Adam Canfield of the Slash (9 page)

“Learning disabilities can be subtle,” said the teacher. “Mrs. Marris is going to be thrilled with me for finding you. With the right help, you could learn to overcome your disability by the time the state test is given in the spring. Or if you’re too bad, you might qualify for a special education waiver, a 504 accommodation. You get extra time to take the test. If you’re messed up enough, they might give you a week, maybe two weeks to answer each question. An aide could read you the reading comprehension section out loud. Wouldn’t that be grand? Who needs a low score? Not you, not Harris, and certainly not the district. I need your name and home-base teacher.”

Adam hated himself for what he was about to do. It embarrassed him for people to know. But this teacher was backing him into a corner. He had a feeling if he didn’t stop her now, if somehow this woman got his name on that paper she was waving at him, it could take weeks, maybe months, to undo the damage. There was no way out.

Adam whispered, “I’m a four-pluser.”

The teacher immediately stopped writing and actually looked at him. “A four-pluser?” she said. “Really? Good for you. Good for us! What’s your name again?”

“Canfield,” Adam said.

“Canfield?” she said. “Now I remember seeing it.” Each year the
Citizen-Gazette-Herald-Advertiser
printed results of the state competency tests for every school in the Tri-River Region. The paper listed the percentage of students in each grade at Harris who passed, scoring three or four. And the percent who failed, the incompetents, who scored one or two. But then, in a special box headlined “Tremble’s Best and Brightest,” the paper printed names of students who had tallied a perfect score, a four-plus. In all Tremble there were just four four-plusers.

“This won’t be necessary,” said the teacher, ripping up the referral. “But we can’t be too careful, can we?”

Adam thanked her profusely and sprinted to 242. Heaven knows what they would do to him for being late. Or whether they could do anything. According to a note school officials sent home, these sessions weren’t technically mandatory. In fact, they couldn’t be mandatory; state law limited the mandatory school day to six hours. Rather, the note said, since “everyone’s property values depended on the highest score possible,” officials suggested that “responsible” parents should consider the sessions “all-but-mandatory” classes that are “highly encouraged” and “not really optional in reality.”

Adam wondered if this meant he’d get a detention for tardiness.

He slipped into 242 and sat in the back.

The voluntary/mandatory teacher was explaining the art of educated guesses. She handed out a reading passage entitled “America Builds a Transcontinental Railroad.” Below the passage were several questions with multiple-choice answers.

“This is from a past state test,” the teacher said. “Normally you’d read the passage, then pick the right answer for each question. And we will get to that. By next month I’ll be standing here with a stopwatch, and you will be reading a passage like this and underlining every key concept in one minute and forty-five seconds. But today I don’t want you looking at the reading passage. Today we are going to answer questions without reading the passage. Isn’t that fun?”

The students stared blankly at her.

“OK, good,” she said. “Now, as we’ve all heard Mrs. Marris say, our job is to learn to be savvy test takers. Tell me, girls and boys — what rhymes with
savvy
?”

They sat quietly going through the alphabet in their heads.

“Gravy?”
said a boy.

“No,” said the teacher. “
Gravy. Savvy.
No.”

“Navy?”
said another boy.

“I was going to say that,” said a girl in the front row.

The teacher shook her head.

They looked confused.

“Nothing,” said the teacher, “nothing rhymes with
savvy.
”

“No, it doesn’t,” said a boy. “‘Twinkle, twinkle little
nothing
/ How I wonder what you’re
savvy.
’ No way that rhymes.”

“My point,” said the teacher, “is no word rhymes with
savvy.
”

“I thought no word rhymed with
orange,
” said a girl.

“That’s not my point,” said the teacher. “
Savvy
rhymes with nothing; it’s out there all alone. And that’s how you must be when you take the test. Savvy as a fox in the forest at twilight. You’re out there all alone against these wise guys from the state who made up this test and would like nothing better than to have you fail. And you, the savvy test takers, must figure out how to outsmart them.

“For multiple-choice questions, there are four answers,” she continued. “Two will be way off, one will be close, and one will be right. What does the savvy test taker do?”

“Pick the right answer,” said a boy.

“Absolutely not,” said the teacher. “That’s the smart test taker. We haven’t got that far. I’m talking savvy.”

The girl in front suggested eliminating the two answers that are way off.

“Now there’s a savvy test taker,” the teacher said. “Good for you, Miss Savvy.”

She had them look at the first question and put an
X
through the two answers that were way off.

The question asked which two cities the transcontinental railroad linked. “The key,” said the teacher, “is the meaning of
transcontinental.
” They looked ready to fall asleep; heads were flopping on chests and jerking up.
“Transcontinental?”

“Across the continent,” said Adam.

“I was going to say that,” said the girl in front.

“Good,” said the teacher. “Let me hear one answer you put an
X
through.”

“Paris to New York,” said a boy.

“Good,” said the teacher. “What would it be if it went from Paris to New York?”

“Sopping wet,” said the boy.

“True,” said the teacher, “but what word?
Trans . . . Transatl . . . Transatlanti . . .
No one? . . .
Transatlantic,
right?”

“I was going to say that,” said the girl in front.

The teacher asked for another wrong answer.

“Chicago to Sacramento,” said the girl in front.

“Good,” said the teacher.

“I disagree,” said a boy. “The question asked which two cities it linked. I guess they mean one on the East Coast and one in California, but it could be true the train linked Chicago and Sacramento, too. So I don’t see why that can’t be an answer.”

The teacher reread the question. “Well, you may have a point . . . No, no, no!” she said, regaining her senses. “You’re overthinking. You want to think like the guy from the state making up the test. He’s trying to be a little tricky, but not way tricky. I mean, he’s no genius — he makes up tests for a living.”

It was a little past four when Adam got to 306. He pulled an iced-tea carton from his backpack, stuck in a straw, and took a deep drink. He was dry. The voluntary/mandatory had been even worse than he’d feared. In the time they’d practiced educated guesses, Adam could have built the stupid railroad. Over the weekend Adam had tried convincing his father that he didn’t need the voluntary/mandatory classes, since he had done so well on the test last year, but boy, did that set his father off. “Young man,” his father had said, “today’s four-pluser is tomorrow’s two. Don’t ever forget that. You cannot let your guard down; people are always gunning for the four-pluser.” Adam had tried explaining that the test wasn’t hard, but his father started shouting, “Hubris! Hubris! Do you know what hubris is, Adam?” Adam didn’t, so he blurted out something ridiculous, ran up the stairs, stomping each one extra loud, rushed to his room, and slammed the door. Later his parents took him out for soft ice cream, but he still had to go to voluntary/mandatory.

Jennifer walked in. When she saw Adam was there first, she looked at her watch in mock astonishment and they both smiled. He was happy to see her.

“What’s hubris?” Adam asked.

“Overblown pride,” said Jennifer. “Why?”

“Nothing,” said Adam. “You think Phoebe’s going to show?”

“I think she will,” said Phoebe, walking in. “Sorry I’m late, but my voluntary/mandatory got out late.” She thudded down her backpack, then flopped on a couch. “Got your note,” Phoebe said to Jennifer. “Actually, got it twice. Very weird. A girl came up to me in the hall, said, ‘This is from my sister,’ and gave me the note. Then at recess the girl came up again, said, ‘This is from my sister,’ and handed me the same note. I kept wondering how many times she’d come back. I felt like I was in a video someone kept rewinding.”

“They’re twins,” said Jennifer with a laugh. “My sisters. Two different girls, two different notes.”

Phoebe nodded and pretended to get it. She knew from dealing with her older brothers that you have to let a lot go by. She understood Jennifer and Adam would never let her in on their inside jokes.

Jennifer stood up. “Got to go,” she said.

Adam looked panicked. “You’re leaving?” he said. “We have to talk about the smile story.”

“You don’t need me,” said Jennifer. “One coeditor per reporter is plenty. We’re studying the Constitution in Social Studies. Two coeditors per reporter is a violation of the Eighth Amendment — cruel and unusual punishment.”

Adam glanced at Phoebe. He was determined to be upbeat, so it was hard to think of anything to say.

“Did you like it?” asked Phoebe.

“Like what?” said Adam.

“The Eddie the janitor story,” said Phoebe. “Was it OK?”

“Oh yeah,” said Adam. “It was good. We didn’t tell you? I thought we said something. Nice job.”

“Really?” said Phoebe. “You liked it?”

Adam nodded.

“YES!” squeaked Phoebe, jumping out of her chair and twirling around. She had hoped the
Slash
editors would think the Eddie story was so great they’d call her right away at home and admit they’d made a terrible mistake not putting her on the Spotlight Team. But days had passed with no word. “Did you like the part about the birds and the toothbrush and spoon?”

“Yeah,” said Adam. “I did.”

“And the boy in the wheelchair. Wow. Pretty great, huh? I had to go back five times before Eddie told me that.”

“Yeah, it was good,” said Adam.

“I have lots more in my notebooks,” said Phoebe. “Want another page or two?”

“No,” said Adam. “Length is perfect.”

“You really liked it?” said Phoebe. “You’re not just saying it because you feel sorry for me?”

“No,” said Adam. “I adored it. Loved it. Would marry it if I could.”

“Could it go front page?” asked Phoebe.

“Don’t know yet,” said Adam.

“I think it could be a very strong front-page story,” said Phoebe.

“We’ll see,” said Adam.

“I have great ideas for front-page art,” she said. “We could get a front-page photo of Eddie with the two mourning doves. Or —”

“I DON’T KNOW!” screamed Adam. “STOP, PLEASE, JUST STOP FOR A MINUTE! LET’S TAKE A TALKING BREAK.” Adam sat for a few seconds, composing himself. He had been concentrating so much on getting Jennifer to stop being mad at him, he’d forgotten what Phoebe was like. He had let his guard down. This was a good reminder for any coeditor. Just because someone wrote nicely didn’t mean they were a pleasure to be around.

Adam asked how the smile contest went. “I was flipping channels,” he said, “and caught News 12. It looked kind of funny, all those kids smiling.”

“It was weird,” said Phoebe. She pulled out a sheet of paper from her backpack. “So far, I’ve written the start,” she said. “I’m not sure about it. I feel a little — I don’t know — sneaky. The story is supposed to be about kids working hard smiling to win five hundred dollars for a good cause. That’s what the press release said. And I think the people in charge tried to do good, but this lady Phyllis — there was something so phony about the whole thing.”

She handed Adam the lead. The story began:

When he finished, Adam said, “Geez, that really happened?”

Phoebe nodded.

“You sure?” asked Adam.

“Want to see the photos?” said Phoebe.

“You have photos already?” said Adam.

Phoebe nodded. “I was so nervous they wouldn’t come out, I made my mom go to One-Hour Photo.”

He looked through the pile, shaking his head, then held one up. “This girl with the Number 12 tooth and the M&M bag stuffed over her head — Suzy Mollar?”

“Tremble Dental Association smile champion,” said Phoebe.

“Boy,” said Adam. “Save us from Dental Health Month, huh?”

They were quiet, then Adam said, “You did great, Phoebe. You did it again. I have to admit, this is amazing. It’ll be wonderful when it’s done.”

Phoebe nodded.

Adam braced himself for another Phoebe victory dance, but she just sat there. “Anything wrong?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” said Phoebe. “This one doesn’t feel great. When I did Eddie — it was a hero’s story long overdue for telling. But this one’s going to upset people.”

“Well, it should,” said Adam. “These dental people sound like idiots.”