Free The Cat at the Wall by Deborah Ellis Page A

there in the classroom, my mother on one side and my father on the other. I hadn’t managed to figure out a good enough lie to get myself out of it.
    “She has two C’s this term,” my mother continued. “Both are in classes that you teach.”
    Ms. Zero just nodded.
    “You don’t have an answer?” my mother asked her.
    “You didn’t ask a question.”
    I have to admit, I liked that. Most people didn’t stand up to my mother.
    “Why is Clare getting C’s in history and English literature? They are not hard subjects.”
    “She has A’s in math and science,” my father said. He spoke in his calm voice, the one he used when he was soothing clients who wanted to cut all their relatives out of their wills. “She’s near the top of her class in those. We don’t understand about these C’s.”
    Ms. Zero looked down at the paper in the file on her desk.
    “Clare has failed to turn in five assignments,” she said.
    “I turned them in,” I said, even though I knew it would do no good.
    “You turned them in late.”
    “No one is saying you can’t take marks off for assignments being late,” Mom said, “but Clare says you refused to even look at them.”
    Again, Ms. Zero just nodded.
    “She also said she has trouble hearing the assignments sometimes, and when she asks for clarification, you won’t give it to her.”
    More nods.
    And a very awkward silence.
    “You know from her other teachers that she can do the work,” Dad said. “We don’t want her average dropping. Do you think you could be a little more flexible?”
    “No,” Ms. Zero said. “There is no need to be flexible. Clare is capable of doing the assignments and handing them in on time. I run a structured, predictable classroom. Clare, when are homework assignments always given out?”
    “The last five minutes of class,” I replied, looking down at my nail polish as if I was bored to death by the whole thing.
    “And where are they posted after that?”
    “On the chalkboard behind your desk.”
    I deliberately avoided looking at the side chalkboard, where my name was written with “X 12” beside it. No one else had anywhere near that many detentions. The next closest was Brandon, and he only had five. My parents didn’t know about any of them.
    I kept waiting for Ms. Zero to bring them up. She never did.
    “I’m getting the feeling that you don’t appreciate our daughter,” Mom said.
    “Whether or not I appreciate your daughter is immaterial to her grade,” Ms. Zero said, “but you’re right. She has a good mind and all the tools she needs to turn herself into a fine student. But she just doesn’t care.”
    “It’s your job to make her care,” my mother said.
    “I want my students to develop an appreciation for their abilities,” the teacher said. “I want them to take pleasure in the power of their minds. When the world throws difficulties their way, they will need to have the confidence to deal with them. A large part of that is taking responsibility for their lives and choices. Right now, Clare chooses not to do that.”
    “That’s harsh,” said my father. “Clare is, after all, only thirteen and a half.”
    “Which means that in four and a half years, she will legally be an adult,” Ms. Zero said. “She has a long way to go in a very short space of time. She could do a lot of that growing this year if she put her mind to it.”
    At that, my mother stood up. My father and I, after a second, stood up with her.
    “My daughter’s character is not your concern,” she said. “Your job is to teach her history and English literature. I’d appreciate it if you would focus on that.”
    “Thank you for coming in,” Ms. Zero said, not rising and not holding out her hand for a round of handshakes. “There are other schools in this city that offer the eighth grade if you think Clare would be better served elsewhere.”
    I kept waiting for her to bring up the Statement of Agreement with the fake parent signatures on