Free Teacher's Pet by Laurie Halse Anderson Page A

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.
    â€œDon’t you think Scout needs to go out?” I ask.
    â€œNo,” Mr. Carlson answers. “I took him out before your class started. He’s fine. It’s you I’m worried about.”
    â€œDon’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.”
    â€œI didn’t give up! I studied!”
    â€œI 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.”
    â€œI’m not a quitter!” I swallow hard. This hangnail really hurts. It’s throbbing.
    â€œYou quit today. And you act like you’ve already given up on the rest of the year.”
    â€œWhat 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.
    â€œThanks,” I mumble.
    He takes the seat again. “Scout, sit.”
    I can hear Scout sitting up and the sound of buckles being unfastened.
    â€œGo 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.
    â€œThanks,” I croak and dry my eyes. “I really needed that.”
    â€œI 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.”
    â€œFeeling better?”
    â€œYeah,” I say hoarsely.
    â€œGood. Let’s start over. Tell me what’s going on.”
    â€œDo you have a couple of hours?” I try to joke.
    â€œTake 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 everything—what I’m good