SOLOMON- WENDELL'S REPORT CARD

SOLOMON- WENDELL'S REPORT CARD IS A STORY ABOUT A BOY WHO NOT ONLY HAS CONCERNS ABOUT HIS FAILING GRADES, BUT ALSO OF HIS OVERLY CRITICAL AND JUDGEMENTAL MOTHER.

SOLOMON: WENDELL'S REPORT CARD

 

 

The end of the first semester had to be one of the most nerve- wracking, yet

 

intensifying days of the school year.  Why?  Because it's the day we got our

 

second quarter report cards; and I'd be lying if I told you I didn't want to fall

 

off the face of the earth at that very moment.  I knew that I had a minimum of

 

two failing grades and that's to say the least; Social Studies and Science.  Those

 

two subjects never came easy to me.  Sometimes I feel as if I suffer from a 

 

severe case of dyslexia when it comes to Social Studies and Science.

            Mr. Quickwitter began handing out report cards.  The closer He moved

 

to me, the more nervous I became. 

 

           “Wow!” Solomon shouted.  I glanced over to see what the commotion

 

was about and he told me, “I have an A in Science and an A in Social Studies.” 

           If I could've, I would have gave him a noogie right there in class, but

 

before I got a chance to comment, Mr. Quickwitter dropped my report card on

 

my desk.  Hesitantly, I opened it, worse than I could've imagined.  F in Science,

 

F in History, and a D in English. 

 

          “I want your report cards signed by a parent or guardian and returned to

 

me by Friday,”  Mr. Quickwitter said.  “That gives you two days."

 

          How in the world could I ever muster up enough courage to show this

 

report card to my mom?  She's not going to be to pleased with my effort...or

 

lack of it.

 

          Solomon must've noticed the dolorous expression on my face, because he

 

leaned over and asked, “Wendell, is everything alright?”

 

          “Solomon, I can't show my mother this report card,”  I explained and

 

showed him the report card.  “She's going to be so disappointed in me.”

 

          “No, she won't,” he reconciled, “She'll understand.”

 

          “Understand what?  That I'm a failure," I said. "You don't know my

 

mother, Solomon,” I continued, “She's irascible and says mean things when I

 

don't make good grades.”

 

          “Then what are you going to do?”

 

          “I don't know, Solomon,” I said, “but I need to figure out something by

 

Friday.”

 

          Blanche cuts in and blurts out, “You had better figure something out or

 

else your momma's going to spank your posterier.”

 

          The entire class bursted into laughter.

 

          I made it home just moments before my mom arrived.  Perfect.  I slipped

 

into her room hoping to find something with her signature on it.  Bingo!  A

 

copy of the lease.  I held the report card up to the signature on the lease and

 

forged her name: Leighton Dobey.

 

          During dinner, I wasn't feeling so well.  I forked my green beans contin-

 

uously and hadn't touched my roast.  My mom probably suspected something

 

because her plate was empty and she was sitting watching me; not mention, 

 

roast is my favorite dish.  I thought my plan was orchestrated carefully, but

 

somewhere along the line I felt that the plan I had so carfully orchestrated had a

 

hole in it.

 

          “Wendell, aren't you going to eat your supper?”  She finally asked.

 

          “I don't feel too well,” I explained.  “May I be excused?”

          She nodded and I moped to my room.

          “What happened?”  Solomon asked, the following day.  “Did your mom

 

sign your report card?”

          “Not quite,” I said.  “I forged her signature.”  I went deaf- toned after Mr.

 

Quickwitter announced he was coming around to collect report cards.  When he

 

made it to my desk, I stalled handing it to him.  I noticed he spent an extra

 

second observing the signature.

          “Wendell,” he said, “see me after class.”  I swallowed hard, but would

 

have much preferred swallowing bricks.

 

          After class Mr. Quickwitter waited for me by the door.  The closer I

 

gravitated toward him, the closer I felt like I was going to faint.

          “Wendell, answer me honestly,” he said.  “Did your mother really sign

 

this report card?”

          Again, I swallowed hard and lied, “Yes.” 

          He looked me in the eyes before excusing me from class.  The longer I

 

kept this a secret the more I felt like a miscreant.

          When I walked into the kitchen for dinner, I figured my mother knew

 

something. I could sense it in her demeanor.  She was already at the table

 

waiting for me to take a seat.  Mom always told me to keep my hands on the

 

table; but I recognized one of hers was under the table.  She wore a sullen

 

expression on her face.

 

          She asked, “Wendell, do you have something to tell me?”

 

          “No,” I said.

          That was when the hand under the table came up with an envelope in

 

hand.

 

          She opened the envelope and said, “What's this?”  She passed it across

 

the table to me.

          I was speechless.  Inarticulate.

 

          “How did you manage to get an F in Science, an F in Social Studies, and

 

a D in English?” she asked, then continued.  “Are you mentally incompetent? 

 

Are you harebrained or something?”

          I dropped my head low and said, “No.”

          “Well only a feebleminded person could make these types of grades,” she

 

said. 

 

          “Do I need to enroll you in Special Ed. classes?”

          I couldn't fathom the fact that mother deemed me unworthy.  It was like

 

throwing cobblestones at a glass house.  Enough to shatter my heart.

 

          The following morning, Mr. Quickwitter stopped me at the entry of

 

the classroom and pulled me aside and asked, “Why'd you feel the need to

 

forge your mother's signature?”

           “Why does it matter to you?” I asked, angered by the night previous.

          “Because I'm your teacher,” he said, “and I want what's best for my

 

students.”

 

          “Well if you must know,” I said, “I did it to avoid verbal abuse.”

          “Really,” he said, astonished. “Did she verbally abuse you yesterday?”

          “Did she,” I repeated.  “She asked me if I was mentally incompetent and

 

if she needed to put me in Special Ed. classes.”

          “I'm sorry you had to go through that Wendell,” he sympathized.  “She's

 

coming in after school to discuss your grades.”

          He opened his mouth ready to say something, but before he could the

 

bell rang and we walked into class.  I took my time sitting down, but when I

 

did, another one of my classmates, Primalia asked, “How's your derriere,

 

Wendell?”  The entire class shared yet another laugh about me and my grades.

          “Class settle down,” Mr. Quickwitter ordered, then flipped open his

 

science book.  “Who can tell me what an ionic equation is?”

          Solomon raised his hand and answered, “An ionic equation is a chemical

 

equation in which electrolytes are written as dissociated ions.”

          “Correct,” Mr. Quickwitter said and added, “ionic equations are used for

 

single and double displacement reactions which occur in aqueous solutions,”

 

while writing an equation on the chalkboard.

          Ca2++ 2C1-+ 2Ag++ 2N03-= Ca2+ 2N03-+ 2AgC1(5)

          He continued, “This is the full ionic equation.  Wendell, would you do

 

the honors for us and come up here and write the net ionic equation?”

          He called me out on the spot.  This is my time to shine.  No turning back.

 

It's either now or never.  I took the chalk from his hand and wrote,

 

2C1-(aq)+ 2Ag+(aq)= 2AgC1(5).

          “Good job,” he said, “now write the reduced balance form.”

 

          I wrote it.  Ag++ C1-= AgC1(5).

 

          “Marvelous job, Wendell,” he applauded and the class applauded in

 

unison.  And from that moment forward, I would no longer feel inferior.

          At 3:30 p.m., my mom walked in where only Mr. Quickwitter and I sat

 

having a healthy controversial conversation about sports.  She pulled up a chair

 

and joined us.

 

          My mom wasted no time and got straight to the point.  “Why is Wendell

 

failing Social Studies and Science and just barely passing English?” she asked. 

 

“He's ranked number three- hundred and thirty- two.  Should I enroll him in

 

Special Education classes.

          Those words didn't rub Mr. Quickwitter to well, because his smile turned

 

upside down instantaneously.  He straightened up in his chair and said, “Do

 

you want your child to have no self- worth or self- respect?”

          “Of course I do,” she said, “He's my son.”

 

          He said, “Not if you keep talking to him like that Mrs. Dobey.  If this

 

keeps up, he could treat others the same way and become withdrawn from life.”

 

          “How else am I supposed to react when I see grades like this?” she

 

asked.

 

          “Address the problem in a calm manner and compliment him for the

 

good he has done,” he said.  “Ask yourself Mrs. Dobey, are those the types of

 

iniquities you want to pass down to Wendell?”

 

          I must admit, it felt pretty good to witness that moment.  It was like. . .

 

reprisal.

 

          He continued, “You have to realize Mrs. Dobey, Wendell still has yet

 

another semester to exemplify his resiliance.  I'm pretty sure he'll redeem

 

himself”

          “You're right,” she agreed, then turned to me,  “I'm sorry about the verbal

 

abuse and will never do it again.”

 

          The apology was mellifluous like humming birds at day break.

 

          Mr. Quickwitter said, “Remember Mrs. Dobey, complimenting is the

 

glue that holds relationships together.”

 

          That was a day I will cherish for the rest of my life.  When I made it

 

home, I called Solomon and filled him in on what happened.

 

          He said, “I guess it all worked out, huh?”

          “Yeah, I guess so,” I said.  “Thanks, Solomon.”

          “Thanks for what?”

          My mom screamed out from the other room, “Wendell, get off that phone

 

and finish your homework.”

 

          I whispered, “Gotta go.”           

THE END

Author's Note

WHAT DID YOU THINK ABOUT SOLOMON- WENDELL'S REPORT CARD? hOW WAS THE DIALOGUE? WAS THE MESSAGE EASY TO GRASP? WOULD YOU RECOMMEND THIS STORY TO SOMEONE YOU KNOW? WOULD YOU PAY FOR THIS STORY?