Claudia Kishi, Middle School Dropout

  Now that the scene is set, how about some dialogue? (I’m trying to make this as dramatic as possible.)

  Mrs. Amer started things off by introducing herself to my parents. Everybody exchanged “pleased-to-meet-you”s. Then Mr. Kingbridge (whom they’ve already met) began to talk about the trouble I’d been having, in all my subjects. He listed every single late homework assignment, every missed problem, and every failed pop quiz.

  Humiliating? You bet.

  But not surprising, to me or even to my parents. After all, they’d watched me struggle all fall. They know it’s been hard for me.

  Then Mrs. Amer began to talk.

  “Claudia,” she said. “I don’t know if you’ve thought about whether or not you want to go to college someday.”

  “College?” I asked. “Um —” To tell the truth, that seemed a long, long way off.

  “Or even art school,” Mrs. Amer continued. “Either way, it’s not too early to be thinking about it. You’ll have to do well in high school in order to be accepted at any college or art school, and in order to do well in high school you have to do well in junior high.”

  “That’s right,” Mr. Kingbridge put in. “And in order to do well in eighth grade, you have to do well in sixth and seventh.”

  “All of that makes sense,” said my mother. “But what are you saying? Claudia’s been working very hard. We’ve even hired a tutor.”

  “I know,” said Mrs. Amer. “But clearly, it’s not enough. Claudia is falling further and further behind. She is lacking the foundations that should be helping her learn eighth-grade material. At this point, she may not be able to catch up, no matter what she does.”

  I gulped. I knew she was right. That was exactly what I’d started to think.

  “So what do we do about it?” asked my father. He put his hand on my shoulder.

  “We take drastic measures,” said Mrs. Amer. She turned so that she was looking straight into my eyes. “Claudia,” she began. “You’re going to have to repeat seventh grade. You’ll start on Monday.”

  “They’re all yours!” said Mal that cold, rainy Saturday afternoon, as she greeted Abby at the Pikes’ front door. Mal was on her way out to sit for Marilyn and Carolyn Arnold, identical nine-year-old twins who are regular BSC clients, while Abby was on her way in to sit for Mal’s sisters and brothers.

  “Great,” said Abby. “Can’t wait.” She loves baby-sitting for the Pikes, since there are so many of them. She thinks it’s a blast.

  “And I can’t wait to leave!” said Mal, as she put on her jacket. “They’re driving me up the wall.” She grinned. “Jordan’s your official helper today, by the way.”

  Jordan is one of three identical triplets (the other two are named Adam and Byron). At ten, they are the next-oldest kids in the Pike family, and not only are they old enough not to need sitters anymore, but they’re old enough to help out. (We used to send two sitters to the Pikes, but not anymore.)

  “Excellent,” said Abby. “Where is everybody, anyway?” She cocked her head to listen for the sound of thundering Pikes.

  “In the den,” replied Mal. “Arguing about Halloween costumes,” she added, before Abby could ask what they were doing. She opened the front door. “Have fun,” she sang out, as she left.

  Abby headed for the den, and as she neared that room she began to hear the sounds of a major sibling squabble. When she opened the door, it hit her full force.

  “You can’t be a pirate,” Byron was yelling at Adam. “I’m going to be a pirate!”

  “I’ll be whatever I want,” Adam yelled back, folding his arms in front of his chest.

  “I’m going to be a mummy,” declared Nicky, who’s eight. “I already bought all the bandages.”

  “You’re going to look so dumb,” sneered Jordan. “Nobody’s even going to know what you are.”

  Nicky looked as if he were about to burst into tears.

  “I’ll be a hippie girl, living in a hippie world,” Vanessa chanted loudly. She’s nine, and wants to be a poet someday. She tries to speak in rhyme whenever possible.

  “I’m being Pocahontas,” claimed Margo. She’s seven. She kicked up her feet to show that she was wearing moccasins. “I already have the shoes.”

  “No!” shrieked Claire, who’s the youngest Pike, at five. “Nofe air! Nofe air!” (That’s her standard cry when she believes life is treating her badly. Translated, it means “no fair.”) “I was going to be Pocahontas. Mommy already bought me the wig!” She reached between the sofa cushions and dredged up something that Abby said later looked like a hairy black mat.

  Abby sighed. Halloween was approaching fast, and the excitement of it seemed to be dividing the Pike family. She could see that it wasn’t going to be a nice, quiet, relaxing afternoon.

  Abby stepped into the room, whistled through her fingers, and then held up her hands in a “T.” “Time out, you guys,” she called loudly.

  Everybody quieted down and turned to look at her. The silence lasted for about a count of three. Then they all started to complain to Abby about their siblings.

  “Adam stole my costume idea!” Byron bawled.

  “Jordan said I was going to look dumb,” whined Nicky.

  “Claire can’t be Pocahontas,” yelled Margo. “I’m the only Pocahontas in this family!”

  “Whoa, whoa,” said Abby. “Hold on. Let’s see if we can figure this all out in a civilized way.” She made the kids sit down. “First of all, why don’t all three of you guys” — she pointed at Adam, Byron, and Jordan — “be pirates. You can be a whole pirate crew. After all, pirates usually travel in groups, right?”

  They looked at each other warily.

  “Maybe,” said Byron. “But I want to be the one who has a parrot on his shoulder.”

  Adam sat up, as if he were about to argue, but Abby shushed him. “You can work out the details later,” she said. “Now, Nicky. You need to work on some ideas to make that mummy costume really convincing. Have you thought about fake blood, for example? A little bit goes a long way.”

  Nicky looked interested.

  Jordan nodded. “That would help,” he said. “But he won’t do it right. He’ll just make a mess.”

  “Maybe not, if you help him,” Abby said pointedly.

  “Why should I —” Jordan began, but Abby gave him a Look and he sat back.

  “Vanessa,” Abby went on. “A hippie costume sounds perfect for you. I have some tie-dyed stuff you could borrow.”

  “Vanessa is a hippie, Vanessa is a hippie,” chanted Nicky, under his breath.

  “So?” asked Vanessa, staring him down. “Hippies are cool, mummies are fools.”

  Nicky glared at her. But Abby changed the subject before he could come up with a snappy comeback. “Claire,” she said, “How about being a different Native American? You could be Sacagawea. She helped to guide Lewis and Clark, the famous explorers.”

  “Okay,” said Claire agreeably.

  Abby heaved a sigh of relief. Maybe the bickering was over. But no sooner did she relax than it started up again.

  “Mom said I could go trick-or-treating with you guys this year,” Nicky told the triplets.

  “What?” “No way!” “Are you kidding?” The triplets exploded.

  “We’re going with our friends,” said Jordan.

  “Not with any little brothers,” added Adam.

  “Or sisters,” put in Byron, making a face at Margo.

  Nicky had that “I’m-about-to-cry” face on again, and now Margo wore it, too. “Why does Claire get to be Sacagawea?” she wailed. “I want to be Sacagawea. Every girl in my class is going to be Pocahontas.”

  Abby rolled her eyes. There was just no way she could win. Then, suddenly, like a bolt from the blue, she thought of something. “If you can’t beat ’em, distract ’em,” she told me later. “It never fails.”

  “Hey, guys,” she said. “How about if we forget about Halloween? I have a great project for us to work on.”

  T
hat caught their interest.

  Abby explained about the idea for Hospital Buddies. “You guys all miss Jackie, right?” she said. “Well, just think how lonely he must feel, missing all his friends at once. But what if he got a really neat card, or an interesting letter in the mail? Don’t you think that would help him feel better?” She went on to tell the Pikes about some of the other kids Kristy had met in the hospital, and about Kristy’s idea for Hospital Buddies. “Every one of those kids is probably as lonely and bored as you can imagine,” she finished. “How about if we see what we can do about changing that?”

  “Okay,” said the kids.

  “Can we call some friends and ask them to come over to make cards and write letters?” asked Jordan.

  “We’ll help with everything,” offered Byron.

  “Okay, sure,” agreed Abby. As long as the kids were occupied and not fighting, she didn’t mind a few more. “Why not?”

  “I’ll make some calls,” offered Adam.

  “I’ll find the art supplies,” said Vanessa. “Crayons, pencils, paste, and glue, we’ll send wonderful cards to you!” She ran off, spouting poetry.

  Claire, Margo, and Nicky helped set up the kitchen by covering the table with newspaper and bringing in extra chairs. Jordan and Byron took charge of mixing up some lemonade and putting out graham crackers for everyone.

  By the time the room was ready, the doorbell began to ring. First to show up was James Hobart, whose family is Australian. James is eight, and in the same class as Nicky. “Hey, mates,” he said, as he came in, shaking off raindrops.

  Next, Shea Rodowsky — Jackie’s nine-year-old brother — arrived. “This is the greatest idea,” he said. “Jackie is really tired of being in the hospital.”

  Finally, Carolyn and Marilyn Arnold showed up, with Mal in tow. Mal and Abby smiled at each other.

  “Couldn’t escape that easily,” Abby said, laughing.

  “I’m baaa-aack,” sang Mal. She shrugged. “Oh, well,” she said, peering into the kitchen. “At least they’re not fighting anymore.”

  That was the truth. As soon as the kids started working on the project, their differences were forgotten. Abby said later that she knew all along that their problem was boredom. After all, on a rainy day kids do tend to become crabby, and who can blame them? But now the warm, bright kitchen was full of happy, busy kids.

  They cut and pasted, painted and glued. They wrote letters about what they’d been doing in — and out of — school. They drew pictures of what they were going to be for Halloween (Abby wondered if they’d start arguing again at that point, but they didn’t.) Vanessa wrote a beautiful poem about autumn, and Margo illustrated it. Shea wrote a story for Jackie, all about a boy who fell on his head and turned into a monster. (Mal helped him with the spelling; Shea’s dyslexic.)

  By the end of the day, the kids had produced a whole grocery bag full of Hospital Buddy stuff. They’d also produced a huge mess, including that glue-and-glitter spill Mal mentioned. But, as promised, the triplets helped with cleanup. Abby said she’d drop the cards and letters off that very evening. Hospital Buddies was a success.

  “Hey, Stace, how’s it going?” I smiled at Stacey as I passed her in the hall.

  She ignored me. Just walked by, as if I weren’t there.

  “Stacey?” I asked. I turned and followed her. She was wearing a short plaid kilt, a white baby-T, black tights, and black, chunky-heeled shoes. “Nice outfit,” I said. I’d never seen it before. She must have gone shopping since I’d seen her last.

  She didn’t answer, didn’t turn around.

  “Well, okay,” I said, shrugging. “Be that way.” I felt like a jerk following her down the hall, so I turned and headed back toward science class. Ms. Griswold was standing near the door, talking to another teacher and greeting students as they passed into her room.

  “Hi, Ms. Griswold,” I said. “I remembered my book today, see?” I held it up, smiling. She’s always giving me a hard time about forgetting to bring my book to class.

  She didn’t smile back. She didn’t say a thing. In fact, she looked right through me.

  “Ms. Griswold?” I said. My voice came out sounding quavery. Why was everybody ignoring me? Just then, Rick Chow walked by. I reached out and grabbed his jacket. “Rick!” I said.

  He pulled away from me, brushing at me as if I were a bothersome insect. He didn’t seem to hear me — or see me.

  That’s when I figured it out.

  I was invisible.

  Nobody at SMS could see me.

  “Hey, Claudia!” Somebody called my name, and I whirled around to see who it was.

  “Ron?” I asked, bewildered. Why could Ron Belkis see me when nobody else could?

  “That’s my name, don’t wear it out,” he said, with a silly grin. Ron has always had a little crush on me. Usually I just ignore him, mainly because he’s a seventh-grader and I can’t stand immature boys.

  Suddenly, something clicked. Seventh-grader! That’s why Ron could see me, and why Stacey and Rick and Ms. Griswold couldn’t. All those people were from my eighth-grade world, the place in which I no longer belonged. And Ron? He was from my new world, my seventh-grade world.

  “Oh, no!” I moaned. “No! I can’t stand it!” How could I go through life being invisible to my best friends? I imagined a BSC meeting: I’d be sitting on my bed, trying to catch Kristy’s attention, but she would look straight through me, just the way Ms. Griswold had. “What a nightmare!” I moaned.

  That’s exactly what it was. A nightmare.

  My alarm went off then and I rolled over, still moaning a little. I pulled my hands out from under the covers and looked at them. Perfectly visible. I gave a sigh of relief.

  Then I remembered.

  While it was true that I’d just woken up from an awful nightmare, and that I wasn’t invisible, the fact remained that my life was going to be very different, starting that morning. It was Monday, and from now on I was officially a seventh-grader.

  I’d been trying hard not to think about it all weekend. I’d told my friends, of course, but other than that I hadn’t talked about it much. Everyone tried to make me feel better about it, but I still felt miserable. After all, there was no escaping the truth.

  I’d been kicked out of eighth grade. How humiliating.

  I rolled out of bed and pulled on the clothes I’d laid out the night before. It had taken some thought to figure out what to wear on my first day back in seventh grade. I didn’t want to draw too much attention to myself; then again I didn’t want to blend in too much, either. It’s important to me to be an individual, no matter what.

  After a lot of indecision, I’d settled on my moss-green Gap jeans, paired with a rust-colored cardigan I’d found at the vintage clothing store. Also, my new Mary Janes, and a moss-green scrunchie so I could tie up my hair in a Pebbles Flintstone ponytail on top of my head.

  I pulled on the clothes and checked once more in the mirror. “Good enough for seventh grade,” I muttered. Then I headed downstairs to face what turned out to be one of the longest, hardest days of my life.

  I arrived in the kitchen to find that my dad had woken up extra early, just to make me blueberry pancakes, normally my favorite breakfast. I choked one down so he wouldn’t feel bad, but the truth was that I had absolutely no appetite.

  My parents and Janine kept up a bright chatter at the breakfast table, as if nothing had changed. As if my whole life weren’t going in reverse. I could barely keep myself from shouting at them to stop it, but I restrained my feelings. I knew they were only trying to make me feel better.

  Finally, I grabbed my backpack and left for school. Mom gave me a hug as she saw me out the door, and Janine and my dad both wished me luck.

  I walked to school alone that day, which was the way I wanted it. Usually I walk with a bunch of BSC friends, but somehow I’d known I wouldn’t be able to stand that this morning. It would be awkward for everyone, and there was no point in putting my friends throug
h that. Besides, I just felt like being alone with my thoughts.

  By the time I arrived at school, I thought I felt ready for whatever the day would bring. My first stop was at Mr. Kingbridge’s office, where I picked up my new schedule. I checked it over quickly. Usually, looking over a new schedule is fun. You check for good teachers, compare notes with friends to see who’s in your classes, all that. This time, it wasn’t fun at all. I noticed that I’d have two of my teachers from the year before: Mr. Peters, who teaches seventh-grade math, and Mr. Redmont, who teaches social studies. I’d still have Mr. Wong for art, for which I was thankful. My English teacher would be Ms. Chiavetta, who was new at SMS, and my science teacher would be Ms. Spacey. I’d heard the kids make fun of her name, but other than that I knew nothing about her.

  I’d also received a new locker and combination. I guess Mr. Kingbridge felt that it would be better if my locker were situated in the same hall as the other seventh-graders’. It felt terrible to pass by the hall where my old locker was, to look down it and see Stacey and Kristy chatting and laughing as they gathered their books for the morning. And it felt even worse to stand alone, dialing in a new, strange combination and listening to the chatter of seventh-graders all around me.

  That morning they were talking about some kid who had made a smart remark to Mr. Redmond the week before. They were speculating about how he was going to be in a lot of trouble if he didn’t shape up. They sounded so naïve. That kid would be fine. If they wanted to know what real trouble was, they could ask me.

  I glanced at my new classmates, noticing that they looked a lot more than one year younger than my eighth-grade friends. The boys, especially, looked as if they were about nine years old. And most of the girls were dressed in babyish fashions I’d given up when I was ten.

  My first class was math. My most hated subject would come first. I walked in with a group of kids, trying to blend in. But it was no use. Mr. Peters spotted me right away.

  “Claudia!” he said, beaming. “Welcome ba —” he stopped himself. “I mean, welcome! It’s wonderful to see you.”