a pretty good reader. I’ve read all the Diary of a Wimpy Kid books, half of Harry Potter, and Shiloh, book 1. I’m partway through Black Ships Before Troy: The Story of the Iliad, even though the long words are making me dizzy and the violence is making me sick. I never miss an issue of Mad magazine, and I score in the 80th percentile on the reading part of the CAASPP. Not bad for a kid who’d rather be playing piano.
But this Goss v. Lopez business is way over my head. I download and print a PDF of the case and try to read it: The State is constrained to recognize a student’s legitimate entitlement to a public education as a property interest which is protected by the Due Process Clause and which may not be taken away for misconduct without adherence to the minimum procedures required by that Clause.
You could score in the 90th percentile and still not get what it means.
But if you scored in the 99.5th . . .
Sadie spends most of her time in her room. According to Bernice, teenagers naturally withdraw from the family. It’s how they practice being independent.
Her dirty dishes spend a lot of time in there, too. If I were an insect or a rodent, I would definitely live in Sadie’s room. For furniture it’s got plates with bits of cheese stuck to them and crusts of half-eaten sandwiches hanging off the edge. If you get thirsty, there’s always the last sip of coffee sludge at the bottom of the mug. And if you feel like taking a nap, there’s a mound of stinky laundry you can snuggle into. The perfect habitat for anything with a tail.
I, however, am never allowed in her room.
But I used to be. When I was younger, she would leave the door open for me. Sometimes she’d even let me sleep on her floor. In the morning, she’d lift her blanket and we’d snuggle under the covers. We’d make up stories one sentence at a time, and when we had them all worked out, we’d take down the box of Playmobil and turn our stories into stop-motion movies. They always had a boy trapped in a flood, stuck in a tree, or riding his bike too close to a cliff.
After I turned six and Sadie turned twelve, her door closed. A sign went up: NO SIBLINGS ALLOWED. PREMISES UNDER SURVEILLANCE.
With words like that on her door, Sadie’s bound to understand Goss v. Lopez, right?
I take a deep breath, make my hand into a fist, and tap. You couldn’t hear that knock if you had a stethoscope pressed to the other side of the door.
I do a second knock, followed by a harder one, then one more soft one as if to say, Sorry if that was too loud.
The door swings open. I stand there pinned by my big sister’s eyes.
“Can you translate something for me?”
“What’s the source language?”
“English.”
“What’s the target language?”
“English I can understand.”
She puts out a hand. Note, she does not invite me in.
I give her the printout of Goss v. Lopez. She looks at it, then at me.
“What is this?”
“Supreme Court decision. Mr. Kalman told me to look it up.”
“Why don’t you get him to translate it for you?”
“I can’t afford him.”
“I don’t have time for this,” she says. “I’ve got two hundred fifty pages to read for AP English, the SAT to retake on Saturday, a mock trial to prepare for, my Common App essay to write, and a boyfriend I haven’t even had time to kiss!”
Which might explain the door that just slammed in my face.
If there’s one thing I, Samuel Ellis Warren, am good at, it’s turning a “no” into a “yes.” Want a later bedtime? Tell your parents you can’t fall asleep because you’re scared you won’t wake up. Even a hint of your untimely death will buy you a half-hour of cuddling. Outraged by the tiny portion of dessert you got? Offer to eat more broccoli, then slip it to your dog when your parent turns away.
Don’t have a dog? Beg for one every day. And—this is hard, but it works—practice picking up other people’s dogs’ poo. Do this in front of your parents. Let them see how serious you are about pet chores.
When it comes to getting past your big sister’s door, you have to think outside the house. First, I make a sign that says GOSS V. LOPEZ? The period under the question mark is a frowny face to show how desperate I am. I go outside and, using double-sided tape, attach the sign to Dad’s telescoping pole (he uses it to change really high light bulbs). I hoist it to Sadie’s window and thud it against the glass.
Sadie pulls down her roller shade.
She finds another sign taped to her bathroom window.
While she’s in there, I race back inside and slip one more sign under her door. Like Hogwarts owls, my signs keep coming. The message is clear: I won’t leave you alone until you explain Goss v. Lopez.
Which she finally does. Through the closed door.
She starts by reading aloud. “The State is constrained to recognize a student’s legitimate entitlement to a public education as a property interest which is protected by the Due Process Clause and which may not be taken away for misconduct without adherence to the minimum procedures required by that Clause.”
“Translation?”
Her door opens. “It means you have the right to an education just the same as if it were a piece of land you owned. And they can’t take it away from you without giving you a fair hearing. A chance to tell your side.”
She hands me back the printout of the case. “Mr. Kalman’s right. You should march in there tomorrow and talk to the principal.”
I’m fine talking to kids my age. I’m even fine standing on a desk and holding up a sign. But when it comes to talking, actually talking, to authority figures—the thought gives me an anxiety attack.
“The principal scares me.”
“Someone else can talk for you. Mom always takes your side.”
“Not about homework.”
“Ask Dad, then.”
“Mister Softy?”
And then, in a quiet voice, I say, “You could talk to the principal for me.”
“I’m not your guardian, Sam.”
“But you’re my sister. And captain of the debate team. And you know all those big words.”
I give her the sweetest look a little brother ever gave.