Ss-tu-ah-p.”
“Spot,” says Cheryl, and again puts her finger to the word.
Ugh. I land my finger under the first letter of the next word and move it like a snail, letter by letter, in the direction Cheryl moves her hand. We’re back to reading Spot the Dog.
The day Mrs. Zinc introduced this story, I was on a mission trying to rescue Mr. Dreadsly, our principal. He had been captured by Martians who tricked him because they could change their bodies to look like children. I was deep inside a secret tunnel under the school when Mrs. Zinc picked up the flat book sitting on my desk and slapped it back down, startling me, then demanded that I read the title. I think she surprised everyone, because all six of the Sparrows looked first at her and then at me. I wasn’t going to use my finger for just a few title words, so I took a quick look and blurted out what I saw: “Stop the God!” Everyone but Mrs. Zinc laughed, so I made myself laugh too so they’d think I made the mistake on purpose.
“Spot tucks of—” I continue reading.
“Spot took off,” Cheryl says.
“Spot took off afraid the—”
“—after the,” Cheryl says.
“—after the jock—”
“—jack,” Cheryl says.
“—rabbit.” Whew. All done for now.
~CHAPTER 5~
1967
EASTER was last week, and I’m still a Sparrow, me and three others. I liked it better when there were six of us because then I didn’t have to follow along so closely, and it was easier to invent my own story. We continue to say letter sounds and read boring flat books, over and over. If you’re an Eagle, like my friend Paulette Oakley, or like Bobby Wallace, who is not my friend, you get to read chapter books. The same is true for Bluebirds and Robins.
My favorite part of the day, besides recess and PE, is when Mrs. Zinc reads to us. She reads for an entire forty minutes minus the question time, which I also like because I’m really good at answering questions, as long as I don’t have to read them. My hand is always up first, but Mrs. Zinc usually waits to call on me to give the others a turn. My favorite story used to be Charlotte’s Web, and I couldn’t imagine a better story ever, but now I know I was wrong. The very best, or as Grandma O’Leary would say, “most marvelous,” is The Fairy Angel’s Gift.
Story time begins at 2:20, unless someone, and it’s usually Bobby Wallace, makes too much noise. Mrs. Zinc is patient. She’s willing to do her quiet standing and waiting for as long as it takes until we sit as still as statues. She sometimes reminds us, “Third graders, it’s your choice: we can have a long story time or a short one.” I can tell from the way she says it that it really doesn’t matter to her.
Some days, waiting for 2:20 is as hard as waiting for Christmas.
I’m good at telling time. The other Sparrows can’t tell time, which I know because it’s telling time that makes it possible for me to be first in line for recess every day. I’ve given up signaling to them when our reading time is about over. They continue to act surprised when Mrs. Zinc makes that announcement. Not me. And then later, when it’s finally two o’clock, keeping my mind on the worksheet in front of me and on writing down answers, instead of drawing tiny pictures that I will later erase, is the hardest part of the school day. Two o’clock means only twenty more minutes before we can finally pack up our things and listen to the most marvelous story ever told.
Paulette is my helper. That’s what Mrs. Zinc calls her. Last year, lots of different kids helped me with words; this year, it’s Paulette’s job. I wouldn’t need a helper if the worksheets didn’t have words. Lately, I’ve been thinking about how cavemen used to tell their stories with pictures and how even today, hundreds of years later, we can still read their stories. I doubt that people hundreds of years from now will be able to read Spot the Dog. Actually, they wouldn’t want to.
Paulette is smart, like my older brother, Rob, and they both wear glasses. Rob wears wire rims, which made my father angry because he thinks they make Rob look like a hippie, even though he has short hair. Paulette’s glasses are round brownish plastic, and they always seem to be sliding down, even though she has a big nose. Maybe reading a lot makes you need to wear glasses, because Mrs. Zinc also has glasses that she only puts on when she reads.
Paulette doesn’t always take the time to help. Like yesterday, I was checking the clock and waiting for it to be 2:20 when Paulette asked if I wanted to copy her answers to the worksheet. Paulette’s desk touc
hes mine, making our two desks look like one big long one. Mine is smack in front of Mrs. Zinc’s. To my left are big windows that come in handy when I’m waiting for the time to pass. I looked down at my page of blank lines, which Paulette also saw. She slid her worksheet over to my side.
“Can you read me the questions?” I asked. Paulette glanced up at the clock, which I had just checked, and then at her paper. There were only ten minutes left before story time.
“There’s not enough time. You haven’t even started. Here, just copy my words.” She was right; there were way too many words to read and listen to in ten minutes. No wonder everyone was working so hard.
Paulette’s handwriting is the opposite of mine. Hers is neat and easy to read, but I draw better pictures. I don’t understand why I can draw marvelous horses and churches but have a horrible time drawing letters. Maybe it’s because it took me so long to decide if I was left-or right-handed, and finally Mom just made me be right-handed like most everyone else.
I was halfway through the worksheet, copying one letter after another, when Bobby Wallace came by to use the pencil sharpener next to Mrs. Zinc’s desk. I smelled him coming; he smells like rain-soaked leaves mixed in a puddle of dirt.
“You’re cheating,” he sneered. I looked up; Mrs. Zinc was on the other side of the classroom helping Lisa. I wasn’t sure if I was cheating or not, but it sort of felt like cheating, so I added it to the confession list I keep in my head. “Just because you can’t read doesn’t mean you get to cheat,” Bobby said, saying the word cheat even louder.
“It’s not a test,” Paulette said in her teacher voice. “Besides, it’s none of your beeswax.” I grinned. Paulette can be a good friend.
The first day Mrs. Zinc introduced The Fairy Angel’s Gift, I knew it would be the best book she had ever read to us. She held the book in outstretched arms and circled them like a second hand on a clock from one side of the room to the other. I scooted to the edge of my seat, craned my neck, leaned over to Paulette’s side, and caught the fairy before Mrs. Zinc had even twisted toward the windows. When she turned in my direction, I saw the fairy’s lavender tunic, her long yellow-gold hair, and rhinestone boots. By the time Mrs. Zinc lowered the book, I’m sure I spied a smile on the fairy’s face.
Once Upon a Time a Sparrow Page 3
