Teacher's Pet

“We’re sorry—” I start.

  “Don’t worry about it,” Mr. Carlson says. “I’m a middle-school teacher, remember? We’re trained to expect the unexpected. I appreciate all your help.”

  He still seems a bit uneasy. I think that this bothered him more than he wants to let on.

  “Do you still want us to come back?” Brenna asks as she picks up her backpack.

  “I’m counting on you,” Mr. Carlson assures her.

  I put on my backpack and pick up the covered box of animals. I am so ready to go home. As the others file out the door, I pause.

  My quiz is lying on top of a pile of papers. I had forgotten about it with all the excitement.

  The sight of it makes me feel queasy.

  Chapter Nine

  Brenna and Sunita have to help Zoe groom a pair of poodles, and David is stuck with receptionist duty. I carry the box of little animals in to Gran for a checkup.

  “Who do we have here?” Gran asks as she dries off her hands with a paper towel.

  “These are some of Carlson’s Critters,” I explain. “I brought home the ones that looked like they needed a little vet care.”

  “Hmm,” Gran says, putting on her glasses and peering into the box. She lifts out the gold-colored hamster.

  “That’s Einstein,” I say.

  Gran examines him, then chuckles. “Einstein is outrageously healthy,” she says. “He just needs his teeth trimmed a bit.”

  Like many rodents and rabbits, hamsters’ teeth can get long if they don’t grind them down naturally on their food and playthings in their cages. Gran opens Einstein’s mouth, makes sure his tongue is out of the way, and trims his teeth with a small pair of clippers. I don’t mind clipping dogs’ toenails, but I hope she never asks me to do rodent teeth.

  The trimming takes only a minute. Then Gran hands Einstein over to me.

  “There are two more hamsters in the box,” I say. “Newton and Copernicus. They need manicures. Or pedicures. Whatever you call it when hamsters need their toenails trimmed.”

  Gran quickly trims the tiny hamster toenails. “They are escape artists,” she warns as I put them in the cage with Einstein. “Make sure that top is secure. Who’s next?”

  She reaches into the box and pulls out a fat yellow guinea pig with a band of white fur around its middle.

  “Galileo,” I say.

  “Ahh,” Gran says with a knowing look in her eyes. She cuddles Galileo and checks out his eyes and ears. “Galileo was an astronomer, among other things. He supported the theory that planets revolve around the sun, not the earth. That scared lots of people—they weren’t ready for the new idea. He was a brave man.”

  She examines the guinea pig’s tiny limbs. “Galileo also became blind late in his life. I see... the foot,” she says.

  I nod. Galileo’s front right foot looks infected and sore.

  “That’s easy enough to treat,” Gran says as she pulls some antibiotic cream out of a drawer.

  I take Galileo from Gran and hold him snugly against my chest so that she can spread the cream on his sore foot.

  “Mr. Carlson must really care for these little guys,” she says.

  “He’s used to tiny critters. He said something about growing up in an apartment. He was never allowed to have a dog, but he had lots of rodents. If you ask me, I think dogs make him nervous. Do you think he was afraid of Scout at first?”

  Gran watches the way Galileo limps across his cage, unhappy with the goo on his foot.

  “No, not afraid,” she says. “The trainers at the guide-dog school would have noticed. But he has had a lot of adjusting to do—first, to his blindness, and second, to relying on a dog, an animal he doesn’t have much experience with.”

  Getting used to an awesome dog like Scout would take me about three seconds, but I’m not Mr. Carlson.

  Gran cracks her knuckles and stretches her fingers. “You know, Scout has made a lot of adjustments, too. Even though he has been training his whole life to work with a blind human, every situation is different. He has to get used to the way Mr. Carlson gives commands, and also to his house and to the school.”

  Scout has to get used to school? I hadn’t thought about that before. I’ve thought about it for me, maybe, but for Scout? Still, it’s a school with lots of kids, teachers, and funny smells from the caf eteria. Scout sees new kids every class period, I guess, kids who are big and loud. Lockers slam, the bell rings every forty-five minutes. That’s a big change from guide-dog school. I wonder if Scout feels as crowded as I do in the halls. I bet he worries about keeping Mr. Carlson safe.

  “Let’s finish up here,” Gran says, peering at the last residents of the box. “Five mice?”

  “One of them has a sore eye,” I say. “But I figured you should look at all of them in case it was an infection that could spread to the others.”

  “That was smart,” Gran says.

  An unexpectedly warm feeling passes over me. I haven’t been feeling very smart today. The comment seems extra nice coming from Gran.

  She looks at each mouse, checking from nose to tail. The fifth one, a female, has a swollen eye, but it turns out to be a piece of a wood shaving, not an infection. Gran flushes it out easily and puts the mouse in a glass cage with the others.

  “I don’t like the idea of you taking the animals on the bus again,” she says as she watches the mice run around the cage. “I can drive you on Wednesday morning if you want. Tomorrow I have my yoga class. Are you going to help Mr. Carlson map out the school again?”

  “I think so,” I say. Unless I got a D or F on that quiz and he decides to get someone else to help him. I crouch down to watch the little mouse with the sore eye. She scurries to hide in a toilet-paper tube. I wish I could hide like that.

  “So, how was school today?” Gran asks, looking at me with those laser-beam eyes.

  “Lots of things happened at school,” I say as I watch the quivering mouse. I know I’m stalling, but it’s the truth. Lots of things did happen.

  I’m saved from more questioning by a knock on the door.

  “Come in,” Gran says.

  It’s Zoe. “Dinner’s about ready. It’s going to be spectacular.”

  “That meat loaf smells great,” Gran says.

  I take a sniff. She’s right. All of a sudden, I’m starving.

  Gran takes a pen out of her pocket. She has to write up the reports about Carlson’s Critters. “Maggie, run in and set the table,” she says. “I’ll be only a couple of minutes. We’ll have a nice dinner, and then you’ll have lots of time to work on your homework. I thought Mr. Carlson said something about a quiz coming up soon.”

  Zoe pauses. “They had that quiz today,” she says innocently. “Maggie told us all about it. Sunita had two quizzes. I’ll probably have one tomorrow. My English teacher had that look on her face.”

  Thanks a lot, Zoe!

  “You didn’t mention the quiz to me, Maggie,” Gran says.

  “I, uh, just forgot,” I say. “It’s so hard to keep everything straight, plus we had the great escape after school. We get our grades tomorrow. It’s not a big deal.”

  Chapter Ten

  Mr. Carlson has passed back our quizzes. I feel like someone just slapped me in the face.

  My grade? A whopping forty-nine percent.

  I go cold. Forty-nine percent? That’s not just failing—that’s flunking.

  There is so much red on the page that it looks like a Christmas decoration. I got three out of ten definitions right for twelve points. The questions about how the eye works were worth sixty points. It’s a good thing Mr. Carlson gave partial credit. I got thirty-seven.

  I redo the math in the margin of my paper. Maybe he made a mistake.

  12 + 37 = 49.

  Nope. I flunked.

  My stomach feels awful, like it has hamsters running around in it. It always feels like this when I get a bad grade. Not even one week of school has passed, and I’ve already dug myself into a hole.

 
There is a note written across the top of the paper: SEE ME AFTER CLASS.

  Mr. Carlson stands in front of the board. “Most of you did quite well on the quiz,” he says. “Congratulations.”

  The girl sitting next to me beams. I sneak a peek. She got a ninety-eight percent. I turn my quiz over so that she can’t see it.

  “Some of you had trouble,” Mr. Carlson continues. “I’ll be meeting with you to discuss the quizzes later. If necessary, we can have a make-up class during study hall. I want to make sure you understand this information. Now”—he claps his hands together—“let’s get to work! ”

  He turns on the overhead projector. “Today we start the circulatory system. Everybody, please take out your notebooks and be ready to take notes.”

  I dig out my notebook and slam it on my desk. Scout looks at me, but I don’t care. I don’t care about anything.

  There is a drawing of the heart projected on the screen. “The heart is the muscle that drives the circulatory system,” Mr. Carlson says. “It has four chambers: the left ventricle and left auricle, and the right ventricle and right auricle. Blood flows to the right ventricle through two large veins. It is pumped away from the heart to the lungs via the pulmonary artery.”

  The girl next to me writes all this down.

  “Please draw this diagram of the heart,” Mr. Carlson says as he taps the projector. “Use your colored pencils to show the oxygenated blood and the nonoxygenated blood, just like in the picture.”

  I cross my arms and slump low in my seat. He’s like all the other teachers. He doesn’t know what it’s like for me. He doesn’t care.

  The rest of the class crawls by at a snail’s pace. Mr. Carlson talks about blood and vessels and getting oxygen from the lungs. Some of this stuff I know from listening to Gran. Most of it I tune out. I’m only in seventh grade. Is it going to be like this all the way through high school? And what about college? I’m never going to get in with Ds and Fs. I can forget about vet school. You have to do a good job in college before they’ll let you in there.

  Scout snores gently under Mr. Carlson’s desk. I watch the tip of his tail twitch every once in a while as if he’s dreaming. He wakes up when the bell rings and walks over to join Mr. Carlson.

  My classmates quickly gather their things and get up to leave. The girl next to me puts her colored pencils away, then flips through the pages of diagrams she drew and notes she took. My notebook is empty. I didn’t write anything.

  Who cares? It wouldn’t matter if I drew the most beautiful heart in the world. I’d still screw up the next quiz. I grab my notebook and backpack and head for the door. I am going home.

  “Maggie MacKenzie,” Mr. Carlson calls.

  I hesitate. I could walk out, pretend I didn’t hear him.

  He turns off the projector and gathers the transparency sheets. The other kids from class file past me, chattering, joking, acting like life is fine. Part of me wants to follow them. But, no. I’m J.J. “No Fear” MacKenzie’s granddaughter. I can’t sneak out.

  I turn around and walk back to my seat. Scout wags his tail happily.

  “I’m here,” I say.

  “I’ll be with you in a minute.” Mr. Carlson shuffles the transparencies into a neat pile.

  He pulls out the file drawer of his desk, feels the Braille labels on the file folders, and puts the transparencies into the right file. Then he and Scout walk down the aisle to where I’m sitting. Mr. Carlson sits in the desk next to me. Scout lies down in the aisle between us.

  “Good boy,” Mr. Carlson says, ruffling the fur on the dog’s head.

  He is doing a good job of praising Scout, but I don’t feel like telling him that.

  “We need to talk,” he says.

  “Yeah,” I answer. I pick at a hangnail on my left thumb.

  “It’s not just the quiz,” he continues. “You didn’t take any notes in class today.”

  “How do you know?” I exclaim.

  “It was easy to tell that you weren’t writing anything down or turning pages. And you didn’t ask any questions. That’s not like you.”

  OK, so he’s observant.

  “You want to tell me what’s up?” he asks quietly.

  I bite the hangnail. “No.”

  Scout scratches at his neck with his hind foot and then shakes his coat. I glance at the bandage on his paw. It looks good.

  “Don’t you think Scout needs to go out?” I ask.

  “No,” Mr. Carlson answers. “I took him out before your class started. He’s fine. It’s you I’m worried about.”

  “Don’t bother,” I say. I peel the hangnail back too far, and it bleeds a little. “Look up my grades from last year. I stink at school. No reason why your class should be any different.”

  Mr. Carlson stretches out as far as he can in the cramped chair. “Well, yes, there is a reason. I don’t let my students give up.”

  “I didn’t give up! I studied!”

  “I believe you,” he answers calmly. “But you didn’t study enough, or you didn’t study the right way. And what you did today—not taking any notes, ignoring what was going on in class—that’s the sign of a kid who has quit on herself.”

  “I’m not a quitter!” I swallow hard. This hangnail really hurts. It’s throbbing.

  “You quit today. And you act like you’ve already given up on the rest of the year.”

  “What do you care?” I ask angrily. “You don’t know what it’s like for me. I hate reading. I read a paragraph, and by the end of it, I can’t remember a thing. I look at a test and I blank out. Elementary school was hard. Middle school is impossible. Everything has changed. I can’t deal with it. The only thing I’m good at is taking care of dogs.”

  I pause to wipe away the tear that trickles down my face. Stupid hangnail. It hurts so much I’m crying. I sniff. My nose is running, too.

  Mr. Carlson gets up and walks to his desk, using his hands to lightly feel his way down the aisle. He leaves Scout with me. I sniff again. I hate feeling like this!

  Scout creeps forward and puts a paw on my sneaker. He looks up at me with his trusting eyes, like he can see and understand everything I’m going through.

  I’m losing it, big time. I blubber more—big boo-hoos and a rain of tears. How humiliating, crying like this in front of a teacher. I put my arms down on my desk and hide my face. I wish the earth would open up and swallow me.

  Mr. Carlson taps my shoulder and hands me some tissues.

  “Thanks,” I mumble.

  He takes the seat again. “Scout, sit.”

  I can hear Scout sitting up and the sound of buckles being unfastened.

  “Go ahead, boy.”

  And then a cold, wet nose presses against my cheek. Scout gives me a big kiss, licking away my tears. I wrap my arms around his neck with a sob, fresh tears spilling onto his fur. He holds still for a minute as I catch my breath, his tail beating against the floor to the rhythm of my heartbeat.

  I finally take a deep breath and let go. I sit up and blow my nose.

  Scout’s guide-dog harness is on the floor. Mr. Carlson took it off so that the shepherd could comfort me. I try to swallow the large lump in my throat.

  “Thanks,” I croak and dry my eyes. “I really needed that.”

  “I thought so,” he says. “Good boy, Scout.”

  Scout smiles, his tongue hanging out the side of his mouth. I reach out and scratch his chest. He closes his eyes. That feels good, he’s saying. He turns his head and licks my hand.

  I take a shaky breath and laugh. “OK, OK, I’m all right now. Enough kisses.”

  “Feeling better?”

  “Yeah,” I say hoarsely.

  “Good. Let’s start over. Tell me what’s going on.”

  “Do you have a couple of hours?” I try to joke.

  “Take all the time you need.”

  I pet Scout’s back, and he leans against my knees. “Here goes.”

  For the next hour, I talk. I tell Mr. Carlson everyth
ing—what I’m good at, what’s hard. How school was fun when I was a little kid but got worse when I got older. How it makes Gran sad that I don’t like to read, and how she worries about my grades. About the way Zoe flies through her homework and Sunita does extra credit for fun. How I got grounded from the clinic last year and about my tutor and all the work I put in to bring my grades up before the final report card last year.

  Mr. Carlson listens carefully. He asks a few questions, but mostly he lets me ramble.

  I talk about feeling lost in middle school and how everyone seems bigger and smarter than me—how they all have it together and I’m falling apart.

  “When I was seven years old, I climbed too high in the oak tree that grows in our backyard,” I say. “I slipped and caught hold of a branch. I hung there for ages, screaming my head off, worried that I would slip and fall. I could feel my fingers going numb. I was going to let go and fall. I knew I’d break a leg. That’s what middle school feels like. I’m just barely hanging on, and I’m going to crash.”

  Mr. Carlson strokes his beard. “I know exactly what that feels like. And a young friend convinced me to hold on tight, that things would get easier if I kept working. Remember the map you offered to make for me yesterday, the tactile map?”

  I blush. “I’m sorry, I haven’t had a chance—”

  He cuts me off. “No, don’t worry, I understand. It’s just that I was thinking about maps. You need one. A map to get you through middle school.”

  “You aren’t talking about a map made out of toothpicks, are you?”

  He shakes his head. “No, I’m talking about a plan. You need a plan, a map, customized for Maggie MacKenzie. You’re right. Things are only going to get more complicated from here on out. Your teachers will expect you to do more work and do it faster. And I suspect you’ll want some free time to work at the clinic and play sports.”

  “You’ve got that right.”

  Mr. Carlson picks up the guide-dog harness and slips it over Scout’s head. “Some kids make the adjustment to middle school with no problems. They make it look easy. But most of the kids I know stumble over something. They lose friends, they get cut from a team, or they run up against a tough subject for the first time. There are all kinds of obstacles. You need some help learning to get around them.”