Elfie Unperfect

by Kristin Mahoney

  Inside room 128, I saw “Elfie Oster” written on a paper falcon taped to a table at the back of the room, so I sat there, between a girl (also wearing a baby bird sticker) whose falcon said “Sierra Nichols” and a boy whose falcon said “Colton Palmer.”

  “Hey,” Sierra said, looking at my sticker. “You’re new too?”

  “Yes. I mean, I was here for my tour, of course. But I’ve never gone to school here before.”

  Sierra smiled. “Glad I’m not the only one. This is a cool room, huh?”

  I nodded. This room was nothing like Ms. Puckett’s classroom, or any of the classrooms at Cottonwood. Hampshire Academy was a really old school, but almost everything in it was brand-new. The desks, the chairs, the shiny floors, the sofa and rug in the meeting area: they all looked like they belonged in a magazine called Prestigious Academy Living. On a side counter I noticed microscopes and test tubes that also looked shiny and new. Even the emergency eyewash station looked state-of-the-art. It was heaven.

  A woman with chin-length brown hair and metal-framed glasses walked in and stood at the front of the room. I assumed she was our teacher because she was wearing a Hampshire Falcons shirt.

  She tapped the Smart Board, and this sign came up:

  Good morning, Hampshire Academy!

  Welcome to fifth grade!

  —Olivia McKee

  P.S. A special welcome to our two Eyasses, Elfie and Sierra!

  Sierra leaned toward me without taking her eyes off the teacher. “Is she calling us asses?” she whispered. I didn’t know what to say. It sort of seemed that way.

  Colton Palmer leaned toward us both. “It says ‘Eyasses,’ ” he said, as though that was much better. “It’s what baby falcons are called,” he explained.

  “Ohhh,” said Sierra. She wrote “eyasses = baby falcons” in her notebook. I did the same.

  The teacher smiled. “Colton, can you share what you just said with the whole group? It’s a good reminder for anyone who hasn’t had an Eyass in their class in a while.”

  Colton stood up. “Okay. That word on Olivia’s sign—Eyasses—means ‘baby falcons.’ It’s what kids who are new to Hampshire are called. Since falcons are our mascot.”

  I had so many questions. If Colton was calling this woman Olivia (and not Ms. McKee), was she not the teacher? And how did they seem so familiar with each other already, on the first day of school? I was about to learn a few surprising things about Hampshire Academy.

  After Colton told us what eyasses are, the teacher said, “I’m Olivia McKee, and I’ll be your homeroom teacher this year. I also teach science. You’ll go to different classes for math, social studies, and language arts.” She looked directly at Sierra and me and added, “Please call me Olivia; all teachers here go by their first names.”

  Whoa. I’d never heard of that before. I couldn’t imagine calling a teacher by her first name; it felt super weird. I didn’t even know the first names of most of my teachers at Cottonwood.

  “A lot of what we do at Hampshire is collaborative learning, meaning we work together to discover things as a group,” Ms. Mc—I mean, Olivia said. “We’re going to do a fun group project today to kick off our year of scientific discovery.”

  Based on my experiences at Cottonwood, I would never have put the word fun with group project. I would sooner put the word fun with flu shot. Or onion pancake. Or Scutigera coleoptrata.

  It was hard to say what the worst part of group projects was. Sometimes it was the fact that none of the other kids had any ideas and I had to do all the work but share the credit with people who did nothing. Other times the problem was that everyone had ideas and no one would listen to mine. Especially not Jenna.

  I’d tried explaining this to Mom once, the day I found out I was accepted to Hampshire. That was probably a mistake.

  “Why don’t you like working with Jenna?” she asked.

  But then she interrupted me before I could even start.

  “Oh, wait…please don’t tell me this is about the Betsy Ross Incident,” she said. “Just because Jenna got a better grade than you on something back in November?”

  I sighed.

  “Mom, do you remember what actually happened in November?”

  Now it was Mom’s turn to sigh. “Not really, honey. Can you remind me?”

  I took an even deeper breath.

  “In November, I had to do a group project on Colonial America with Jenna and Elijah. I was the writer and the director. And I did all the research.”

  “Weren’t they supposed to help you with that?” Mom asked.

  “Yes, they were,” I answered. “But they were so slow with the research. And they were using all the wrong websites for sources. Finally I just told them I would do all of it. It was easier that way.”

  Mom pursed her lips and nodded, waiting for me to continue.

  “I told them exactly what they had to do for every part of the skit. And I told Jenna to make sure she spoke extra clearly when she said the best line I wrote.”

  “And what was that?” Mom asked.

  “Well, Jenna was Betsy Ross and Elijah was George Washington,” I explained. “After Elijah said, ‘What should go on the blue part of the flag?’ Jenna was supposed to stand up, point her sewing needle at him, and say, ‘They should be stars. Just like YOU, Mr. President!’ ”

  Mom nodded again. “So that isn’t what she did?” she asked.

  “No, that’s not what she did at all. She destroyed the skit. Ruined the whole thing. Because after Elijah said, ‘What should go on the blue part of the flag?’ instead of saying her line like she was supposed to, Jenna looked at the crowd, smiled, then pointed her needle at Elijah and said, ‘I’ll tell you when I’m done! Stop needling me, will ya!’ ”

  I saw a glimmer in Mom’s eyes. “Don’t you dare laugh,” I said. “Everyone else laughed that day, but you can’t.” And they had. The rest of the kids in the class had laughed. The kids from the other visiting fourth-grade classes had laughed. Ms. Puckett and Principal Kleinhoffer had positively cracked up. I had felt dizzy and sick.

  “Okay, okay,” Mom said. “So that was it? Jenna changed one line?”

  I tried to explain. “She changed my best line. It was perfect until she did that. She totally messed it up. And everyone loved it. And somehow that got her a better grade than mine.”

  “I see. Did you find out why her grade was better than yours?”

  “Ms. Puckett gave me good marks for research and writing, but Jenna got higher scores than me for creativity and participation. And she barely even participated! She always gets what she wants without even trying.”

  “I don’t think that’s true,” Mom said. “Things aren’t always so smooth for Jenna.”

  “I disagree. Things are actually always very smooth for Jenna. Everyone thinks she’s funny. Everyone thinks she’s cute, so she gets away with everything. And when she does get in a little bit of trouble, she doesn’t care. Nothing bothers her.”

  “I think you’d be surprised,” Mom said. “Jenna doesn’t always have an easy time in school. Uncle Rex told me she was so proud of the grade she got on that project.”

  “Well, it was totally unfair,” I said. “And it definitely helped convince me I should be at a different school.”

  Mom reached out and smoothed my hair behind my ears. “Elf, I’m excited for you, for the opportunities you’ll have at Hampshire. That’s why Dad and I agreed to let you switch to a school like that, with smaller classes and more resources. We know you’ll get to do things there that you didn’t do at Cottonwood. But you should know there will always be things you think are unfair, no matter where you are.”

  * * *

  • • •

  I didn’t tell Mom about the other thing that happened on the day I asked Ms. Puckett about our gra
des. That when Jenna found out I’d told the teacher about her changing the script, she was mad. Really mad.

  “Why did you have to tell Ms. Puckett about the line change?” she asked.

  “I wanted her to know it wasn’t right,” I said. “I worked really hard on that script.”

  “Everyone knows how hard you work, Elfie,” Jenna said. “It’s like the only thing everyone knows about you. You work hard and get perfect grades. You’re famous for it. Why couldn’t you let me get a better grade than you, just this once?”

  “It didn’t seem fair,” I explained. “I wanted it to be fair.”

  “God, Elfie, you’re such a tattletale,” Jenna had said that day before storming off to the bus. Then she had turned around and added, “No wonder you don’t have any friends.”

  Of course that hurt a little. Because I was just trying to stand up for myself. And because Jenna was my cousin. But mostly it hurt because she was right.

  I tried to shake off the Betsy Ross memory and think positively. After all, this was Hampshire Academy, a place of Honor and Excellence. Certainly group projects would be different here, and no one would say my ideas were boring. No one would take credit for my work. No one would add jokes to my scripts at the last minute. I decided to keep an open mind and wait for the Honor and Excellence to work their magic.

  “You’ve done a lot of sitting this morning,” Teacher Olivia said, “so before we start the group project, why don’t you take a minute to stretch and get some water if you need to. When we come back to our seats, I think it would be a good idea to do quick introductions with the other students at your table. I’d like you to give them two pieces of information: your name and your favorite thing about Hampshire Academy. Elfie and Sierra, since you’re our brand-new Eyasses, you can instead talk about why you wanted to come to Hampshire Academy.”

  As I waited in line for the water fountain (clean and shiny, with a special bottle-filling attachment), I thought about how I’d answer that second question. Why did I want to go to Hampshire Academy? I wasn’t sure where to begin. There were so many reasons. I’d first started thinking about it when my math coach, Mr. Abrams, told my parents he thought I would “thrive” at a school like Hampshire, with “unlimited resources” and a “brilliant” math and science program. When Mom and Dad said they thought I was thriving just fine at Cottonwood—and for a lot less money, since it was a public school—Mr. Abrams told them that Hampshire gave financial aid to students who demonstrated need. I could tell Dad started thinking about it then, but Mom still wasn’t convinced. Then she poked around online and saw that the average class size at Hampshire was just twelve kids. And that the cafeteria served organic apples. (Organic apples are a big thing for Mom. She always says she’d buy all organic food if we could afford it, but it’s expensive, so she has to pick and choose. But she read somewhere that it’s especially important to get organic apples, because pesticides can soak through their thin skin. So that’s what we get. Some parents splurge on expensive shoes or devices…my mom buys organic apples.) Anyway, she began taking the idea more seriously.

  That’s how Mom and Dad started thinking about Hampshire. I was hooked as soon as Mr. Abrams mentioned it. Even though Mom and Dad said I was “thriving” at Cottonwood, I wasn’t so sure. I mean, I always got good grades (perfect grades, really), but wouldn’t real “thriving” include more than that?

  So when Olivia (so weird to think of a teacher by her first name) asked us to return to our seats and share our reasons for going to Hampshire with our tablemates, I didn’t know what to say. I’d just met Colton and Sierra. How could I tell them that I hoped I’d fit in here? That I’d been told I could “thrive”? That my mom was excited about the organic apples?

  Luckily, I didn’t have to go first. Colton started right away, in a bored voice that made it sound like he’d answered this question a hundred times already.

  “I guess my favorite thing about Hampshire is the fields. We have way better soccer and lacrosse fields than Robbins Country Day School. They don’t even have concession stands there!”

  I didn’t have any response to that. Cottonwood didn’t have “fields”; it just had a playground. And definitely no concession stands. Sierra seemed to be at a similar loss for words.

  Colton sighed, like he couldn’t believe he was stuck at a table with two Eyasses who didn’t care about lacrosse fields and concession stands.

  “Okay, one of you guys go,” he said in a bored voice. “You’re supposed to say why you came here.”

  “Oh, okay,” I said. “Well, it’s just a really good school.”

  “Right,” Colton said. “Obviously.”

  But Sierra nodded. “Same reason for me,” she said. I felt an urge to high-five her. “Plus, I love science, and they have a great science program; look at all that cool equipment.”

  That was a good answer. I’d been eyeing the science equipment ever since walking into the classroom; why hadn’t I thought to say that? Sierra seemed like someone I could be friends with—real, actual friends.

  I started planning how that could go. Since she liked science too, Sierra could come to my house and I’d show her my collection of rocks and minerals. We could even have a sleepover and use my telescope. And I wouldn’t have to worry about her touching my things because she seemed to understand how valuable scientific equipment is.

  I imagined we’d have so much fun that Sierra would also invite me to sleep over at her house. I wondered what her house was like. Maybe she had an even better rock and mineral collection than I did. Hold on…maybe she had an earthworm habitat! (An earthworm habitat is something I’ve always wanted, but Mom and Dad always say no. They claim that if I’m afraid of the cave crickets in our laundry room, I shouldn’t have pet earthworms, ignoring my explanation that crawly insects are a completely different thing from slithery invertebrates. I’d be a great earthworm habitat owner. At least I think I would. Probably.)

  “What about you?” Sierra asked Colton. “Why did you come to school here?”

  “I’m not supposed to answer that question,” Colton said. “I’m not new.”

  “Yeah, but I’m just curious,” Sierra said. “Besides, I think we have time.” She gestured toward Teacher Olivia, who seemed to be deep in conversation with a group at the front of the room.

  Colton sighed again. “I’ve always known I’d go to Hampshire Academy. My dad went here. So did my grandfather and my uncle. My sister still goes here; she’s in the upper school.” (The “upper school” is what Hampshire calls high school. I guess that explained how Colton and the teacher knew each other; maybe she had also taught his sister.)

  I had another question. “But how did you know for sure that you’d get in?” Hampshire Academy has a very selective admissions policy. I had to write an essay, get recommendation letters from my teachers at Cottonwood, meet an admissions officer for an interview, and take a test. I didn’t know I’d get in until the day I got my acceptance letter. And then we had to wait to see if I’d get the scholarship I needed, since Mom and Dad couldn’t pay for it on their own.

  But Colton laughed at my question. “I just knew, okay? Do you guys know what the library here is called?”

  “The Palmer Library,” Sierra said.

  “Right,” Colton said. “Did you happen to catch my last name?”

  I glanced at the falcon with his name on the table again. “Palmer.”

  “Right again.” Colton nodded. “That library is state-of-the-art, and it pretty much wouldn’t exist without big donations from my grandfather. There’s no way I wasn’t getting in.”

  I didn’t realize that, that you could automatically go to a private school just because someone in your family donated money to it. It didn’t seem fair.

  * * *

  • • •

  But I wouldn’t get to find out how state-of-the-ar
t the library was, or how amazing the science equipment was, or if Sierra was going to be my first real school friend, since it turned out that I only had a few hours left as a Hampshire Falcon. I would never even make it past being an Eyass.

  After we finished our awkward introductions, Teacher Olivia said it was time for a team-building science challenge. I wasn’t fooled; I knew that was just another way of saying “group project.” Still, I tried to be optimistic. I wasn’t so sure how helpful Colton would be, but Sierra was a promising partner.

  Olivia gave each table two bags of marshmallows and a box of toothpicks. She walked back to the front of the class, looked at us, and said, “These are your directions: Build the tallest structure you can. Use just your brains and your hands. No other tools.”

  A boy at the front of the room raised his hand. “What kind of structure?” he asked.

  “I have given you all the instructions you need,” Olivia said. “A tall structure. No tools. If you need more supplies, ask me; we have plenty. The rest is up to you.”

  This was already different from doing projects at Cottonwood. Ms. Puckett would probably have given us tons of instructions first, answered about fifty questions, and repeatedly told everyone not to eat the marshmallows. (That was another thing: we definitely wouldn’t have had unlimited supplies at Cottonwood; anyone who had a marshmallow craving or broke a toothpick would have been out of luck.)

  It was a little unsettling, jumping into a project with basically no directions. Especially since the ability to follow precise directions is one of my strong points. I could tell some of my classmates felt the same way, because I saw them looking around the room with confused faces, hoping to see what other groups were doing to get started.