Free The Report Card by Andrew Clements Page A

Make Todd hang up the phone!” The kitchen phone clattered onto its cradle and I said, “Sorry. Todd’s not winning any prizes for maturity this week.”
    Stephen said, “Maturity? Well, how about you? That thing you did in the lunchroom today wasn’t exactly cool either.” He sounded mad.
    I hadn’t been ready for an attack and that’s what it felt like. I said, “But . . . but I couldn’t stand it. You heard Merton—he was being awful. And . . . and I had to make him stop.”
    Stephen said, “But he wasn’t talking to you,Nora. He wasn’t even sitting at your table. It was none of your business. I don’t need anybody to take care of me.”
    I said, “But if someone was attacking me and making everybody laugh at me, wouldn’t you help me? If you could? Wouldn’t you?”
    That stopped him. He said, “I . . . I guess so.” Then he thought a little and said, “But it wasn’t like that, Nora. We were just talking. And I’m not afraid of being laughed at. And besides, everybody knows that Merton’s a stupid creep. Nobody takes him seriously. All you did was make yourself look like a fool.”
    It hurt when Stephen said that. I didn’t say anything.
    â€œNora?”
    I didn’t answer.
    Stephen blew a big breath out through his mouth. Then he said, “Listen, I’m sorry I called you a fool, okay? I’m sorry . . . okay? And what you said to Merton? It was really pretty great.” Then Stephen paused a few seconds and said, “Actually, I wish I could have said all that.”
    I waited another second or two. “Honest?” I asked.
    He said, “Honest. And how did you know all that extra stuff about the sun and everything?”
    A new fact was staring me in the face: I knew I would never have a better chance than this moment to tell Stephen the truth—the facts of me. And I also knew that if Stephen didn’t hear the truth directly from me, it would be bad.
    So I said, “That stuff about the sun? I . . . I did some extra reading. It’s sort of complicated. But listen . . . I’ve got to explain something—something important.”
    I told Stephen everything. About how I had learned to read when I was two and a half, and the way I had only pretended to learn how to read when we were in first grade. I told him how I had kept all my test scores lower, and how even my own family hadn’t known how smart I was. I explained the way I had missed questions on the Mastery Testing on purpose. I told him how Mrs. Byrne had found my computer files and then kept my secret. And I even told him about Dr. Trindler and the IQ test.
    When I was done, Stephen was quiet. Then he said, “So how smart are you?”
    â€œWell,” I said, “Dr. Trindler thinks I’m a genius.”
    â€œAre you? Are you a genius ?”
    I could hear it in Stephen’s voice. What I’d always been afraid of. Stephen was already starting to think I was weird. Weird Nora, the genius girl.
    And I knew that the next couple of sentences would be important.
    I said, “I guess I am. But so what? So what if I’m a genius? I’m still me, Stephen. It’s not like I’m any different.”
    â€œYeah? Well, what about at lunch today?” he asked. “That was pretty different.”
    â€œOkay. Yeah, that was kind of different. But if I hadn’t just told you everything else, would you have started to think I had turned into this totally different person or something? I’m still me. No matter what, I’m still me.”
    There was only the hum of the open phone line. Then Stephen said, “But . . . but it’s like you’ve been a spy  . . . for years. Like you’ve been this genius secret agent, spying on all the regular kids. And all those Ds on your report card? I was