I got suspended. Who knew? Two seconds, one punch and, voila — two weeks off.
At first it was totally worth it. It was the end of school anyway, so it was like getting an extra couple of weeks of summer vacation. My week of being grounded was over in a flash. (It was supposed to be two weeks, but my parents got lazy and stopped checking on me.) After that I took my sketchbooks and sat in the sunshine at the park almost every morning, drawing the kids who fed the pigeons, or the elderly couple that came and sat on the same bench every day.
Mel kept me up-to-date on the school gossip. Gossip like the week-long fling and subsequent breakup of Bimbo Girl and Puck Head. News of the split kept me happy for almost a month.
Then, at the end of August, everything fell apart. My old principal told my parents that I might do better in a different environment. That’s how they all kept saying it — “different environment” — as if they were changing my pen at the zoo. My new school was Dogwood Senior Secondary in East Vancouver. It was smaller — only four hundred students — and supposed to be more supportive. “Supportive” turned out to mean anal. Before classes started, I had to go in for an entire day of tests. My parents and I were called in for a meeting the week after.
“We’re late,” Mom hissed as we swung open the double doors at the front of the school. Mom looked like she might be the new head of the parents’ association. She had her blond hair (courtesy of Clairol) swept into some complicated bun on the top of her head. She’s a realtor, and Dad says she scares people into buying houses. It might be true. Someone forgot to tell her that turquoise blue eye shadow went out of style about two decades ago.
“We’re only ten minutes late,” my dad said calmly as we filed toward the office. “They can’t start without us.”
Within a few minutes we were sitting on tweed chairs in a meeting room. The principal and the woman who gave me my tests — she turned out to be the learning assistance coordinator for the school district — sat together at the end of the table.
Test Lady cleared her throat. “Upon reading Caz’s file, we had some concerns about her past performance at school.”
Mom barely let her finish her sentence. “I assure you, the incident with that boy was a one-time occurrence. Caz has already been severely punished at home.” I love how parents think being grounded is a severe punishment. As if watching soap operas and eating popcorn for lunch is somehow painful.
Test Lady waited for my mom to finish. “The violence is only one of our concerns. Some of the tests Caz wrote earlier this week show that she has a mild learning disability.”
“She certainly does not,” my mom said. Dad was silent.
“It’s called dyslexia,” Test Lady continued, as if Mom hadn’t spoken. “I’m sure you’ve heard of it. Dyslexia is a congenital and developmental condition, with genetic and environmental causes.”
I had no idea what she was talking about, and I could tell that Mom didn’t understand her either. “That’s ridiculous,” she said.
“Symptoms include poor reading, writing and spelling skills,” Test Lady said, “as well as some problems with mathematics.”
That’s where Mom walked out. She stood up with a huff and left the room. I looked at Dad to see if I should follow. He didn’t move, so I stayed. After a minute he turned to look at me. “Do you think that you might have this?” he asked me.
I shrugged. “I suck at English. Does that count?”
Test Lady nodded. “It does indeed. Mr. Hallard, Caz’s dyslexia is not severe. What we would like to suggest is that you place her in our remedial reading program. She’ll spend part of each morning with a small group of other students and receive personal attention from our learning assistance teacher. For the remainder of the day, she can take regular classes.”
Dad agreed to everything, like he always does, and I tuned out. Was dyslexia curable? I didn’t want to ask.
When we got outside, Mom was in a fury. “I can’t believe you stayed and let that woman talk to you like that,” she shouted as soon as Dad climbed into the car.
“She’s only trying to help,” Dad said.
Mom echoed him in a high voice. “She’s only trying to help. Well, Ms. Goody Two-Shoes can stuff it. Caz isn’t stupid. I hope you told her that!”
“I told her that we would do whatever it takes to help Caz improve,” Dad said. I thought that was nice of him, although I saw no real hope of improving.
“You are so immensely spineless,” Mom snarled. At Dad, not me. “They probably thought ‘sucker’ the minute they saw you. They can put your daughter into whatever retard class they want, and you say nothing.”
I sank into the backseat upholstery and pretended I wasn’t there.
“No one’s calling Caz a retard,” Dad said.
“No one says retard anymore,” I told them. That was a mistake. It gave them an excuse to stop yelling at each other. They both glared at me instead.
When we got home I went straight to the phone to call Mel and tell her how horrible Mom had been. Then I realized that I’d have to explain about the remedial reading class. Halfway through dialing, I hung up.