Libby's Got the Beat

by Robert Rayner

  “Good job,” said Libby. “Do you want to try for bonus marks?”

  “Go for it, Mr. Knott,” Etta urged.

  “Give me a moment,” said Mr. Knott. “Er . . . the answer is six!”

  Libby, Etta, and Celery applauded. Libby, remembering what Miss Nightingale says when someone in the class answers a difficult question, said, “We’re proud of you.”

  “Can I try one more?” Mr. Knott asked, and went on without waiting for an answer.

  3. Pretend you are making a poster and want to use the words ‘receive,’ ‘underachievers,’ ‘friends,’ and ‘their.’ Circle the words that follow a well-known spelling rule, and underline any that don’t follow the rule.

  Mr. Knott looked up. “First I’d better decide what rule the question is talking about.”

  Libby nodded.

  The principal went on “My guess is it’s the ‘I before E except after C’ rule, so underachievers and friends fit the rule about I before E, and receive fits the ‘except after C’ part of the rule. So, their doesn’t follow the rule.”

  Etta, Libby, and Celery applauded again.

  Etta said, “You’re some smart, Mr. Knott.”

  He smiled. “I love your test.”

  Libby, with a glance at Etta and Celery, said slowly, “So . . . can we take a test with questions like these, instead of Professor Brayne’s test?” She added quickly, “The other kids can take a test like it, too. You can make one up.”

  Arms folded on his desk, Mr. Knott leaned towards the Underachievers. “If it was up to me, I’d say yes. But it’s not that easy.”

  “But it’s your school,” Libby blurted out.

  Mr. Knott shook his head. “It’s your school. I just do my best to make it a happy and good place for learning. But I know my boss — that’s the woman who’s in charge of all the schools in the district — wouldn’t allow us to do a different test. I’m sorry.” He stood. “But thank you for sharing your test with me.”

  Libby, Etta, and Celery stood. Libby reached for the orange file folder, but Mr. Knott asked, “May I keep your Real-Life Test for a few days?”

  12

  Etta’s Toque

  Libby woke early.

  For a few happy seconds, she felt everything was all right. She enjoyed listening to the birds outside her window, the distant traffic on Water Street, and the wind sifting through the trees in the yard.

  Then she remembered.

  It was Test Day again.

  Even while she slept, worry had been gnawing at her, so that twice in the night, she’d awakened. Each time, the sheets were twisted around her, so damp with sweat that she was afraid she’d wet the bed.

  She wished this Test Day could be like the first one, when she’d forgotten all about the test until Miss Nightingale started passing around papers. That time, it was too late to worry. But this time, she’d known for a month that the test was coming, and had been worrying more and more all that time.

  She was sucking her thumb. She took it from her mouth. It was so glistening and pink and wrinkled and mushy, she thought she must have been sucking it in her sleep.

  She wished she could be like Etta, and not worry.

  Could she pretend she was sick? She’d gotten away with it a few times a long time ago, when she was in grade two. She remembered the strange, guilty calm she felt, alone in her room, when she’d convinced her mother or father — usually her father — that she was sick and had to stay home. She remembered wondering what her mother or father, whoever had stayed home from work to look after her, was doing downstairs while she was in bed. She recalled suggesting cautiously, “I think I feel a little better now,” and being allowed downstairs, but not being allowed out to play with Celery and Etta when they came round after school.

  What had she been avoiding at school on those days? Was that the time Kyle Hanley kept taking her lunch? Or when her grade two teacher was sick, and the substitute teacher who smelled of cigarettes shouted that the class was out of control and he was going to straighten them out?

  Libby heard her father go downstairs and her mother walk past her door on the way to the bathroom. That was her daily signal to get up. It meant it was finally 6:30 a.m. and she could play the piano.

  She turned on her side, pulled the sheets tight around her, and closed her eyes.

  She heard her mother head downstairs. A few seconds later, she heard footsteps. Her door opened quietly.

  “Libby, are you awake?” It was her father’s voice.

  She didn’t move.

  She heard footsteps cross the room and felt his hand on her shoulder. “Libby?”

  She opened her eyes.

  “Are you all right?”

  Now was the time to say it. My stomach hurts, or My throat’s sore.

  Her father said gently, “You know, in a few hours, the test will be in the past, and you’ll wonder what you were worrying about.”

  Wrong. She’d be worrying about how badly she’d done.

  As if reading her mind, her father said, “You know, your mother and I don’t care what your mark is. All that’s important is that you do your best, and remember how proud we are of you.” He sat on the bed and pulled her into a hug. “Come on, Libby-Lou.”

  That did it. That was what her parents used to call her before she went to school. It broke down the last little bit of her strength, turning her into a little kid again.

  She clung to her father and started to cry.

  Between sobs, she managed, “C-can I st-stay home?”

  “That’s not the way to solve problems, is it?”

  “Y-yes.”

  “No.”

  Her father held her shoulders so that he could look right at her. His face was so close she

  couldn’t decide which of his eyes to focus on.

  He said, “I know the day ahead seems awful, Libby-Lou. I know it’s easy for me to say this — but you will get through it. Instead of thinking about the test, think of all the nice things that will happen today. Like . . . your mother’s making pancakes for breakfast. And you’ll have fun at school with Etta and Celery. And you can play the piano when you get home. And after school, maybe I can meet you in the park, and you can play on the playground. We’ll go to the Dollar Store, and then we’ll call at the hotel to get your mother, and we’ll all go out for pizza. How about that?”

  She sniffed. “O-okay.”

  “Good girl.”

  Downstairs, her mother asked, “How many pancakes would you like?”

  “I don’t want anything, thank you.” She couldn’t eat. Her throat felt so tight and sore with worrying and crying, she knew she’d choke.

  “You must eat something.”

  If she forced herself to eat, she’d be like Emma Binns. She might throw up in class.

  “Try just one.” Her mother slid a thickly buttered pancake onto her plate and poured syrup over it. “Eat up.”

  Libby cut a small piece and forced herself to chew and swallow.

  She waited to choke, but the sliver of pancake slipped down her throat without too much

  trouble.

  She tried another piece, a little bigger. That went down all right, too.

  She asked, “May I have a piece of toast, please?”

  After six pancakes, three slices of toast, and two glasses of orange juice, she said, “May I be excused?”

  She hugged her parents goodbye, and set off down the driveway. She expected to find Etta and Celery waiting on Farm Hill, but there was no sign of them. She walked up to Etta’s house and was about to knock when Mrs. Page came out and led her away from the door. Mrs. Page said

  quietly, “I saw you coming up the drive. Etta has . . . has . . . cut her hair.”

  “Oh — in a new style?”
<
br />   Libby wondered why Etta hadn’t gone to Dar’s Cuts ’N’ Styles in the mall, like she usually did.

  Mrs. Page sniffed. Her eyes were red. She looked as if she was going to cry.

  “I mean — she’s cut her hair. Cut it off.”

  “Wha— ? How?”

  “With scissors, of course. I caught her about to try it a few days ago. Mr. Page says she’s doing it because she’s so worried and upset. Then, this morning, she was up early. When I came downstairs, there she was — with the kitchen scissors in her hand and half of her hair on the floor.”

  Libby stared at Mrs. Page, who went on with a glance at the open door, “Don’t tell me you haven’t noticed how upset she’s been.”

  “Wh-what about?”

  “The test, of course. She hasn’t been to sleep before midnight for the last two weeks, and when she does go to sleep, it isn’t for long and she wakes up crying. Now she’s in her room and won’t come out. I told her she didn’t have to go to school. But she said Mr. Knott would only make her take the test another day, like he did with the kids who missed it the first time, so she might as well get it over with. Why don’t you see if Celio’s ready and then come back?”

  As Libby set off down the driveway, Mrs. Page called after her, “When you see Etta, don’t say anything. She’s feeling foolish.”

  Libby walked up to Celery’s house and knocked on the door. She opened it and called, “Is Celery ready?”

  Mr. Travis was in the kitchen, clearing up the breakfast things. “He’s in the bathroom — for the third time since he said he was going down to meet you.” He called, “Celio, your girlfriend’s here.”

  Libby tossed her head. “I am not his girlfriend.”

  “I’m just teasing.”

  Libby heard the toilet flush, and a few seconds later, Celery appeared. He was even paler than usual.

  “Well?” said Mr. Travis. “Do you want to stay home?”

  Celery shook his head.

  Mr. Travis gave him a quick hug. “You’ll call me if you change your mind — right? And I’ll come straight over and get you.”

  As they walked down the hill, Libby told Celery about Etta.

  Celery said, “I thought she didn’t care about the test.”

  “Me, too.”

  Etta was waiting at the end of her driveway. Instead of kicking around a soccer ball, or practising cartwheels, or pretending to play her bass guitar, she was sitting slumped over on her backpack, her elbows on her knees and her chin in her hands.

  It was a warm morning, but Etta was wearing a red Toronto FC toque pulled low over her ears. As they approached, she rose without saying a word. She trailed silently between them, and they walked like that all the way to school.

  Mr. Knott was waiting by the door when they arrived. “We’re about to start the test. You’ll be just in time if we hurry.” He escorted them down the hallway towards Miss Nightingale’s classroom. “I know you always walk to school together, so I guessed if I contacted just one of your parents, I’d learn if you were coming. Your father said you were late leaving, Libby, because you were worrying about the test, but there’s no reason to. Maybe you could learn to be like Etta, who —”

  Libby elbowed Mr. Knott hard. She didn’t know where she found the nerve. She had aimed to elbow him in the ribs, but caught him at the top of his thigh. He looked down at her, startled. She shook her head fiercely at him, and rolled her eyes in the direction of Etta’s toque.

  Etta, with her head down, didn’t notice. Libby thought she probably hadn’t heard, anyway. She wouldn’t have heard if a rhinoceros had galloped down the hallway.

  The principal followed the direction of Libby’s rolling eyes. He frowned and raised his eyebrows at the sight of the red toque. Libby made snipping motions with her fingers and pointed at her own hair. Mr. Knott opened his mouth to say something, but nothing came out.

  As they continued on their way, Libby wondered what was so strange about the school. Then she realized what was wrong. It was silent. They were passing the primary classrooms, which were usually filled with activity and voices. But today, they were empty.

  Mr. Knott explained, “The little ones are all in the gym this morning, so they don’t disturb you as you take the test.”

  At the end of the hallway, where the elementary classrooms started, there was a rope strung between two posts.

  Mr. Knott lifted it to let them through, saying, “We have the whole grade five area roped off to make sure no one comes this way and disturbs you.”

  Celery asked, “Where are all the grade threes and fours?”

  “They’re watching a movie in the cafeteria. And there’ll be no recess this morning, so you won’t be disturbed by noise from the playground. We want you to have perfect conditions for taking the test, so you’ll be sure to get good marks.”

  Mr. Knott spoke in a low voice, as if he was in church.

  It’s like a prison, Libby thought.

  After making their way past three SILENCE! TESTING IN PROCESS! signs, they reached Miss Nightingale’s room. Their classmates were sitting in silence, with their arms folded. Test papers lay face down on the tables in front of them. The only signs of movement were Kyle Hanley’s hand straining to reach his hair from his folded-arms position, and Emma Binns’ rocking.

  Professor Brayne stood at the front of the class, looking from his watch to the students.

  Miss Nightingale smiled. “There you are!”

  After the empty hallways, and in the silence of the classroom, it sounded as if she was shouting.

  Professor Brayne glared at her and said, “Sssshh.”

  As they walked to their seats, Libby felt Etta’s hand creep into hers. Celery took her other hand, and they held them until they were seated.

  Everyone was looking at them — and at Etta’s red toque.

  13

  Sparkles

  Libby woke early on Monday morning. She waited for the familiar fear she had felt every morning since Mr. Knott announced that the test was to be done again.

  But the fear didn’t come.

  At least, it didn’t arrive as savagely as it had for the last few weeks.

  It amazed her that she had lasted the past month with the fear hanging over her. She pushed away the memory of rewriting the test — of Professor Brayne refusing to allow Celery to go to the washroom unless Miss Nightingale went with him; of the clumps of hair on Kyle Hanley’s desk; of Emma Binns throwing up on her way out of class at the end; of Etta’s toque-covered head hanging low over her paper; of Professor Brayne, his eyes on his watch, saying, “You have two minutes in which to complete the test . . . You have one minute . . . You have ten seconds . . .”

  Libby had found herself holding her breath throughout the final countdown.

  “10–9–8–7–6–5–4–3–2–1. Pencils down!”

  Now there was nothing she could do except wait for her new mark.

  Downstairs, her father was setting bowls of cereal on the table.

  “Can I call Etta?” Libby asked him.

  “’Course you can, sweetie.”

  Libby hadn’t seen Etta since the test. Mrs. Page had arrived at Miss Nightingale’s classroom as soon as they finished. Mr. Knott and another man were with her, and Etta had left with them.

  Celery said the man was the school psychologist, and Libby had made the mistake of asking what a psychologist was.

  Celery had adjusted his big glasses on his nose. “A psychologist delves into the complex enigma of why we respond the way we do to everyday events, which —”

  Libby had rolled her eyes at Celery, and he’d stopped talking.

  The phone rang only once before Etta answered with her usual, “Yo.”

  Libby said, “Hey.”

  Etta sai
d, “Hey, you.”

  Then Libby didn’t know what to say. She tried, “What’s up?”

  “Nothing,” said Etta. “What’s up with you?”

  “Nothing. What are you doing?”

  “Eating breakfast. What are you doing?”

  “Just about to eat breakfast.”

  “See you on the hill in fifteen?”

  “I guess.” Libby was about to put the phone down but stopped and added, “Hey.”

  “Hey what?”

  “You all right?”

  “Yeah.”

  Etta spoke as if she didn’t know what Libby was talking about.

  Halfway through the morning, Mr. Knott visited Miss Nightingale’s class. After praising the students for their hard work getting ready for the test, he told them that the results would be announced at Open House on Friday. “That’ll be exciting, won’t it, children?”

  Etta whispered, “Almost as exciting as watching my toenails grow.”

  Libby hoped that meant the old Etta was back. She’d been too quiet on the way to school. Mrs. Page had taken Etta to Dar’s Cuts ’N’ Styles on the weekend to have her hair styled in a sleek, short bob. Libby told her it looked cool. Celery had told her she looked like a supermodel.

  But at least the Underachievers were going to be playing at the Open House. Libby hoped that would make everything normal again with her friend.

  * * *

  Mr. Meek was bent over the sewing machine when Libby got home from school on Thursday. He was making alterations to the band outfits so that they would fit. The cashier at the thrift store had explained that they were costumes from a film production company that had gone out of business, and had been made for a Popsicle commercial that never aired.

  “I’ll have your outfits ready when you get home from practice. Bring Etta and Celery over, and you can try them on,” Mr. Meek told Libby as she headed to Ms. Cattermole’s for their final rehearsal.

  When Libby returned an hour later with her friends, she found her mother was home, helping Mr. Meek.

  “We’ve just finished,” her mother announced.