Watchdog Read Free Page B

rhythmically in time to a song only he could hear.
    As I closed the door behind me, he opened his eyes. In his uniform of navy-blue pleated pants, white button-down oxford cloth shirt, and rep tie, Spencer was a typical Howard Academy sixth grader. Eleven going on forty, with attitude to spare.
    He lifted his left arm lazily and checked the diving watch on his wrist. “You’re late.”
    â€œI know, I’m sorry.” I pulled off my blazer and threw it over the back of my chair. My purse went into a desk drawer.
    â€œBig night last night?” His gaze roamed over me, searching eagerly for telltale signs of debauchery.
    â€œI wish. Pesky brother this morning. Why didn’t you start working while you were waiting?”
    Spencer shrugged. “Why should I?”
    â€œBecause you want better grades?” I suggested. A firm hand on his shoulder encouraged him to hop down from the tabletop.
    â€œYou want me to get better grades. I think I’m doing okay.”
    â€œOn the contrary, your grades are immaterial to me. I don’t have to take your report card home and show it to my parents.”
    â€œI don’t have to, either.” Spencer smirked. “It comes in the mail. Goes straight to Big J’s office. His secretary’s the one who has to deal with it.”
    Big J was Spencer’s father, James Holbrook. That was the only way I’d ever heard Spencer refer to him. I’d been tempted to inquire whether he called his mother Big Mama, but in keeping with the school’s tradition of genteel behavior, I hadn’t quite dared.
    I pulled out two chairs and we both sat down. In my folder was a math test Spencer had taken earlier in the week. His math teacher, Leanne Honeywell, had given it to me the day before. I pulled it out.
    â€œHave you seen this?”
    Spencer glanced down, then nodded. His dark brown hair, which looked as though it had been neither combed nor cut in recent memory, fell down over his eyes. I resisted a maternal urge to brush it back.
    â€œWhat’d you think of your grade?” The D slashed in red above his name was damning evidence of his feeble grasp of fractions.
    â€œI guess it’s not too good.”
    â€œYou guess?”
    I lifted the test and flipped through the pages. There were more red x’s and blank spots than there were correct answers. From what I could see, a grade of D had been generous.
    Spencer shrugged again. He took a pencil out of his pocket and began to twirl it between his fingers like a baton.
    â€œYou care to tell me what happened?”
    â€œNothing happened. I just blew the test, that’s all.”
    â€œI can see that. What I’m wondering is why. Miss Honeywell says you got off to a great start in math this year. Your homework’s been neat and on time. It shows a real understanding of the concepts. This test should have been a breeze for you.”
    â€œWell, it wasn’t, okay?” Spencer’s voice rose. Quickly he lowered it to a more moderate tone. “I guess I got confused about a few things.”
    I took out some fresh paper. “Why don’t we go over the test together? You show me where you got confused, and I’ll explain what you should have done.”
    I sent him on his way at ten o’clock, a little wiser in the ways of fractions, and hopefully a little closer to realizing that good grades wouldn’t automatically come his way because his father was a powerhouse in the telecommunications business. Like many of the kids on my roster, Spencer was of average or better intelligence, with perhaps a slight tendency toward learning problems. Though the students I tutored were having trouble keeping up with their regular course load, they weren’t, by and large, learning disabled.
    What they lacked was motivation, or self-esteem, or sometimes basic organizational skills. With children who’d been given so much, it was often difficult to make