The Report Card by Andrew Clements Read Free Book Online

grades do not mean you are dumb, and I am not in trouble—and if you see that Jenny Ashton, you tell her to start fixing those rotten rumors before I fix her!”
    When I went to my locker after first period, Charlotte Kendall came up to me. Charlotte wears a different colored ribbon in her hair every day, and she always holds her books and her notebook up tight against her stomach with both arms. She whispered, but Charlotte’s whisper carries about ten feet. So we had an audience.
    â€œNora—I heard about your grades. Your averages—they must be ruined ! What are you going to do? Do you think you’re going to get left back? I couldn’t stand it if you got left back.”
    I smiled as best as I could. “It’s okay, Charlotte. I won’t get left back, I promise.”
    â€œWell,” she said, “if there’s anything I can help you with, just ask me, okay? Because I got almost straight As, and I really would help you if you wanted, okay?”
    I looked hard at Charlotte, testing for acidin her face or her eyes. Not a trace—only sweetness. Charlotte meant every word. And she wasn’t bragging about her grades, just stating a fact.
    So I smiled and said, “Thanks, Charlotte. That means a lot to me.” And it did. Charlotte truly felt bad for me. She helped me remember that as far as everyone else was concerned, I was going through a crisis, an ordeal.
    Because for everyone else it was an absolute fact that fifth-grade grades mattered. My grades made me look like that dead Sciurus carolinensis on the road out in front of the school.
    And in less than three hours, Dr. Trindler was going to get out his measuring tools and try to figure out just how flat this squirrel really was.

nine
CORNERED
    I t was raining at lunchtime, so I got a pass to go to the library. Indoor recess in the gym was always noisy and confused, and the library was always just the opposite.
    I went to a table near the back wall to do my math homework. I was whipping through the sixth problem when a voice said, “Nora?”
    I jumped a mile. I hadn’t heard Mrs. Byrne come up behind me. She smiled and said, “Sorry to startle you. Sometimes this carpet is almost too quiet. May I talk with you over at the front desk?”
    â€œSure,” I said, and I got up and followed her.
    She said, “Back here,” and she motioned me behind the desk to the long work counter. “I want you to read something I printed out yesterday.” Then she handed me ten or fifteen pieces of paper that were stapled together.
    I knew instantly. I knew what I was holding. I pretended to read the first sheet, but I hardlysaw the words. My thinking had kicked up into overdrive. I was in trouble. I needed a way out. I needed a major distraction—something like a fire drill, or maybe an earthquake.
    It took a lot of effort not to start breathing fast, and I was afraid my cheeks would turn bright red. I turned to the second page and then the third, barely reading, just stalling for time.
    Finally I had to say something, so I said, “It looks like a list.”
    Mrs. Byrne said, “Turn to page five, Nora, and read some of the entries out loud—but please keep your voice down.”
    I skipped ahead and started to read. “‘MIT Internet Registration home page; Issues in light wave theory; JaneGoodall.org home page; Fuel cell technology comes of age; Hybrid vehicles find new homes; Cold fusion anomalies; Field Museum Egyptology Department; Richard Feynman’s lecture on—’”
    Mrs. Byrne interrupted and said, “Thank you, Nora. That’s enough. Can you tell me what you’ve been reading?”
    â€œSomething from the computer, right?” I looked into her face.
    She wasn’t buying my innocent act. Not even a little bit.
    Mrs. Byrne shook her head. “It’s more like something from your computer, Nora. More precisely, that information is