Libby took her outfit upstairs and changed while the others waited in the kitchen.
She reappeared, hurling herself through the door. “Ta-da!”
Mr. and Mrs. Meek clapped. So did Etta. Celery did, too, but he looked unhappy.
Libby was bright orange from head to toe, in a sequined tunic top with a short, flared skirt over tights. She sparkled.
Etta disappeared upstairs to change, and from the kitchen, they heard her exclaim, “Wow. Cool!”
She thundered down the stairs and leaped through the kitchen door. “Meet . . . Glitter Girl!”
Etta’s outfit was like Libby’s, but bright red. She mimed playing her bass guitar, dancing and sparkling.
Libby said, “Your turn, Celery.”
He muttered, “I’m not wearing the purple Popsicle costume.”
“You don’t have to,” Libby promised.
He walked heavily upstairs with the garment bag that Mrs. Meek passed to him. They waited for what seemed a long time before he reappeared. When he finally came down, he was dressed in tight black pants and a high-waisted black jacket decorated with lots of sequins. With the sequins glittering against the black material, he sparkled even more than Libby and Etta.
Celery declared firmly, “I am not appearing in public like this.”
“But it’s black, Celery, not purple,” said Etta. “Black’s not exactly colourful.”
“But the sparkles . . .”
“They’re called sequins. Rock stars wear them,” Libby assured him.
“Maybe the outfit’s okay,” Celery said. “But no sparkles. I draw the line at sparkles.”
“What’s wrong with sparkles?” Libby demanded.
“Nothing’s wrong with sparkles,” said Celery. “I’m just not a sparkly sort of guy.”
Libby and Etta, arms folded, looked at Celery, who blinked sadly at them through his big glasses.
The girls looked at one another, and back at Celery.
Finally Etta said, “He’s right. He’s not a sparkly sort of guy.”
“I guess not,” Libby sighed.
“Sorry,” said Celery.
“That’s all right,” said Etta. “We probably wouldn’t like you so much if you were a sparkly sort of guy.”
They all turned to Mr. Meek. “I’ll remove the sequins,” he promised.
Celery breathed, “Thank you.”
14
Angry Parents
At Open House, Libby sat at her table in Miss Nightingale’s classroom with Etta and Celery. The test papers they’d done for Professor Brayne were in front of them.
Libby was sucking her thumb, and she didn’t care who saw her.
Celery had been to the washroom twice, even though his mark was 99%.
Etta had scored 17%. Libby watched carefully in case her friend reached for the scissors in her desk.
Miss Nightingale had told the students to leave the tests in the envelopes, and not to look at them before their parents arrived. But the whole class ignored her instructions, and she didn’t seem to care.
Emma Binns was crying. Kyle Hanley was in the time-out chair because he threw his paper on the floor and stamped on it.
Libby let her eyes fall to her paper again.
Provincial Achievement Assessment
Student: Libby Meek
Student’s Score: 46%
Worse than last time. She really was an underachiever. The first test showed she was stupid, and the second showed she was even more stupid.
But so what?
Libby had decided she no longer cared about her marks. Like Etta.
Libby corrected herself. Like she had thought Etta didn’t care.
Last year at Open House, the classroom walls had been covered with paintings and stories and poems, and the tables filled with models and science experiments. She remembered the parents gathering in the gym to hear Mr. Knott say what wonderful work the children had done and what a good year it had been, and to listen to the choir.
But not this year. The walls and tables were bare, and the only evidence of work was the test papers on the desks.
She wondered what Mr. Knott would say this year.
And she wondered how the Underachievers would do. She didn’t feel in the mood to play music.
A group of parents, including Mr. and Mrs. Meek, entered and stood by the door. They all stared around at the bare room.
Miss Nightingale greeted them. “I’m sorry there’s not much to see. We haven’t had time for anything except the test.”
The parents moved into the classroom.
Libby covered her mark with her hand. Her parents stood on either side of her. Her father, leaning down, whispered, “Can we peek?”
Libby moved her hand just enough so her parents could see the mark.
Mr. Meek said, “Good girl.”
Mrs. Meek said, “Well done.”
Mr. Travis, standing over Celery, grinned and asked, “What happened to the one percent?”
Mrs. Page told Etta, “I don’t even want to see your mark because it doesn’t matter.”
Then the parents stood on one side of the room, staring at the bare walls and empty tables, and talking in quiet voices.
Libby rolled her eyes and muttered, “This is so-o-o boring.”
It was a relief when Miss Nightingale said, “Time to go to the gym.”
As the children lined up, Libby, Etta, and Celery slipped out to the change rooms to put on their band outfits. They took their places in the first row of seats in the gym. Their parents, along with Ms. Cattermole, who had promised to come to tonight’s performance, were right behind them.
Mr. Knott walked to the front of the assembly. His eyes shifted nervously between a paper in his hands and the audience. His face was frozen in a smile that was more like a scowl. Libby was surprised to see he was also holding a familiar orange file folder. She hadn’t thought about the Real-Life Test since they had left his office.
The principal shuffled his feet, took a deep breath, and started. “Boys and girls, parents,
welcome to our annual Open House. It has
been another busy year at Pleasant Harbour Elementary School, and . . .”
A parent — Libby couldn’t see who it was — interrupted. “What about the test?”
“Ah, yes, the grade five test,” said Mr. Knott. “I’d like to say something about that after I’ve given my overview of the school year. In September . . .”
“We want to hear about it now,” another parent called out.
Suddenly Mrs. Meek was on her feet, pointing a shaking finger at the principal. Libby slid low in her seat and covered her face with her hands.
“You and Professor Brayne promised the results would be better. You put our kids through a month of useless cramming — and the marks are just the same!”
Libby slid lower in her seat as Mr. Meek, also standing up, took over. “When the first results came out, Professor Brayne said our kids were underachieving. Now the results of the second test are the same. So does that mean our kids are underachievers?”
Professor Brayne, who had been standing at the side of the room, walked to the centre. “The test shows the students are not learning as well as they should. If you want to call that underachieving, I’m not going to argue with you.”
Emma Binns’s mother, almost in tears, wailed, “What’s wrong with our kids?”
“Maybe there is nothing wrong with our kids,” said Mr. Meek. “Maybe there is something wrong with the test.”
Professor Brayne shrugged. “Your children have been coached by a brilliant and experienced educator — myself — for a month. If they still can’t do well on a test, I suggest the fault is not with the test, but with them.”
&n
bsp; “Meaning what?” demanded Mrs. Meek.
Professor Brayne sighed as if he was tired of explaining. “Meaning they simply don’t have the intelligence to benefit from good teaching.”
Kyle Hanley’s mother raged, “I suppose these marks mean you’ll want the kids to do the test again. Look what it did to our Kyle.” She hauled Kyle to his feet and ran her hand over his hair, revealing several bare patches on the side of his head.
Libby glanced at Etta. If they had to take the test again, would her friend cut her hair off again?
“I’ll tell you one thing,” said Mrs. Hanley. “If there’s going to be another test, our Kyle won’t be here to take it!”
Pulling Kyle by the hand behind her, she started to march out.
“Please . . .” Mr. Knott tried. “Let me just
say . . .”
“We don’t care what you or Professor Brayne have to say,” Mrs. Page shouted. “We’ve heard enough.” She reached over the seat and grabbed Etta’s arm. She started after Mrs. Hanley, dragging Etta with her.
Mr. Meek said, “Come on, Libby. We’re leaving, too.”
Mr. Knott raised his voice. “But I have some questions here that may help us find a better test.”
He held up Libby’s orange folder.
“Wait!” Libby said. “That’s our test!”
Mr. and Mrs. Meek slowly returned to their seats as Mr. Knott read, “‘Three kids play in a band, one on piano, one on the cello, and one on bass. Is it better for them to stand and sit in an equilateral triangle or in an isosceles triangle? State the reasons for your choice.’” He turned to Professor Brayne. “Well?”
Mrs. Page and Mrs. Hanley stopped in the aisle, looking back.
“You can’t expect grade five students, especially the ones in Pleasant Harbour, to know about isosceles and equilateral triangles,” Professor Brayne scoffed.
“But what would your answer be?” Mr. Knott pressed.
“Obviously it would be an equilateral triangle, because it would look neater,” said Professor Brayne.
“That was my answer,” said Mr. Knott. “But, if you picture the members of the band in an equilateral triangle, you see that they wouldn’t be able to see one another. And they would need to see each other to play well together.”
Mr. Knott looked at the Real-Life Test again. “Here’s another question. ‘Three kids share their money. The first has $3.75, the second $2.45, and the third $4.20. How much can they spend on clothes, if they share equally? Hint: Don’t forget tax at 13%!’”
Professor Brayne chuckled mockingly, shaking his head. “That might be a good question for advanced students. But with calculations involving percentages, it’s too advanced for the grade five students around here.”
“Ah, but both questions were written by grade five students. Three grade five students who wrote the questions based on their experiences forming a band. They prove how much learning can be done just by doing something they really wanted to do. They’ve learned about triangles, and area, about addition, multiplication, and division, about percentages, about spelling and tangrams . . .”
Professor Brayne interrupted. “It’s all very well to say the questions come from the students’ interests. But all they prove is that the students who made them up can answer their own questions.”
“I thought about that,” said Mr. Knott. He looked at Libby. “What’s your worst subject?”
Libby looked at her parents. “Math, I guess.”
Mr. and Mrs. Meek nodded.
“The A above middle C on a piano is tuned so that it vibrates 440 times a second, correct?” said Mr. Knott.
“Of course,” said Libby.
“Can you tell me how fast the strings of all the A’s above that vibrate?”
“That would be 880, 1760, and 3520 vibrations a second,” said Libby right away. “Just double as you go up.”
“What about going down?”
“Just halve each time,” said Libby. “So, 220, 110, 55, and 27.5.”
“How can you work that out so fast?” Mr. Knott asked.
“I don’t know,” said Libby. “Maybe because I love to play the piano.”
Mr. Knott then turned to Etta. “What’s your worst subject?”
“Math — same as Libby,” said Etta.
“You’re a Toronto FC soccer fan, aren’t you?”
Etta jumped up and struck a pose, holding up both thumbs.
“I just read that Toronto FC needs ten points to be sure of qualifying for the playoffs. Do you think they’ll do it?”
“It depends,” said Etta. “They get three points for a win, one for a draw, and nothing if they lose. So they have to win three games, and at least draw the other game, to qualify.”
“That’s easy to work out,” said Mr. Knott.
Etta held up her hand. “But you have to take into account the goal average. Toronto’s nearest rivals are the New York Red Bulls, who need the same number of points, but have a better goal average. Their goal average is 1.63 and Toronto’s is 1.49. Now, the Bulls score, on average, 1.63 goals every game, and let in 0.87 goals. Toronto averages 1.69 goals but lets in, on average, 1.09 goals.” Etta paused to take a breath. “So — if both teams get ten points, the Bulls will qualify on goal average. But, if Toronto scores one more goal than the Bulls, they’ll qualify with a goal average of 1.64, against the Bulls’ 1.63.”
A stunned silence filled the gym.
“What?” Etta asked.
“How do you know all that?” said Mr. Knott.
Etta frowned. “It’s obvious, isn’t it?”
Professor Brayne had been shaking his head all through Mr. Knott’s questioning of Libby and Etta. Now he laughed scornfully. “Are you seriously suggesting that a test made up by three . . .” he paused, wrinkling up nose, “. . . children is better than one composed by me?”
“Maybe not better. But more relevant for students, and more helpful in encouraging their learning,” explained Mr. Knott patiently.
Mrs. Meek was the first of the parents to speak up. “Our children are better off without your ‘help’ — and without your tests,” she cried at Professor Brayne.
“Why don’t you go back to wherever you came from, Professor Garbage Brayne?” Mrs. Page shouted.
A murmur of agreement rose from the parents.
Professor Brayne glared around the room. His eyes fell on the Underachievers in the front row. He advanced on them and leaned over Libby, so close she could smell coffee on his breath. “You started this, with your stupid little test,” he snarled. “The only reason you did it was to undermine my authority, just like you tried to in class, with your smart-aleck questions and comments.”
At that, the usually calm Mr. Knott took Professor Brayne by the arm and tried to haul him to the side of the gym.
Libby, watching, giggled and said, “Mr. Knott is afraid our folks are going to attack Professor Brayne.”
“I think he’s right,” said Etta.
Professor Brayne, struggling to break free
of the principal’s grip, ranted on, “I became a teacher so that I could share my brilliance, but my students were like the students here — too stupid to learn.”
Mr. Knott dragged him through the gym towards the back door. Professor Brayne was still yelling. “I had to start making up tests so I could prove how stupid they were.”
Mr. Knott pushed Professor Brayne out through the gym door and turned towards the audience, shaking his head. Professor Brayne wailed, “No one understands how brilliant I am.” Just before the heavy door slammed shut behind him, Libby thought she saw the professor’s thumb rise to his mouth.
Mr. Knott turned to face the crowd. His face was flushed. Everyone stared as he made his way past them to the front of the room.
Libby whispered, “Mr. Knott, say something!”
“Yes . . . well . . . er . . . Let’s have some music!” A smile broke across Mr. Knott’s face at last. “I’m very proud to present Pleasant Harbour Elementary’s very own — and very smart overachievers — the Underachievers!”
* * *
Libby, Etta, and Celery were in their band outfits. Libby was wearing her busker’s hat. They made their way to the corner of the Garden Café, where two tables had been pushed together for the Underachievers and their guests.
It was the first Saturday of the summer holidays. The café was crowded with tourists and residents of Pleasant Harbour, and more people were sitting on the lawn of the hotel, enjoying the sunny afternoon. Across Water Street, the sea sparkled, boats bobbed in the harbour, and gulls wheeled and screeched above the beach.
A sign announced:
BUSKERS’ FESTIVAL
TODAY!
A SPECIAL APPEARANCE BY
PLEASANT HARBOUR’S VERY OWN . . .
THE UNDERACHIEVERS!
Libby had explained to her friends, “No one needs to know we’re the only band in the Buskers’ Festival.”
It had been Ms. Cattermole’s idea. While they were clearing up after Open House, Mr. Knott had asked if they had another gig coming up. When Libby replied that they couldn’t think of anywhere else to play, Ms. Cattermole had said, “Have you heard of busking?”
Libby’s eyes had lit up. “I have a busker’s hat!”
Mrs. Meek had taken the idea to the hotel manager, who said he’d love to have the Underachievers play at the café.
And they’d even been offered all the free milkshakes they could drink.
After three shakes, the Band Manager announced, “It’s 1500 hours. Time to start.”
As they prepared to play, the Band Stylist ordered, “Libby, tidy your hair.”
“I tidied it already,” said Libby. “Twice.”
“It’s still a mess,” said the Stylist.
Libby's Got the Beat Page 7
