The Report Card (8 page)

I shook my head. “Probably not.”

Dr. Trindler leaned farther forward. “And why is that?”

I didn't answer. Everything was moving too fast. I needed time to think.

Dr. Trindler thought he already knew I was a genius. And he also thought that I knew that he knew. But he really didn't know anything, not for sure. So I thought,
Maybe I can bluff my way out of this. Maybe I can take another test and really mess it up. Then Dr. Trindler couldn't prove anything—except that he's a lousy test-giver. Or maybe I could . . .

And then I stopped. I just stopped.

I was tired of it. I was tired of always holding back. I was tired of acting like I didn't understand things. I was tired of pretending to be average. It wasn't true.

Dr. Trindler repeated his question. “Why do you think yesterday's test score wasn't accurate, Nora?”

I looked him right in the eye. “Because the score is too low. Everything I missed, I missed on purpose.”

Dr. Trindler's mind tried to process that, and I could see him trying to recalculate my IQ in his head. And he couldn't do it.

So I said, “The simplest way to estimate a more accurate score is to increase the raw score to the ninety-ninth percentile range and then adjust for my age. Because I don't think I would have missed more than one or two questions on the whole test—not if I had wanted to do my best.”

Dr. Trindler thought about that for a second and said, “But why didn't you want to do your best?”

I didn't say anything, so he said, “And I don't
understand about your report card, either. Can you tell me a little about that—about all the Ds?”

I didn't want to have this talk with Dr. Trindler. I knew what he wanted. He wanted to have a deep conversation with me. He wanted to work up a theory about me. And about my problem. Maybe try to link my behavior to some incident in my past. Or maybe it was my mom and dad's fault. Or maybe I had deep hidden fears.

And I knew enough about psychology to know that Dr. Trindler would never get it right. Because my reasons would be too simple. Not wanting to be pushed to “achieve” all the time was
not
some psychological problem I was having. It was an intelligent choice. And if I had been “working up to my potential,” could I have ever been best friends with a regular kid like Stephen? Fat chance.

I changed the subject. “Are you going to give me another test?”

He said, “No. I don't think so.” Dr. Trindler paused and then he said, “You know that I'm going to share my findings with Mrs. Hackney, don't you?”

I nodded.

He said, “And you understand why I need to tell her about your scores?”

I said, “Sure. My mom and dad asked for the testing, and the school has to give them my scores, and it's Mrs. Hackney's job to tell them.”

Dr. Trindler nodded. “That's correct.”

He paused again, waiting for me to keep talking. But I didn't.

So he said, “Is there anything you'd like to talk about, Nora?”

I shook my head. “No thanks.”

“Well,” he said, “if something does come up, and if you think I might be a help, you can always find me, okay?”

I nodded and said, “Okay.” And I smiled a little because I could tell Dr. Trindler just wanted to help.

A minute later I was walking through the empty hallways, headed for Mrs. Zhang's room and the second half of science class. It was still the same day, and it was the same school with the same teachers and the same kids.

But something was different.

Me.

M
rs. Hackney had called my mom at work right after school, so by dinnertime on Wednesday my whole family knew everything that Dr. Trindler had discovered.

Our evening meal was a smorgasbord of emotions.

Mom and Dad didn't know whether to be mad at me for keeping a secret from them, or to be thrilled that I was a genius and not some idiot who thought Ds had a pretty shape. My mom said, “Isn't this
exciting
? If we can get an admissions interview, and if Nora does well on the entrance tests, I bet she could get into Chelborn Academy—maybe even get a scholarship. And from there, who knows? Our little Nora could end up at Princeton—or even Yale or Harvard!”

I could tell Ann didn't like that idea one bit. She had been the star student all her life. But she pretended she wasn't interested and she
said, “I knew that Nora was smart all along.”

And when Todd heard the news, he rolled his eyes and said, “Just what I need around here—another smart sister.”

I let everyone else do the talking during dinner. And I didn't volunteer any more information about my report card. When my mom said, “I guess I understand a little better about those bad grades now,” I just smiled and nodded.

Because that wasn't part of the deal. Yes, now they knew I wasn't an average kid, and they figured out that for years I had been getting average grades on purpose. But my reasons for getting those Ds—they didn't need to know about that.

I faced the fact that my plan was ruined. Everyone would be watching me now. All my teachers would know I was smart. And it probably wouldn't be long before the whole fifth grade would know about me too. School is no place to try to keep a secret.

After dinner I went to my room to read, and about eight o'clock Todd yelled upstairs, “Hey Nora—it's your
boyfriend
on the phone.”

I picked up the portable phone in the hall and took it into my room.

“Hello?”

“Hi, Nora.” Stephen didn't have to say his name because he was the only boy who ever called me.

From downstairs Todd made a big, wet, kissing sound into the phone, and in a high voice that was supposed to sound like me, he said, “Oh
Stephen,
I'm
so
glad you called—I've been missing you
all
night.”

“Todd!” I said. “You are such a jerk!” Then I yelled, “Mom! Make Todd hang up the phone!” The kitchen phone clattered onto its cradle and I said, “Sorry. Todd's not winning any prizes for maturity this week.”

Stephen said, “Maturity? Well, how about you? That thing you did in the lunchroom today wasn't exactly cool either.” He sounded mad.

I hadn't been ready for an attack and that's what it felt like. I said, “But . . . but I couldn't stand it. You heard Merton—he was being awful. And . . . and I had to make him stop.”

Stephen said, “But he wasn't talking to you,
Nora. He wasn't even sitting at your table. It was none of your business. I don't need anybody to take care of me.”

I said, “But if someone was attacking me and making everybody laugh at me, wouldn't you help me? If you could? Wouldn't you?”

That stopped him. He said, “I . . . I guess so.” Then he thought a little and said, “But it wasn't like that, Nora. We were just talking. And I'm not afraid of being laughed at. And besides, everybody knows that Merton's a stupid creep. Nobody takes him seriously. All you did was make yourself look like a fool.”

It hurt when Stephen said that. I didn't say anything.

“Nora?”

I didn't answer.

Stephen blew a big breath out through his mouth. Then he said, “Listen, I'm sorry I called you a fool, okay? I'm sorry . . . okay? And what you said to Merton? It was really pretty great.” Then Stephen paused a few seconds and said, “Actually, I wish
I
could have said all that.”

I waited another second or two. “Honest?” I asked.

He said, “Honest. And how did you know all that extra stuff about the sun and everything?”

A new fact was staring me in the face: I knew I would never have a better chance than this moment to tell Stephen the truth—the facts of me. And I also knew that if Stephen didn't hear the truth directly from me, it would be bad.

So I said, “That stuff about the sun? I . . . I did some extra reading. It's sort of complicated. But listen . . . I've got to explain something—something important.”

I told Stephen everything. About how I had learned to read when I was two and a half, and the way I had only pretended to learn how to read when we were in first grade. I told him how I had kept all my test scores lower, and how even my own family hadn't known how smart I was. I explained the way I had missed questions on the Mastery Testing on purpose. I told him how Mrs. Byrne had found my computer files and then kept my secret. And I even told him about Dr. Trindler and the IQ test.

When I was done, Stephen was quiet. Then he said, “So how smart are you?”

“Well,” I said, “Dr. Trindler thinks I'm a genius.”

“Are you? Are you a
genius
?”

I could hear it in Stephen's voice. What I'd always been afraid of. Stephen was already starting to think I was weird. Weird Nora, the genius girl.

And I knew that the next couple of sentences would be important.

I said, “I guess I am. But so what? So what if I'm a genius? I'm still me, Stephen. It's not like I'm any different.”

“Yeah? Well, what about at lunch today?” he asked. “That was pretty different.”

“Okay. Yeah, that was kind of different. But if I hadn't just told you everything else, would you have started to think I had turned into this totally different person or something? I'm still
me.
No matter what, I'm still me.”

There was only the hum of the open phone line. Then Stephen said, “But . . . but it's like you've been a
spy
 . . . for years. Like you've been this genius secret agent, spying on all the regular kids. And all those Ds on your report card? I was really worried about you, and all
the time you were just goofing around!”

“No!” I said. “That's the thing, Stephen—I
wasn't
goofing around. I got those Ds on purpose. Because I got mad about the way everyone makes such a big deal about grades. And test scores, too. I had a plan. And now it's completely ruined and I'm in all kinds of trouble. So how much of a genius could I really be?”

Stephen said, “You had a plan? What kind of a plan?”

“It's all messed up now,” I said. “But . . . I just wanted to show everybody that bad grades don't mean a kid isn't smart, and that good grades don't always mean a kid is so smart either. And I thought the teachers liked giving all the tests and grades and everything. But Mrs. Byrne told me that that's not really true. A lot of the teachers don't like all the competition and the testing, especially the Mastery Tests. Like I said, my plan was lousy from the start.”

Again the only sound was the hiss of the telephone. Then Stephen began talking—slowly at first and then faster. He said, “Everybody's
going to find out now, right? They're going to know that you're really smart, aren't they?”

“Yeah,” I said, “I guess so.”

“Like all our teachers will know, and Mrs. Hackney? And the kids, too—
everybody,
right?”

I said, “Yeah. Everybody.”

“Listen! Everybody's going to know you're this genius now, so everyone thinks you're going to
be
that way—supersmart, right? And they're all gonna think that now you'll get great grades and do the gifted program and stuff, right?”

“Yeah,” I said. “Probably. Especially my parents.”

Stephen could barely get the words out, he was talking so fast. He said, “So that's what everybody's gonna expect now, right? This super-supersmart kid. But what if you don't
do
that? What if you don't do what everybody expects—like . . . like you break the regular rules about being smart? And you start playing by
different
rules—
your
rules!” He paused, waiting for my reaction. But he couldn't wait. “See what I mean?” he asked. “Do you get it?”

Stephen's idea wasn't like a lightbulb turning on—it was like a blast from a laser cannon. I almost shouted, “Stephen! That's a fan
tastic
idea! You're . . . you're a
genius
!”

Stephen and I kept talking, and in just ten minutes a new plan was born. A better plan. An amazing plan.

Something else happened as we talked, something that made those ten minutes the best ten minutes of my life. Because during those ten minutes our friendship changed. Completely. Our friendship became a partnership—an
equal
partnership.

The new plan involved some risks—for me, and for Stephen, too. But I didn't care about the risks. And neither did Stephen.

We were in it together.

I
read on the Internet about this famous experiment that two guys did way back in 1964. They gave a test to some kids at a place called the Oak Elementary School. After the test they said the results showed that a portion of the kids were going to make fantastic progress during the school year. They called those special kids the “bloomers.”

Then they gave the teachers lists of all the bloomers so that the teachers could watch those certain kids change during the year. And the kids did. The kids on the bloomer lists all made amazing progress—
real
progress.

And here's the best part:
The information was fake!
The names of the special kids, the bloomers? Those names were picked out of a hat! The only thing that wasn't fake was the
expectation
of the teachers. The teachers actually expected certain kids to make progress, and that expectation was real, and the results
at the end of the year were real too. The “bloomers” all made huge progress. All because of the expectations. Because expectations can be powerful.

And by Thursday morning almost every fifth grader and all my teachers were expecting to see the new and improved Nora Rowley, girl genius.