January, 2016

My Cat Is Smarter Than Your Honor Student!

I wanted to shake my head to clear it. My hearing must be going south… "I'm sorry—did you say held back?"

I hadn't cared for Lexi's second grade teacher from the start of the school year, but I'd kept a smile on my face and my thoughts to myself. But today the not quite smug, slightly superior smile on her face made me want to pop her one. I didn't care if she was a couple of years older than I and had come out of retirement to fill in when the regular teacher quit right before the start of the school year—older isn't always better.

"Many students daydream in class, go off-task… but Alexandra actually falls asleep in class! I've asked her numerous times if she went to bed on time…?" She gave me an expectant look.

"She goes to bed on time," I said, staunchly defending my daughter. Honesty compelled me to add—reluctantly, "She doesn't always stay there."

Another almost-smirk. "I can imagine it's difficult being an… older… parent." (Oh, drop dead.) "Some parents have to unplug the video games."

"Oh, she doesn't get up to play video games," I assured her. Her patronizing smile was plain: sur-r-r-re she doesn't. "We always read a book before bedtime—right now we're in the middle of The Secret Garden—the one with the Tasha Tudor illustrations? L—Alexandra will pull the book down and keep reading from where we left off. She's done it—well, it feels like forever. My husband or I will go upstairs, turn the light back off, tuck her back in bed… then ten minutes later the other of us will do the same thing. Five, six times a night. Donald—" (I carefully didn't say "Ducky"—Mrs. Keough is clearly not the nickname type.) "—says we should just take the book with us when we leave the room; I said half the fun of sneaking extra reading time was when my mother caught me and she should have the same memory."

"I'm sorry. I know you own a bookstore, you would want your child to be a good reader—"

"Want?"

"But the simple fact is that any time we're reading out of our books and it's Alexandra's turn, she is never on the correct page. She's thumbing through the book, looking at pictures—as I said, many times she's sleeping at her desk!"

I held on to my temper. "So… when she does get on the correct page, is she able to read along with the class?"

"Well—yes," she admitted. "But it's clear the text is beyond her."

I couldn't stop the snort. "Beyond? Highly unlikely."

That ruffled her pinfeathers. "Mrs. Mallard," she said, cool and firm, "if Alexandra's work does not improve, she will be held back next year."

I gave her a brittle smile. "Hold that thought." I walked over to the big patio doors and looked for Lexi. She was on the playground, playing a clap-hands-rhyme game with Teri, the friend who was going to be spending the weekend with us. I curved my thumb and middle finger in my mouth and whistled sharply. (It took Ray an entire summer to teach me to whistle like that. He was so proud when I finally got it down pat; the fact that my mother said it was unladylike made us both happy.) "Lex!" The girls stopped and looked up. "Could you come here? I just need you for a minute."

A hurried conversation, then: "Both of us?" she called back.

"No, just you. It'll just be a minute, then you can go back to your game." She tore up the stairs next to the grass slope, slowing down and entering the room at a polite speed. I noticed that she was very quiet. Silent, even; a far cry from first grade (Mrs. Itami had asked me if she had an off button—but she laughed when she asked). "Lexi… Mrs. Keough tells me you've been falling asleep in class." She looked down at the floor. "Have you been getting up at night, reading after Daddy and I have gone to bed?" She shook her head. "Lexi—I won't be angry if you have been. But I need to know the truth."

"No, Mommy." She looked up, blue eyes damp and brow scrunched. "Honest."

"I believe you. Then why are you falling asleep in class?" (Beyond why—how is my question? Who can sleep in a classroom of squirrelly second-graders?)

She shot a glance at her teacher—just a fraction of a millisecond—and looked back at the floor.

I sat down so I was closer to eye-level. "Honey, are you having problems reading your textbooks?"

She looked mildly uncomfortable. "No…"

"Do me a favor? Go get one of your schoolbooks and bring it here, please?" She probably figured her old lady was bonkers, but she did as she was asked. "Thank you. Ah. Science. What unit are you working on?"

She flipped to the table of contents. "The Solar System." She sounded about as enthusiastic as I would be over chaperoning a Scout campout… again. (In my defense, Carole Eloy had called me after Lexi, then Ducky and I, then Mother, then Lexi (again), then Mother (again) had passed around a bug—I was just coming down with it a second time, hadn't slept much for two weeks and was not in my right mind. The fact that I said 'yes' immediately and didn't squawk over helping corral 40-odd Brownies on a weekend trip to the mountains should have made her suspicious.) Astronomy. I was surprised; Tim McGee is a huge astronomy buff, and he and Abby had taken Lexi to a special night gig at the US Naval Observatory. Lexi talked of nothing else before and after for weeks.

"Okay. Would you read a bit of the chapter to me, please?" I put on my most interested face.

She sighed. "Our solar system is made up of the Sun and eight planets. The Sun is in the middle of our solar system. The eight planets go around the Sun. The planet closest to the Sun is named Mercury." Her voice was almost a monotone, the words keeping time with a very… slow… metronome. Mrs. Keough caught my eye; see?

"That's great, sweetie." I leaned over almost conspiratorially. "What do you have in your lunch box?"

Is this a trick question? "Um… my Thermos," she said slowly. "The boxes for my sandwich and chips and stuff…"

"And what book?"

Am I busted? "Um… The Silver Chair," she said almost guiltily.

"One of the Narnia books? Cool. Could you go get it?"

Still looking like the other shoe was going to fall any second now, she dug a battered paperback from her unicorn-bedecked lunchbox and held it out.

"No, could you read to me from that book, too, please?" This time she didn't stifle the are you nuts? look. "Indulge me," I whispered.

With a look that was almost a shrug she opened the book to her Garfield bookmark. "Chapter Ten. Travels Without The Sun. "Who's there?" shouted the three travelers. "I am the Warden of the Marches of Underland, and with me stand a hundred Earthmen in arms," came the reply. "Tell me quickly who you are and what is your errand in the Deep Realm?""

Gone was the monotone. Gone was the metronome. She put different voices to the dialogue, appropriate drama to the supporting words—the way Ducky and I read to her, the way she reads to us, the way everyone reads during Story Time at the store. "You did a wonderful job, Lexi. Now." I folded my arms across the back of the chair and propped my chin on them. "Tell me some of the differences between the two books."

"Well—one is a hardback. The other is a paperback. One is a textbook, with school binding—"

I almost choked on my smile. After seven years with me at the store, she's picked up a lot of the trade.

She caught my strangled look and broke off. "Um… one is a textbook. Nonfiction. The other is fiction. Fantasy. One is fact, the other is fancy." (And that last bit is tea with her grandmother showing through.)

"Very nice comparison. Now, when you read from the books, you sounded very different. Why is that?"

"Well… with The Silver Chair I wanted to sound different for the different characters. And you always say when you're reading out loud you need to—" She hunted for the word. "You need to—engage the audience."

"Quite true. But don't you need to engage the audience when you read nonfiction, too?" She looked at me blankly. "Okay—when Uncle Tim and Aunt Abby took you to the observatory and you brought home that book, Asteroids and Planets and Stars, Oh, My!—and you read to us from the book?" She nodded enthusiastically. "You certainly 'engaged the audience' then."

"Yes, but—" She broke off and looked confused.

I was pretty sure what she was going to say. "It's okay, honey. Finish what you were going to say."

She hesitated, mulling it over. "It's just that—the book from the observatory? It's interesting. Our science book?" Her face was still toward me, but her eyes flicked toward Mrs. Keough. "It's really… really boring." She looked miserable. "I'm sorry."

"Nothing to be sorry about. You didn't write the book. You just gave an honest review." I gave a nod toward the patio door. "Back to playing Miss Mary Mack. I'll be done in a few minutes; we'll stop by Teri's house for her things—then home, and Daddy said we're ordering Chinese tonight."

She clapped her hands and literally skipped out of the room and I turned my attention back to Mrs. Keough.

Not a happy face. Some people don't like having their notions turned upside-down. "She's… bored," I said. "Who can blame her? That book is the most stilted, dull, tedious tripe—I know, because I was on the textbook committee and recommended against it last year. It's a second grade textbook barely written on a second grade level—I'm surprised the whole class isn't snoring."

"We have to provide materials for all of the students," she said stiffly.

"What about the kids who truly are under this reading level?"

"We have special education classes—"

"And for those who are… above the reading level?" Like Lexi? I carefully didn't add.

"All of the children are tested at the end of third grade," she recited. "Those scoring in the upper five percent are recommended for the GATE program the following year. But students must stay current on their work—"

I gave her what I hoped was a pleasant smile. "Perhaps we should have her take that test this year?"

"It's only at the end of third grade."

"Alexandra is reading The Silver Chair during lunch. Fifth-grade reading level. The Secret Garden is seventh, I believe. Since the test is in the third grade, why don't we just move her to the third grade?"

"There are other things beyond reading." She was still tight and stiff.

"True. But reading is the fundamental basis for all learning. If you can't read the instructions, you can't do a math problem. If you can't read the worksheet, you can't do the experiment. If—"

She held up a hand. "Understood. But Alexandra needs to show proficiency in math and science and—"

"Well, back in college, I tested out for any number of classes…"

"That was in college," she countered.

No shit, Sherlock. "Is it impossible to 'test out' for the third grade?"

"Not impossible, but—"

"Good!" I beamed at her. "I'll just stop by the office on our way out, see if the principal is still in and get this ball rolling." I all but leaped to my feet and stuck out a hand. "I'm so glad we had this meeting, Mrs. Keough!" And I can't WAIT to get my kid out of your class.

She was still a beat or two behind the band. "Ah—yes, yes… But—" She shook my hand absently, her thought fading away.

I collected the girls, stopped by the office and spoke to Mrs. Cook (who was enthusiastic about the plan) and got us on our way.

Old age and treachery may overcome youth and skill—but working the system to your own end beats 'em both.