Claudia's Book

by Ann M. Martin

  Plus my life wasn’t the same as theirs anymore. For instance, there was the new language arts project that all the fourth-grade classes at SES were working on: each class was writing a play based on a book chosen by the class. Then they were going to rehearse a scene and present it at a special fourth-grade assembly.

  “Or it might be a whole school assembly,” Kristy said when I was at her house late one afternoon.

  “You should do Nancy Drew,” I said instantly.

  “We are going to have a class vote,” Kristy told me. “We each wrote down a favorite book and then Ms. Jameson is making a list of them and we’re going to vote on them. The book that gets the most votes, wins.”

  “I would have written down Nancy Drew,” I said.

  “I think my class is going to do The Wizard of Oz,” said Mary Anne.

  “You’d make a great Dorothy,” I said. I meant it, too. With her bangs and braids, Mary Anne would have looked just like Dorothy.

  “I want to do Harriet the Spy,” said Kristy. “And be Harriet.”

  “I could never be in the play,” said Mary Anne.

  “You could be a director or writer or costume designer,” said Kristy. “Or make the scenery.”

  Costume designer. Making scenery. Right away, I could think of a million ideas. Those were things I could have done, if I’d still been a part of my class. If Ms. Jameson hadn’t betrayed me. If my parents hadn’t made me go to another school.

  I listened to Kristy and Mary Anne talking. The project sounded like so much fun. But it didn’t matter. I wasn’t a part of all that anymore.

  A little while later, I left. Mary Anne and Kristy were still talking excitedly about the play. They didn’t notice that I hadn’t had a thing to say.

  I didn’t go to Kristy’s again for a couple of days. I admit, it was sort of a test to see if they’d even noticed I was gone.

  They did. Kristy called me on the third afternoon the moment I walked in the door (she must have been watching my house from hers).

  “Where’ve you been?” she demanded when I answered. She didn’t even say hello.

  “Kristy?” I asked, pretending to be surprised.

  “You know it’s me,” she said. “Where have you been?”

  “At school. With no one to talk to. Ever. Then I come home. And sometimes I talk to Mimi. Or even Janine, if she’s not studying.”

  “Why don’t you come over? Now,” said Kristy. “Mary Anne’s coming over in a little while, too.”

  “Why don’t you come over here?” I burst out. “Why don’t you and Mary Anne ever come over here anymore?”

  “We do,” said Kristy.

  “You don’t.”

  “We … ” Her voice trailed off. “Oh. I guess we haven’t. Gosh, Claudia, it’s just ’cause we walk home from school together and plan to go to my house — or Mary Anne’s, when she doesn’t have some goofy baby-sitter.”

  I sighed. I knew it was true. I knew that my friends weren’t forgetting about me on purpose.

  “Can we come over today?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  Not too much later, Kristy and Mary Anne came to my house. We decided to make chocolate chip cookies. It was fun. We laughed and giggled and added weird flavorings to the cookies and then we sat around and ate them. Kristy told a funny story about Louie stealing a loaf of bread that her mother had just opened and put on the kitchen table. He’d run through the house shaking the bag and scattering slices of bread everywhere and then run back through it, trying to eat them as he ran (and to keep from being caught).

  “Did he get in trouble?” asked Mary Anne, her eyes round.

  “Not really,” said Kristy. “Louie’s a dog and Mom said dogs make mistakes. She said it’s the same as if a two-year-old pulled the bread off the table. A two-year-old doesn’t know that’s wrong and neither did Louie, until she told him. And he thought we were playing a game when we were chasing him. Mom said next time she’ll know not to put the bread on the table when Louie’s sitting right there watching every move she makes.”

  We laughed. Then Mary Anne sighed. “I wish my father would let me get a pet.”

  We talked about that and for awhile I forgot how out-of-things I felt. But inevitably talk went back to what was happening at SES — the play.

  But this time I didn’t wait for Mary Anne and Kristy to get started. “Hey,” I said. “Could you guys not talk about the play? It makes me feel left out. And that makes me feel crummy.”

  Mary Anne’s face turned pink. Even Kristy looked surprised.

  “It does? But I thought you liked the idea.”

  “I do. Or I would if I was part of it. But I’m not.” I felt a lump come into my throat. “I’m not part of your school anymore.”

  “You’re still our friend,” said Mary Anne instantly. She understood what the problem was.

  “And you can help us with our plays,” said Kristy. “I could ask Ms. Jameson if —”

  I shook my head. “No, it’s not the same.” Then I burst out, “I hate going to Stamford. I hate it worse than anything I’ve ever hated in my life. Those little classes make me feel like the teachers are following me around and watching me all the time.”

  “Maybe you could talk to your parents,” said Kristy. “Tell them how disgusting and yucky Stamford is. Tell them if they’ll let you come back to SES you’ll work really really hard. Triple harder than you’ve ever worked.”

  “We could help,” said Mary Anne. “We’ll tell them that, too.”

  “Maybe,” I said.

  “It can’t hurt,” urged Kristy.

  “Maybe,” I said again. But I didn’t have much hope.

  As it turned out, I was right.

  I talked to my parents. That night. After dinner. It was a good dinner, so I figured they’d be in a good mood.

  “You know, Claudia,” said my father before I could even get started, “we’ve been meaning to talk to you, to tell you how pleased we are with the progress you’re making at Stamford.”

  My mother said, “Wonderful progress, in fact. We’re getting such good reports from all your teachers. I know it’s been difficult, but you’ve worked hard. We’re both very proud of you.”

  “But I hate Stamford,” I managed to say.

  My father frowned. My mother frowned.

  “Hate is a strong word, Claudia. Have you given the school a chance? How could you hate a place where you are doing so well?”

  “Please let me go back to Stoneybrook,” I begged. “All my friends are there. My whole life is there. At Stamford all I do is schoolwork. Soon Mary Anne and Kristy won’t be my friends anymore and I won’t have any friends. It’s not worth it. If you let me go back to Stoneybrook, I’ll work really, really hard. Triple hard. I’ll —”

  My father reached out and took my hands in his. “Claudia, settle down. Try to understand it from our point of view. We want what’s best for you. We don’t want you to feel left behind or not adequate because you perhaps learn at a different pace or in a different way from other kids your own age. At Stamford, that won’t happen. You’ll learn what you need to learn to get along in the world, to do well. To have a happy future. And if you’ll give Stamford a chance, I think you could be happy in the present.”

  It was hopeless. I could see that. I pulled my hands free of my father’s.

  “If you’ll excuse me,” I said. “I have homework to do.”

  “How’s your art project going?” That was my art teacher. She’d never asked me that before. I guess she’d never felt as if she had to.

  But then, I’d been sitting in front of a blank piece of posterboard for the last two days, staring at nothing. I’d planned a collage, a “living doll” made up of magazine clippings of elegant models and bits of cloth for clothing and old pieces of jewelry. I was even going to glue one of those scratch-and-sniff perfume ads to the poster.

  After my parents had said absolutely no to my going back to SES, I’d lost interest in the project
. I guess I’d always thought, in the back of my mind, that if I did really well at SAA, and proved that I could do the work, they’d let me return to my old school. Now it looked as though I were never going back. I was stuck at Stamford Alternative Academy for life.

  “Fine,” I said. I picked up a model’s head that I’d cut out of a magazine and glued it onto the posterboard at random. “Just fine.”

  I told Kristy and Mary Anne what had happened. Then I told them that I had a lot of extra schoolwork and I couldn’t do anything with them for awhile. They continued to call anyway.

  But the calls grew fewer and further between as they became more and more involved in their play projects.

  I didn’t have any extra work. Oh, I had plenty of work to do, don’t get me wrong. The work load at SAA was pretty heavy. But that didn’t bother me. I’d always worked hard at school, even when I wasn’t getting the answers right.

  But I had no extra work. I think I’d simply decided, somewhere deep inside, that because I was stuck at SAA, my friendship with Kristy and Mary Anne was through. And instead of letting it die a slow, painful death, it was better to get it over with all at once.

  My parents were thrilled with how studious I’d become. I did every homework assignment. I studied for all my tests.

  Had I become a mutant Claudia — the world’s most perfect student? Was I actually getting hooked on schoolwork because I had nothing else to do?

  No. But when I didn’t do my work, the response of my new teachers was so unpleasant, it was practically unbearable. They weren’t mean. They didn’t yell. They didn’t hold up papers with big, red, awful marks on them.

  Instead, we had conferences.

  We talked about why I didn’t do my homework, and whether I should tell my parents, or whether I’d be able to “uphold my contract” to do my work without talking to my parents. They asked me for my “input.” Was there some approach I could suggest that would be more useful?

  They looked hurt.

  I hated all that. I hated it because I didn’t feel as if they really cared about me. It was as if they were reading from a book about how to deal with a problem student. I wanted to say, fine, tell my parents. That’s what you’re threatening to do, anyway, isn’t it?

  But I didn’t.

  I did my homework.

  I came home from school and I went straight upstairs to my room and I did my homework. Then I sat at my desk and stared out the window. Or I lay on my back on the floor with my feet on the side of the bed and stared at the ceiling. Sometimes I just lay on my bed until I fell asleep.

  At first my parents were pleased with their perfect little student. But not Mimi. When I didn’t sit with her in the kitchen one day for an afternoon snack she came up to my room to see if I was all right. She knocked and I said come in. I’d been sitting at my desk, getting started on my math homework.

  “Are you feeling well?” asked Mimi, standing just outside my open door.

  “I have a lot of homework,” I told her. “And I’m not really hungry.”

  Mimi’s forehead wrinkled. “Maybe when you have finished … ”

  “Yes,” I agreed quickly. “As soon as I’ve finished.”

  But of course, when I finished I didn’t join Mimi. I didn’t call Mary Anne or Kristy. I didn’t work on my own art projects, or hunt for hidden snacks stored around my room.

  I sat there. At first I tried to think, but my brain felt fuzzy, clouded, and gray. After awhile I just sat.

  Mimi must have said something to my parents. A few days later, when my mother picked me up after school, she took me out for ice cream.

  “Let’s be extravagant,” she said. “You’ve worked so hard, you need to play a little. Maybe we could even do a little shopping when we’ve finished our ice cream.”

  She ordered a chocolate sundae made with chocolate fudge mint ice cream and double whipped cream and nuts.

  I ordered a scoop of vanilla.

  “Are you sure?” asked my mother. “I thought you liked pistachio. Or what about a sundae? Or a dipped cone?”

  I shrugged. “Vanilla. In a cup.”

  “So how is school?” asked my mom as we sat down with our ice creams.

  I shrugged again.

  “You’re doing very well. Keeping up with your work.”

  “Yeah.”

  “But you can’t forget your friends. I haven’t seen Kristy or Mary Anne around.”

  “They’re busy,” I said. “They have a school play.”

  “That sounds like fun.”

  “Yes, it sounds like they’re having lots of fun,” I couldn’t resist answering.

  We didn’t go shopping. (For the first and probably last time in the history of the world I didn’t want to shop.) I told my mom I had to do my homework. So we went home. I said hi to Mimi and told her Mom and I had gone to get ice cream, so I wasn’t hungry for an after-school snack. Mimi smiled and looked pleased.

  I went upstairs to my room. I did my home-work. I lay down on my bed and stared at the ceiling until I fell asleep.

  It wasn’t too long after that when I began to like sleeping an awful lot. One night, I was working on a book report and even though it was way too early for bed, I felt my eyelids drooping. I decided to lie on my bed for just a minute.

  The next thing I knew, Mimi was bending over me. “It is time for sleep, my Claudia,” she said. “But I see that you have begun.”

  I couldn’t help but smile. I yawned hugely. “Is it late?” I asked. “I was doing my homework and I guess I fell asleep.”

  “Bedtime,” said Mimi.

  “I need to finish my book report,” I told her. “It won’t take long.”

  She nodded and touched my forehead. “Do not stay up too late.”

  I didn’t. I changed into my pajamas. I looked at the book report. I felt even sleepier than before. So I went back to bed.

  The conference I had with my language arts teacher wasn’t fun. But I was so out of it that I didn’t care. I felt as if I were listening to her from across a valley. I could see her lips move. I could hear her voice. But the words didn’t matter.

  I didn’t quit doing my work in school. I kept gluing things to my collage. But I could see that the collage didn’t make any sense. It looked like something a baby would make, scattered fragments that didn’t mean anything. My art teacher seemed disturbed. But at least she didn’t make me have one of those conferences.

  The day after I didn’t finish my book report, I fell asleep the moment I got home from school. My father’s voice calling “Dinner!” is what woke me.

  After dinner I went back upstairs and stared out the window for a long time at the dark. Then I put on my pajamas. When Mimi came to say good night, I was already asleep.

  We had more conferences at school. I nodded. I agreed with everything everybody said.

  But I couldn’t feel anything at all.

  My parents came to the school. They had conferences. Then they had a conference with me.

  I was sitting at my desk in my room with my book open when my mother and father came in. I wasn’t reading. I was staring down at the scramble of letters and words on the page and feeling tired. I was as unhappy as I had ever been in my life.

  “You’ve been doing so well, Claudia,” said my father. “Don’t you want to continue doing well?”

  “I guess,” I said.

  “You can’t if you don’t do your homework. Your teachers say that you’ve had conferences with them and agreed to all their suggestions. But you’re still not doing your work.”

  “I’m trying,” I said desperately. “I really am.”

  And it was true.

  “Your art teacher said you seem to have lost interest in your project,” said my mother.

  I looked at my parents. “Art?” I said as if it were a word in another language. “I guess I’m not interested in being an artist anymore.”

  A small silence followed that announcement. Then my mother said, “Well, I know
you’ve got a lot of work to do. We won’t keep you.”

  When my parents left, I put my head down on my desk. I felt tears slide out of the corner of my eyes and run down my nose onto my arms folded under my head. Quiet, slow, tired tears.

  I didn’t cry long, though. I just fell asleep.

  * * *

  I wasn’t trying to fail. I knew that failing at SAA wouldn’t mean that I’d get sent back to SES. I wasn’t trying to make my parents or Mimi worry. I wasn’t trying to do anything at all. I just didn’t care anymore and even the thought of trying to try made me tired and sad.

  I don’t know how long I felt like that. I remember one Saturday afternoon, my mom knocked on my door and told me I had company. I sat up (I’d been lying on my back with my feet on the bed) and said, “Come in.”

  Kristy and Mary Anne walked in. “Hey!” Kristy practically shouted. “Long time no see!”

  “Hi, Claudia,” said Mary Anne softly.

  “Hi,” I said. Then I couldn’t think of anything else to say. I saw my mother hovering in the doorway.

  “How is everything?” asked Kristy.

  I shrugged. What I wanted to do was lie down again. I thought for a moment. I couldn’t think of any reason not to. So I did.

  Kristy didn’t give up easily. “Have you done any new art projects?” she asked.

  “No,” I said to the ceiling. “I don’t like art anymore.”

  It was Mary Anne, not Kristy, who spoke loudly this time. “But you love it! More than anything. More than even junk food.”

  The door closed quietly. My mother had left.

  I managed to shrug again, even though I was lying on the floor.

  Kristy and Mary Anne tried. They really did. But they didn’t stay long. I didn’t walk them down the stairs to say good-bye. In my mind, I’d already said good-bye to them a long time before. So I stayed where I was, staring at the ceiling until it was time for dinner. Someday when I grew up maybe I’d have friends again. Maybe I’d take art lessons, too. But until then, I was just fine. All I wanted was to be left alone.