THE REPORT CARD

  A TRUE SHORT

  by

  Lee Carey

  _____

  Copyright © 2007 by Lee Carey

  SMASHWORDS EDITION

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  THE REPORT CARD

  The spring of 1963 delivered the excitement of another Little League season. Looking back, I know my time would have been better spent studying math and history; but no, I was sitting on the bed oiling my glove, daydreaming about our team, the Courthouse Jets. This year we hoped to finish in first place. However, my first error of the year came before I even took the field.

  For me, the seventh grade proved to be a real learning experience. The long-awaited arrival of puberty blended nicely with the attraction to girls, one ranking right up there with my love for baseball, unfortunately my grades began to strike out. Whoosh.

  My dad (somehow he knew everything) quickly noticed the decline in my schoolbook education, so he laid down the rules, and as usual, topped off with the penalty. “Son, if you bring home any D’s or F’s on your report card, you can forget playing baseball this summer.”

  “Don’t worry, Dad, I’m making pretty good grades,” I lied.

  “We’ll see,” he calmly said.

  Well, the dreaded ‘report card’ day finally arrived.

  While holding the four-page booklet in my sweaty hands, I took a deep breath and slowly opened it. My eyes knew exactly the subjects to focus on to find out if I’d be playing shortstop this summer. Math: D. History: D. The other grades were A’s and B’s, but they wouldn’t help me dodge my dad’s rules, any more than putting perfume on a pig. I felt nauseated as I folded the report card and shoved it into the hip pocket of my dungarees. The bus ride down the country road home felt more like a trip to prison than a ride home. I was in deep, realizing I needed to do something drastic to survive this mess.

  I walked up the lane to our farm, kicking rocks. My head overloaded with reasons and excuses to hopefully better my gloomy situation. Some of the ideas were so cuckoo even I was amazed to find myself thinking on them. Fear does strange things to a scared boy, so I tried out a few.

  Dad, our teacher forgot to add our last math and history test to our grades this period. They said I got A’s on both. So they’ll show up on our next grading period. Yeah, if my parents believed that one, they needed to see a shrink.

  Mom, we had substitute teachers for the last month. They were fresh out of college and had never filled out report cards. If there’s a mistake, I’ll tell them next week and they’ll correct it. If I tried this one, I would be the one corrected. My parents weren’t as dumb as I wished they were. I knew I was in over my head.

  My mother would be home and waiting to see my report card. I decided the best move was to stall...until I devised a plan. Thankfully, when I entered the back door into the kitchen, I heard her on the phone. Talk on, Mom.

  Now is a good time to tell you, I learned at an early age to think real fast on my feet. So, when my mother smiled at me and held out her hand, I grabbed my stomach and whispered, “I gotta go bad, Mom. I’ll be right back.” She nodded and continued her conversation.

  I slipped down the hall and ducked into the bathroom, locking the door. A stranger’s face, filled with fear, looked back at me from the mirror. I dropped my books on the counter and snatched the report card from my pocket and stared hard at the two D’s. “Because of you dummies, I won’t play baseball or go to sock hops or have phone privileges. You’ve put me on restriction for six weeks, and you don’t even care. Why couldn’t you have been B’s?” Then, as quick as lightning flashes, a solution thundered through my head. I knew I could pull it off.

  After careful inspection I noticed all of the grades were written with a black ballpoint. “Ha, I’ve got one of those. I’ll work a little magic and change the D into a B. That’s simple as turning a double play. Then, after they sign it, I’ll change it back before I take it back to school. No big deal. Why didn’t I think of this sooner?”

  At that time there were no erasers made for ink, so I cleverly decided to use a pencil eraser with a little dab of spit, which was pretty hard to come by in my state of fear. “Yeah, that’s the ticket.” I snatched a pencil and a black ballpoint from my pocket. “Okay, this is serious business, take your time and don’t be sloppy.”

  Before beginning my brilliant plan to transform six weeks of bad test scores, I decided to relax and calm down. After several splashes of cold water in my face, I felt better, but those fear-filled eyes in the mirror remained.

  It is amazing how a nervous boy can somehow summon up calm hands, but I did. One quick dab of the eraser on my semi-dry tongue, one or two easy strokes on the curve of the D’s, and ‘poof’, it’s gone! “Man, you’re good!”

  After taking a deep breath I picked up the ballpoint pen and chugged a cup of water. With focused precision, I gave myself two B’s, along with a summer of girls and baseball. “That was simple.” Now my hands began to tremble.

  Of course, I needed another opinion on my work of deceit. So, I closed the booklet, looked from left to right, and pretended I was my dad coming home from a hard day’s work. With a casual move, I re-opened it, allowing my eyes to scan the page. My fake grades looked finer than frog’s hair, I mean, considering this couldn’t be considered a fair test. “No problem, they’ll never notice.”

  I ran a wet comb through my hair, put everything away, and opened the door. “Whoops, almost forgot.” I stepped over and flushed the commode. “Yeah, I really had to go,” I said, chuckling.

  After putting the books in my bedroom, I calmly entered the den. Mom was still on the phone, so I placed the report card on the coffee table. Down the hall I hustled and out into the spring afternoon. I hopped on my bike and took off down the long lane for a ride. I desperately needed fresh air in my face. I was suffocating.

  You know, looking back on this event, I now realize how stupid I was. I mean, if I had really brought my C’s, from the previous grading period, up to B’s, I would have been doing somersaults while my mother looked at my grades. But, no, I run out and pedal my bike like a madman down the country road to Stumpy Lake. Oh, the foolishness of youth.

  Report card day happened to fall on a Friday. I’ve always loved Fridays. I’m not sure why, but I have. (And still do.) Maybe it’s because on Fridays our family always had a relaxed supper, no dinner table. We had sandwiches, potato chips, and Cokes. And best of all, we could eat in the den while watching TV. Life was normally loads of fun on Friday.

  When I finally returned home, my dad was there. He owned a Purina feed store, which worked out good since we lived on a chicken, hog, and turkey farm. My heart began beating faster as the realization of my scam settled in. Within a few minutes my little scheme would be tested for real. I’ll admit I was as nervous as a bird in a cat’s paw.

  I stepped into the kitchen and saw my younger sister, Betty Ann, helping Mom fix our sandwiches. Mom turned around and smiled as she said, “Bobby, I’m so proud of you. You brought up your math and history grades to B’s.”

  Betty Ann offered her opinion. “He probably cheated, Mom.”

  “No, he wouldn’t do that. Son, I know your dad will be pleased.”

  “Thanks, Mom. I’m going to wash up. What’s for dinner?”

  She replied, “Peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, Charlie Chip potato chips, and ice cream for dessert.”

  As I entered the den, I hollered over my shoulder, “Good. I’m starvin’.”

  After washing my hands, I looked in the mirror and had a stern word with the fear-filled face. “No need to be nervous, half of this game is won. Just act natural and keep your cool.”

  Our family assembled in the den. Betty Ann, and my little brother, Johnny, and I plopped on the floor in front of the TV.

  Please know this, I still remember everything as if it happened yesterday. It was six o’clock, and we kids liked a local TV show called ‘Bungles the Clown’. He was pure silly. He wore a long, down-to-the-knees dotted tie, big, yellow shoes, and had red frizzy hair. I’d outgrown him, but after his childish antics and jokes, he would show The Three Stooges or cartoons. Those I still liked.

  So, we’re eating and laughing at Moe, Larry, and Curly. Suddenly my mother said to my dad, “Honey, report cards came today. Bobby (that’s what the family called me since my first name is Robert) brought up his math and history grades.”

  Dad replied, “That’s good. Let me see.”

  At that precise moment, hearing those words, my eyes focused so hard on the Three Stooges, they blurred, becoming Six Stooges. The total silence behind me became earsplitting. My heart thumped and raced. I couldn’t have laughed if I’d been tickled. My face caught fire from the neck up.

  My brother and sister continued yakking it up, eating their sandwiches and chips, and enjoying their Friday evening, unaware of my dreadful situation.

  I could barely get a swallow of Coke down my dry throat while picturing my dad looking at my ‘fake’ grades. In that moment, I discovered a new form of torture. (Yeah, self-inflicted.)

  Dad’s deep voice sliced through the goofy clown singing th

e Bozo theme song and waving ‘hello’ to his invisible fans with his pinkie finger. “You brought up your math and history to a B?”

  My eyes burned into the TV, wishing for once to trade places with the funny-looking kook. I replied, “Yes, sir.”

  When I think back on this event today, I am sure the word ‘Liar’ was flashing across the back of my head. Again, had I really brought my grades up, I would be bouncing like a frog around the room. What in the world was I thinking?

  My dad said, “Are you real sure you got B’s in these two subjects?”

  As Bungles danced around with those floppy shoes slapping the floor like some self-proclaimed applause, I answered without moving my stare from the TV, “Yes, sir.”

  “Son, I’ll ask you one more time. Are these grades correct and written on this report card by your teacher?”

  Here was my chance to ease out of this deceitful move. I ignored it. A wad of potato chips caught in my throat. I quickly washed them down with a bitter swig of Coke. “Yes, sir.”

  Mom said, “Lee, you don’t think Bobby changed the grades, do you?”

  Dad replied, “Hand me the phone book, dear. Son, what’s your teacher’s name?”

  My eyes crossed, sweat bubbled from my forehead, and my bratty brother and sister sniggered at me. “Mr. Schmidt,” I whispered.

  “Do you know his first name?” asked dad.

  I wanted to say, “Mister”, but I knew now wasn’t the time to be funny. “I think it’s Howard.”

  Silence. Then came the sound of pages flipping.

  “Here it is. H.P. Schmidt. Dial this number, honey,” my dad said to my sweet mother.

  I froze hearing mom’s finger spinning each number on the rotary phone, knowing it was only a slow motion countdown of the steel trap preparing to snap my skinny neck. I could’ve stopped the whole thing by being honest, but no, I was making another costly error, and I still hadn’t made it to the ball field. Life wasn’t very good now, no matter what silly Bozo or the Three Stooges were doing.

  The following is my half of the conversation. Listen in:

  “Mr. Schmidt, this is Mr. Carey. My son, Bobby, is one of your students.

  “Yes. Well, thank you for saying that. He’s a good boy at times. I have a question.

  “Do you have your grade book handy?

  “Yes, I’ll wait.”

  Here is when I should have jumped up and confessed, but no, I remained on the floor, squeezing my PB&J, trembling like a red wiggler on a fishhook. What an idiot!

  “What were his grades for math and history this period?”

  A long pause.

  “I see. So, he received D’s and not B’s?

  “Yes. I’m looking at B’s. Well, Mr. Schmidt, I’m sorry to have bothered you. I’ll handle him on my end, and you do what you have to on your end. Thank you, sir. Good-bye.”

  I heard the receiver land in the cradle. Sounded like a bomb. Then, my dad said, “Margaret, take Betty Ann and Johnny up to Powell’s Drug Store and get them a milk shake.”

  Of course, my perfect little brother and sister giggled and hopped up the like coiled springs.

  “Bobby, go to your bedroom and wait for me,” Dad said in his normal voice.

  “Yes, sir,” I mumbled, pushing from the floor on rubber legs.

  As I bring this escapade to an end, let me say, I received one of the worst ‘belt on the butt’ whippings I’ve ever had. I was restricted for six weeks, no sock hops, no phone privileges, and lots of farm work and homework. I completed extra credits in class, studied hard, and got my grades up to B’s for the final grading period. I did play summer baseball. We finished in second place to the Creeds Indians. It was a great summer, and I learned a lot. One: Be honest. Two: My dad was a wise man. I’ll always love him. And I miss him every day.

  THIS GRADING PERIOD HAS ENDED.

  LeeCarey-author.com

 

 

  Lee Carey, The Report Card

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