Teacher's Pet (7 page)

The class groans.

A pop quiz?

How can he do this to us? How can he do this to me? Why didn't he tell me this morning?

I stumble to my desk and dig a piece of paper out of my backpack. I'm not the only one who is upset. The room sounds like a nest of angry hornets.

“That's enough now—quiet down,” Mr. Carlson says loudly. “This is middle school. You are responsible for going over your notes after every class. Please get started.”

And here I was thinking he was a good guy, different than the other teachers! They're all the same, trying to trick us into making mistakes.

I scribble my name at the top of the paper and write out the first definition:

Um, I know the retina is in the eye, too. Mr. Carlson's retinas don't work—that's why he can't see. But what is the definition?

I glance over at Scout. He sees me staring at him and raises his left eyebrow. It reminds me of Gran. German shepherds have been bred to be smart. I bet Scout could pass this quiz with one paw tied behind his back.

I thought I studied my notes. I read them, I know I did. If that's not the right thing to do, then what is? And I looked at these vocab words, too. PUPIL. It's a part of the eye. I wonder if he'd give me credit for that? PUPIL. It has a “pup” in it. PUP-IL. PUP-ILL—that makes me think about sick puppies.

I need a map to get my mind back to taking this quiz. Maybe I need a map to the Land of Studying for Tests, too.

The girl next to me puts her pencil down. She's done already?

“Five more minutes,” Mr. Carlson says.

I race through the quiz, trying to write down words that sound important and scientific. I sure hope he doesn't grade for spelling.

“Pass your papers forward,” Mr. Carlson says. He takes another transparency out of a file folder and puts it on the overhead projector. “Today we'll see how the brain deals with signals sent to it by the eye and other sensory organs. It's really cool. You'll love it.”

He starts to talk about neurons and synapses and chemicals. The girl next to me is writing all this down. I know I should, too, but my brain hurts. It's been a really long day, and all I want is a nap.

I wish I knew how to study. I'd love to finish quizzes five minutes before everybody else. I wish I could like school. It's no fun hating it, being afraid of failing all the time, feeling trapped. I see the way kids look when they get good grades. That's how I feel when I win a basketball game, only school is more important than basketball.

I don't know why I even try. What's the use? Unless Mr. Carlson knows how to give brain transplants, I'm stuck with this one.

My pencil stops taking notes about nerve cells. It draws dogs instead—German shepherds, basset hounds, frisky black Labs—all having their chins scratched, their heads patted, or their necks rubbed.

Scout lies motionless next to Mr. Carlson's desk. I bet he's sound asleep. Told you he was smart.

Finally, the bell rings. Most of the kids take off before the bell stops. I move more slowly, cram ming my notes, my textbook, and my binder into my backpack. My head still hurts. Quizzes give me a headache.

The door bangs open. David, Brenna, Zoe, and Sunita stride in. Scout scrambles to his feet, and Mr. Carlson stands up.

“Have no fear, Dr. Mac's Place is here! David announces.

S
eeing my friends snaps me out of my pop-quiz gloom. They glance curiously at Mr. Carlson and Scout, then join me by the windows. They heard about my teacher and his dog on Saturday, after we got home from the guide-dog school.

Zoe scans the cages on the counter. “We have to clean
all
of those before the late bus leaves?” she asks. “We'll never get it done.”

“Sure we will,” I say. “I've got it figured out. There's a big cardboard box in the back of the room. If we put the animals in there temporarily, we'll each be able to take a cage. We'll be done in no time.”

“We should keep an inventory,” Sunita says in her most practical tone of voice. “We don't want any of them to chew through the cardboard and escape.”

“What happens if they eat each other?” Zoe asks, eyeing the fat guinea pigs.

“They won‘t,” Brenna says as I set the box on the ground by the window. “These are all herbivores, well-fed herbivores. The only thing in danger of being eaten is a stray carrot.”

David helps me move the animals to the box, and we start to “freshen up” the cages, putting in clean shavings, washing out food dishes and water bottles, and wiping down the exercise wheels, toys, and glass walls.

“I've never held a gerbil before,” Sunita says as she cups a gray one in her hand. The gerbil twitches its nose and studies her. “They really have personality, don't they?”

“They're much better than the chicks we hatched in third grade,” David says as he lets a hamster run up his arm. The hamster perches on his shoulder, half-hidden under his hair. “They don't peck. I like that.”

“How's your teacher?” Brenna asks quietly, pointing with her chin to where Mr. Carlson is sitting.

I roll my eyes and whisper. “I thought he was great. Until the pop quiz.”

“Already? That's harsh!” Brenna says as she picks up the rabbit and smooths her silky coat.

“You know what they say around here,” I say with a fake smile. “It's middle school—get used to it.”

Sunita looks at me sympathetically. “If it makes you feel better, Maggie, I had two quizzes today. One in social studies and one in math. I'm sure you did fine.”

“Ha,” I say. “Fat chance.”

“Any news about Shelby and the missing wedding ring?” David asks. “You weren't on the bus this morning.”

“Do we have to talk about that now?” Zoe asks as she refills a water bottle. “It's disgusting.”

“He's sort of, um, stopped up,” I explain. “No ring, no nothing. He's not eating. I think he misses the boys. Gran says we just need to give it time. That lizard is eating, though. You saw him—Iggy—the one who was raised on cat food? He figured out that spinach is good stuff. Gran is really happy about that. She sent him home with half the vegetables in our refrigerator.”

“Thank heavens she gave them the cabbage,” Zoe says. She makes it sound like cabbage is the nastiest thing on the face of the earth, and everybody laughs. The sound makes me feel at home, and I relax.

“I never knew cleaning cages could be so much fun,” Mr. Carlson calls from his desk.

“We're talking about some Dr. Mac's Place patients,” I explain.

“It sounds like you all like it there,” he says.

“Are you kidding?” Brenna asks. “We love it!”

Mr. Carlson pushes away from his desk and stands up. Scout leaps to his feet instantly and looks up at his companion, waiting for a command. Mr. Carlson grasps the harness. “Scout, forward.”

They walk toward us carefully. Scout pauses in front of a chair that wasn't pushed in properly. Before anyone can say anything, Mr. Carlson reaches out, finds the chair, and pushes it out of the way.

I'm still mad at him about the quiz, but I want him to succeed.

“Good dog,” I whisper.
Pet him.

“Good dog,” Mr. Carlson says. He hesitates, then crouches down and gives Scout a little pat.

I'd love to see a big hug and lots of ear scratching and fur ruffling, but I guess these things take time. A little pat is a good start.

“You look like a pro, Mr. C.,” I say.

“Thanks, Maggie,” he replies.

Scout leads my teacher the rest of the way. When they are standing next to the counter, Scout stands perfectly still. His nostrils flare and he sniffs, picking up the smells of mouse, rabbit, gerbil, hamster, and guinea pig. He seems a little confused, maybe because the cages are empty. He looks around, then freezes—there they are! A box full of scampering furry things.

I hold my breath. What's he going to do?

“What's got his attention?” Mr. Carlson asks, feeling a little tug on the harness.

“We have the rodents in a holding box on the floor,” Sunita explains. “Should we move it?”

Mr. Carlson bends over and strokes Scout's back. “Good boy! he says. ”Look, but don't chase. I think he'll be OK. He was trained not to react to other dogs and cats. Maybe that's what he thinks they are—small cats.“

Sunita's eyes grow wide at this insult to cats everywhere. But she doesn't say a word. I know the way she works. Some time over the next year, she'll find an excuse to visit Mr. Carlson and deliver a report on the hundred ways cats are not rodents. Just thinking about it makes me chuckle.

“Are they in good shape?” Mr. Carlson asks.

“Pretty good,” Brenna says. “A couple of them need to have their teeth or nails trimmed. Maggie said Dr. Mac was going to take care of that.”

“Here,” David says, holding out a hamster. “Want to hold one?

“Sure,” Mr. Carlson says. “What color is it?”

“Sort of a yellow-goldish color,” David says. “It likes to hide.”

“Oh, it's Einstein,” Mr. Carlson says. “The classroom animals are all named after scientists.”

“That figures,” David says. He sets the hamster into Mr. Carlson's hands.

My teacher slips the tiny creature into the pocket of his shirt, then reaches in and scratches the hamster between the ears. “The janitors and the substitute who had my class last year have been taking care of them.”

Einstein delicately sniffs Mr. Carlson's fingertips, then crawls to the top of the pocket and sniffs the curls of his beard. Scout wags his tail and pants a bit, then lets out a soft whine.

“Shh, Scout, it's OK,” Mr. Carlson says. “It's just a hamster. We like hamsters.”

He puts a hand down to pet Scout, who jumps up a little on his back paws. He whines again and licks Mr. Carlson's hand.

“What's gotten into you?” Mr. Carlson asks.

“He's drooling and his tail is down,” I explain. “I think he's confused. He knows he shouldn't act up, but I think he's jealous. Maybe he shouldn't be so close to the box.”

“OK, boy, you're a good boy,” Mr. Carlson says gently to his dog. “Scout, back.”

They step backward, away from the box of animals. That seems to calm Scout a bit.

“One more minute,” Mr. Carlson continues. “Just sit nicely for one more minute. The hamsters won't hurt you.”

I set some fresh cardboard tubes in the mice cage. “Are you going to correct our quizzes this afternoon?”