ABBY CARSON IS FAILING SIXTH GRADE
It isn’t that Abby can’t do her schoolwork, it’s just that she doesn’t like doing it. When a warning letter is sent home, Abby realizes that all of her slacking off could cause her to be held back—for real! Unless she meets some specific conditions, including taking on an extra-credit project: find a pen-pal in a foreign country. Simple enough (even for a girl who hates homework).
When Abby’s first letter arrives at a small school in Afghanistan, Sadeed Bayat is chosen to be her pen pal . . . Well, kind of. He is the best writer, but he is also a boy, and in his village it is not appropriate for a boy to correspond with a girl. So his younger sister dictates and signs the letter—until Sadeed decides what his sister is telling Abby isn’t what he’d like Abby to know.
As letters flow back and forth between Illinois and Afghanistan, Abby and Sadeed discover that their letters are crossing more than an ocean. They are crossing a huge cultural divide and a minefield of different lifestyles and traditions. Their growing friendship is also becoming a growing problem for both communities, and some people are not happy. Suddenly things are not so simple.
WINNER OF THE CHRISTOPHER AWARD
OTHER FAVORITES FROM ANDREW CLEMENTS, BESTSELLING AUTHOR WITH OVER 10 MILLION BOOKS IN PRINT!
Visit the author at AndrewClements.com
Meet the author, watch videos, and get extras at
KIDS.SimonandSchuster.com
Cover illustration copyright © 2009 by Brian Selznick Atheneum Books for Young Readers Simon & Schuster New York Ages 8–12 0211
What if you called it a frindle?
What people say about Andrew’s bestselling classic
Frindle
WINNER OF THE CHRISTOPHER AWARD
“Will have readers smiling all the way
through . . . hilarious.” —Horn Book, starred review
“A captivating tale—one to press upon children, and one
they’ll be passing among themselves.”
—Kirkus Reviews, pointered review
“Outstanding and witty.”
—School Library Journal
About the Author and Illustrator
Andrew Clements is the author of the enormously popular Frindle. He has been nominated for a multitude of state awards and has an Edgar Award and two Christopher Awards. His popular works include Lost and Found, No Talking, Room One, Lunch Money, and others. He is also the author of the mystery adventure series Benjamin Pratt & the Keepers of the School .Mr. Clements taught in the public schools near Chicago for seven years before moving East to begin a career in publishing and writing. He lives with his wife in central Massachusetts and has four grown children. Visit his website: AndrewClements.com.
Mark Elliott is the illustrator of many picture books and novels for young readers, including No Talking by Andrew Clements. He lives in New York’s Hudson River valley.
Also by Andrew Clements
Benjamin Pratt & the Keepers of the School: We the Children
Benjamin Pratt & the Keepers of the School: Fear Itself
Big Al
Big Al and Shrimpy
Dogku
Extra Credit
Frindle
The Handiest Thing in the World
The Jacket
Jake Drake, Bully Buster
Jake Drake, Class Clown
Jake Drake, Know-It-All
Jake Drake, Teacher’s Pet
The Janitor’s Boy
The Landry News
The Last Holiday Concert
Lost and Found
Lunch Money
A Million Dots
No Talking
The Report Card
Troublemaker
Room One
The School Story
A Week in the Woods
ATHENEUM BOOKS FOR YOUNG READERS
An imprint of Simon & Schuster Children’s Publishing Division 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, New York 10020
www.SimonandSchuster.com
This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Text copyright © 2009 by Andrew Clements
Illustrations copyright © 2009 by Mark Elliott
All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. ATHENEUM BOOKS FOR YOUNG READERS is a registered trademark of Simon & Schuster, Inc.
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Also available in an Atheneum Books for Young Readers hardcover edition
Book design by Russell Gordon
The text for this book is set in Bembo.
The illustrations for this book are rendered in pencil.
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First Atheneum Books for Young Readers paperback edition February 2011
The Library of Congress has cataloged the hardcover edition as follows:
Clements, Andrew, 1949–
Extra credit / Andrew Clements; illustrations by Mark Elliott. —1st ed.
p. cm.
Summary: As letters flow back and forth—between the prairies of Illinois and the mountains of Afghanistan, across cultural and religious divides—sixth-grader Abby, ten-year-old Amira, and eleven-year-old Sadeed begin to speak and listen to one another.
ISBN 978-1-4169-4929-9 (hc)
eISBN-13: 978-1-4169-9520-3
[1. Letters—Fiction. 2. Pen pals—Fiction. 3. Family life—Afghanistan—Fiction. 4. Family life—Illinois—Fiction. 5. Afghanistan—Fiction. 6. Illinois—Fiction.] I. Elliott, Mark, 1967– ill. II. Title. PZ7.C59118Ex 2009
[Fic]—dc22
2008042877
ISBN 978-1-4169-4931-2 (pbk)
For Rick Richter
Contents
CHAPTER 1: IN THE HILLS ABOVE KABUL
CHAPTER 2: IN THE HILLS ABOVE LINSDALE
CHAPTER 3: WORST CASE
CHAPTER 4: STEEP CLIMB
CHAPTER 5: THE PROJECT
CHAPTER 6: STUCK BETWEEN
CHAPTER 7: WORD FOR WORD
CHAPTER 8: HOUSE, BARN, FIELDS, WOODS
CHAPTER 9: ABBY IN AMERICA
CHAPTER 10: CELEBRITY
CHAPTER 11: A REAL PERSON
CHAPTER 12: POSTINGS
CHAPTER 13: SMALL MOUNTAIN
CHAPTER 14: CONNECTED
CHAPTER 15: FLAG
CHAPTER 16: DECISIONS
CHAPTER 17: NOT STUPID
CHAPTER 18: FLAG
CHAPTER 19: MOSTLY SADEED
CHAPTER 20: PRESENTATION
CHAPTER 21: FIELD DAY
READING GROUP GUIDE
‘TROUBLEMAKER’ Teaser
NOT APPROPRIATE
ON PURPOSE
TO SEE AND BE SEEN
CHAPTER 1
IN THE HILLS ABOVE KABUL
Sadeed knew he wasn’t supposed to be listening to the men talking in the next room. He also knew he wasn’t supposed to be peeking through the crack near the bottom of the old wooden door. But they had to be talking about him in there—why else would his teacher have invited him to the home of the headman of the village?
His teacher, Mahmood Jafari, had not told him much. “Please come to Akbar Khan’s house this afternoon at four. He and his councillors meet today, and I have to speak with them. And I may need you to be there.”
Sadeed thought perhaps his teacher was going to recommend him for a special honor. That wasn’
t hard to imagine, not at all. Perhaps the village elders would award him a scholarship to one of the finest new schools in Kabul. He would wear blue trousers and a clean white shirt to classes every day, and he would have his own computer, and he would take his place as one of the future leaders of Afghanistan. His father and mother would be very proud of him. It would be a great opportunity. And Sadeed was certain he richly deserved it.
Through the crack in the door, Sadeed could see all seven men, sitting on cushions around a low table, sipping tea. An electric bulb hung overhead, and two wires ran across the ceiling to the gasoline generator outside. Mahmood was talking to Akbar Khan, but the teacher’s back was toward the door, and Sadeed couldn’t hear what he was saying.
When the teacher finished, someone Sadeed knew—Hassan Jaji—began to speak. Hassan stopped by his father’s shop in the village bazaar at least once a week, and he sometimes stayed awhile, telling stories about his time as a freedom fighter during the war with the Soviet Union. One day he had shown Sadeed where a Russian grenade had blown two fingers off his right hand.
And as the man spoke now, that was the hand he used to stroke his chin.
“I am only a simple man,” Hassan said, “and I would never try to stop progress. But our traditions protect us. And they protect our children. And I believe that the schoolteacher has asked us to allow something that would not be proper.”
The eyes of the men turned back to Mahmood. The teacher looked around the circle and cleared his throat, speaking more forcefully now so that Sadeed could hear every word he said. “What Hassan says about our traditions is certainly true.”
He paused, and Sadeed saw him hold up a bright green envelope with three stamps on it, each one a small picture of an American flag. The front of the envelope was decorated with two pink butterfly stickers.
The teacher said, “But it is also a tradition that we are a courteous people. And therefore one student from our village school must answer this letter from the girl in America. And I believe it would be most courteous if our very best student writes back, the one student who is most skillful with the English language. And that one student is Sadeed Bayat.”
A pang of disappointment cut through Sadeed. His name had just been spoken in the ears of the most important men in this part of Panjshir Province, and why? To be recommended for a great honor? No. To write a letter. To a girl.
Hassan stroked his chin again. He shook his head. “That letter is from an American girl. And should a boy and a girl be sharing their thoughts this way? No. Let one of the girls write back. A girl would be more proper.”
And outside the door, Sadeed nodded and whispered, “Exactly!”
The teacher spoke up again. “To be sure, what Hassan says would be best. But the letter that goes back to America will represent our village, even our nation. And should we accept less than the very best writing, the best spelling and grammar? I know Sadeed Bayat—you may know him too, the son of Zakir the wheat merchant. He is a good boy. And his excellent writing will represent us well. His words will speak well of all the children of Afghanistan. And I feel sure that no harm will come of this. I feel sure that—”
Akbar Khan held up a hand, and Mahmood went silent.
The headman said, “Have you told Sadeed about this letter yet?”
“No,” said the teacher. “I came to ask for advice.”
Akbar nodded. “You did well to wait.” The headman looked around the circle. “I agree that the finest student from our village must reply. And I agree that it would be best if a girl from our school is the writer.” Akbar turned to the teacher. “Sadeed has a sister, doesn’t he?”
“Yes,” Mahmood said. “Amira, about two years younger.”
The headman smiled. “Just so. Amira will write back to the girl in America. And the finest student from our village will watch over her and help her, doing what is needed to be sure that the writing is excellent. But only the girl will sign the letter. And therefore, all will be proper. And, of course, our teacher promises that nothing shameful will come of this.” Looking Mahmood full in the face, he said, “Do you promise this?”
Mahmood nodded. “I do.”
“Then it is decided,” said Akbar Khan. “And now we will have more tea.”
Fifteen minutes later, when his teacher came out into the entry hall, Sadeed was sitting on the long wooden bench with two men who had arrived to speak before the village elders. He stood up and followed his teacher down the hallway, out the door, across the walled courtyard, and then through the iron gate that opened onto the main road.
As they stood beside the road, Mahmood smiled and said, “Thank you for coming, Sadeed. It turns out that I needn’t have bothered you. I know you need to hurry to your job now, but I must speak with you before school tomorrow morning. I need your help with an important job.”
Sadeed nodded, taking care to put a puzzled look on his face.
“So,” Mahmood said. “Good evening.”
And with a small, formal bow, the teacher turned right and walked toward the school, headed home. Not only did he work at the school, but he lived in a room built against the rear wall of the building.
Sadeed turned in the other direction, headed back toward the bazaar. He worked for his father every day after school, and the shop would be open for at least another hour.
As he walked along the road, following a large man riding on a small donkey, he thought about all he had heard. No great honors were heading his way. However, Akbar Khan himself had called him “the finest student from our village.” So that was good.
And Sadeed also thought about tomorrow, about how he would have to pretend to be surprised when his teacher told him he must help Amira—just like he had pretended to be puzzled a few moments ago.
But the only thing that actually puzzled Sadeed was how his teacher could call writing a letter to a girl in America “an important job.”
Because that made no sense at all.
CHAPTER 2
IN THE HILLS ABOVE LINSDALE
It was a long way down, but Abby tried not to think about it. She dug the rubber toes of her rock-climbing shoes deeper into the crevice. She tested the grip of her left hand, then arched her back and stretched her right arm above the ledge, feeling around for something she could grab onto.
Reaching made the strap of her helmet pull tighter against her chin. A bead of sweat trickled down her forehead, gained speed, then dripped off the tip of her nose and disappeared, far, far below. One slip, one false move, and this climb would be over. The rope might save her life, but a fall would mean defeat. It would mean this mountain had beaten her. And Abby would not accept that.
There wasn’t a breath of wind, no cries from soaring eagles, no harsh sunshine, nothing to break her total concentration. And there was nothing in her way to the summit—except this two-foot ledge, this little gray overhang, scraping against the top of her helmet.
Her right hand found a bump overhead, a lump, and yes, there was an upside grip on it, wide enough for four fingers.
But if she let go with her left hand, and gave up both toeholds to increase her reach, could those four fingers of her right hand hold tight? And with her feet hanging, could she hold on long enough for her left hand to reach up and find another grip? And if her left hand did find a grip, would she have the strength to pull herself higher so she could get a new foothold?
There was only one way to find out.
Still holding on with her left hand, Abby reached down and pushed her right hand into the chalk bag hanging from the belt at her waist. The white powder scoured the sweat from her fingers, leaving them so dry they almost squeaked. She reached up again, took a firm grip with her right hand, let go with her left, and then stepped away from her toeholds, trying to keep her legs from swinging.
Hanging by just four fingers now, she tilted her head back, eyes searching above for a bump or a crack. And there it was. She pulled with her right arm, reached up with her left, but the second
grip was still an inch too high—an inch that might as well have been a mile.
Her right-hand grip was failing, and Abby made a desperate grab with her left. But the effort made her legs swing, and that caused more strain on her aching fingers. And that was it.
She fell back and plunged straight down, a tenth of a second, then another. The rope stretched, then snapped taut and caught her. She spun wildly toward the gray wall, but she was ready, both hands on the rope now, her legs bent to absorb the shock.
Twenty-six feet below, Mr. Insley gave a blast on his whistle. “Jan, Carrie, let ’er down easy.”
And five seconds later, Abby Carson had both feet on the floor next to the climbing wall in her first-period gym class.
It was probably the flatness of the land in central Illinois that had gotten Abby so excited about climbing. And she wasn’t alone. Lots of other kids in town also had the climbing bug.
Her big brother, Tom, claimed that he and some friends had reached the peak of the town’s water tower, more than 120 feet. It took Abby’s breath away to think about being up that high—even if her brother’s story about the daring climb, followed by a police chase through the cornfields, wasn’t 100 percent true. He was known to tell some pretty tall tales.
But the massive concrete grain elevator by the railroad tracks at the edge of town? Someone had definitely climbed that thing. Because the person who got to the summit had left a mark: the name of the high school teams, painted near the top of the tallest silo. The word LIONS was so big that other teams coming to town could see it while their buses were still five miles away.
However, in the town of Linsdale, the thirty-foot wall in the gym at Baldridge Elementary School was the tallest man-made thing a kid could climb on—without getting into trouble with the law.
The wall had been installed a week before Thanksgiving, and instantly it had become Abby’s favorite thing about school. Ever. And before Christmas vacation, she had mastered every route to the top—except the path that led to the overhanging ledge. Here she was in the first week of March, and it still blocked her way. Six times she had tried to beat the ledge, and six times she had failed.