Free Clauda Kishi, Middle School Dropout by Ann M. Martin Page B

the very real world of math class. "Let's exchange papers and do some quick correcting. We only have ten minutes before the period is over." I glanced at my paper one last time before handing it to Tim Ryan, a blond, freckled boy who was sitting next to me. He traded his paper for mine, and I pulled out a red pen.
As Mr. Peters went over the answers, I felt a mounting sense of excitement. I knew I'd done well. Tim, on the other hand, had not. I felt terrible about all the red Xs I was making on his paper, and realized how bad Rick Chow must have felt all those times he had to mark my tests.
Finally, we reached the end of the test. "Quickly now, count up the points and write the grade on top of the test," said Mr. Peters. "Remember, each wrong answer is two points off." I counted up Tim's Xs, multiplied by two, and subtracted the total from 100. Then, reluctantly, I wrote a sixty-four on the top of his test. If only he'd had one more right answer, he would have passed! Poor Tim.
I was so busy feeling sorry for him that for a second I almost forgot about my 'own grade. But Tim reminded me. He gave me a thumbs-up and a huge grin as he held up my paper so I could see the number on the top.
Ninety-six! Little did he know, that was one of the best marks I'd ever received on a math test. And I mean ever. Even back in fourth grade, when I had a patient teacher named Ms. Jameson, I never did so well on a test.
I felt so great I could hardly sit still. Fortunately, the bell rang then and I was able to jump up and grab my test from Tim's desk. I wanted to kiss that ninety-six, but I stopped just in time. I wouldn't have wanted my lip gloss to blur that stupendous number. Instead, after I'd showed my grade to a smiling Mr. Peters so he could record it, I filed the test away in my notebook. I could hardly wait to show it to my parents that night.
I walked out of the classroom feeling as if I were floating on air. If this was what seventh grade was going to be like, I didn't care if I had to stay there until I was thirty! Then my world came crashing down.
I barely noticed the chattering of the group around me as I strolled along. I did notice, however, a poster for the Halloween dance, which was going to be held on Friday night. I thought about the costume I was working on. I'd come up with this great punk 'look, pairing an old leather jacket of my uncle Russ's (he used to have a motorcycle before he was married) with torn fishnet tights, my big black Doc Martens, and a spandex miniskirt. Of course, I'd wear the nose ring. That was an important part of the look. And I was thinking about using one of those temporary dyes to put a purple - or maybe a green - streak in my hair.
I wondered if my mom would let me out of the house.
I stepped forward to take a better look at the poster and to check what time the dance was going to start. That's when I saw something that made my heart lurch.
"Eighth-grade Dance" said a line at the top of the poster.
"Oh, my lord," I murmured to myself. "That can't mean what I think it means, can it?" Before I knew it I had marched into Mr. Kingbridge's office and asked to see him. Moments later I was sitting in front of his desk. "I can go, can't I?" I asked. "I mean, I know I'm taking seventh-grade classes, but I'm still technically an eighth-grader, right? I mean, in terms of age and maturity and stuff?" I was babbling. And here's why: as soon as I'd started to speak, Mr. Kingbridge had begun to shake his head. I didn't want to hear him say no, so I just kept talking.
But I couldn't talk forever, and finally I wound down. Mr. Kingbridge looked genuinely sorry as he explained that he really couldn't let me go to the dance. "I'd be setting a precedent if I did that," he said. "And, even though I agree that you have the maturity of an eighth-grader, you are officially a seventh-grader now, Claudia. You're more than welcome. to attend the afternoon party for sixth-and seventh-graders, of course." He said that last