“But I want to hear what that kid wrote to you.”
“We can sit together on the way home, okay?” Abby said. “It’s almost time for dismissal anyway. I’ll meet you at the bus lines.”
And Abby turned and walked away, headed for the school building.
When she got to the south doorway, another lady volunteer smiled and said, “Restrooms only. They’re right inside the doors,” as if the kids wouldn’t already know that.
Abby walked to the girls’ room. But then she kept walking. And after another twenty feet or so, she glanced over her shoulder to be sure the lady wasn’t watching. All clear. She ducked to her left, pulled a door open, and slipped through.
She was in the gym.
The lights were off, and the large, empty space swallowed the sounds of laughing and shouting from outside. The air was still and hot.
Abby walked toward the far end of the gym, straight for the climbing wall. And while she was still thirty steps away, she could see that the leg harnesses had been unclipped from the belaying ropes, and the safety ropes had been tied to a hook about ten feet up off the floor. The thick blue impact mats had been dragged away, stacked over in a corner.
Abby tried the knob on the door of the equipment room. Locked. Putting her face to the glass, she could see the gear stacked neatly on the shelves—chalk bags, harnesses, helmets.
And she wished with all her heart that she had found out sooner that Sadeed had made his own first climb. On real rocks. Because then she would have been in here pestering the gym teacher every day, pushing herself to master that stupid ledge. And then she could have written back to him somehow. To share a victory with him.
She wanted to rush out onto the playing fields and find Mr. Insley and drag him inside so he could unlock the closet and help her gear up. And then spot her while she went right to the top, right over that outcropping. Because she felt sure she could do it. One shot, straight up, right now.
She walked to the base of the wall and stood below the ledge, looking up. She put her right hand on a rounded handhold, and her left found another one, and she pulled herself up. The toes inside her tennis shoes instantly found holds, as if they had little brains of their own. And fifteen seconds later she was up on the wall, her feet higher than the hook where the safety ropes were tied. Her hands were sweating, and the grips felt slick, but she didn’t care. Chalk or no chalk, she was going for it.
But after another foot, she made herself stop. Because climbing unprotected like this went against all her training. It was a sure way to get hurt.
And she didn’t want to spend the summer wearing a plaster cast. Or lying on a hospital bed. Or being dead.
So Abby edged her way down, about six times more carefully than she had gone up.
Panting, she sat on the floor with her back against the wall and took Sadeed’s letter from her pocket. It was damp with sweat. And she unfolded the paper and read it again, smiling. Until she got to the end.
Because when he wrote, “Wishing you every happiness in your life,” it felt so final. Like a last good-bye. It felt like from now on, she would be going along one road in life, and he would be taking a different one.
The principal’s voice blasting through the outdoor PA speakers brought Abby to her feet. It was time to go get on the bus.
When she got to the front of the school, Mariah was waiting. And when they got to their seat, Abby handed her friend the letter.
Mariah made a face. “How come it feels all, like, moist?”
“Just some sweat,” Abby said.
“Eww, gross!” But Mariah unfolded the letter anyway and began to read.
After a minute she said, “You had another letter from this guy? It wasn’t on the bulletin board. How come you didn’t tell me?”
Abby shrugged, and Mariah went back to reading.
Because Abby did not want to discuss this, not with Mariah, not with anyone.
So she turned away and tried to tune out the noise on the bus—all the yelling and talking and laughing. Because it didn’t feel like the last day of school anymore. It felt like the last day of something else. She leaned her cheek against the bus window and stared out at the farmland.
The fields alongside the county road had been planted for six weeks now. And from high up in the yellow school bus, they spread out in front of Abby’s eyes, stretching off into the distance. The corn was already eight inches tall, endless rows and rows of it, bright lines of green against the rich black earth.
And Abby tried to remember what Sadeed had said.
In his first letter he had talked about the cornfield, the one in the picture she’d sent to him. What had he called it? Then she remembered—“like a smile of God.” That’s what he’d said.
And for the first time in her life, Abby really looked at the land speeding past her eyes in the June sunshine. She saw it through Sadeed’s eyes.
And it wasn’t flat and boring. It was beautiful.
READING GROUP GUIDE
DISCUSSION TOPICS
Author Andrew Clements chose the state of Illinois in the United States and Afghanistan as the settings in Extra Credit. Why do you think Clements selected these locations? What kinds of differences between the two countries—cultural and otherwise—can you identify after reading the book?
On the first page of Extra Credit, Afghani student Sadeed thinks that his teacher is going to “recommend him for a special honor,” but when he finds out that his teacher wants him to help write letters to a girl in America, he is very disappointed. Nevertheless, how does this letter writing eventually turn into a “special honor” for Sadeed?
The character of Abby is introduced in the story when she is climbing a rock wall in her school’s gym. Are you surprised to find out that Abby is struggling in school after reading about her abilities on the rock wall? Despite her grades, do you believe that Abby is actually very smart? Why or why not?
Think about Abby and Sadeed. Do they have similar personalities? Also, compare and contrast their everyday lives by talking about the following: their homes, their schools, their teachers, and their parents. How are they alike and how are they different?
As pen pals, Abby, Sadeed, and Sadeed’s sister Amira communicate the old fashioned way—by sending letters to each other in the mail. Why is this their only method of staying in touch? What are some conveniences Abby and her friends have in the United States that Sadeed and Amira do not have in Afghanistan?
The rock wall at Abby’s school in Illinois and the mountains of Afghanistan are symbols in Extra Credit—they stand for something else. What do they represent?
Abby learns from Amira and Sadeed’s letters that not all of the girls in their Afghanistan village are allowed to go to school. Amira is glad that her father “permits” her to go to school. How did this make you feel when you read this?
The connection between brothers and sisters is explored in Extra Credit. How is Sadeed’s relationship with Amira different from Abby’s relationship with her brother Tom?
In the novel, Sadeed writes to Abby that he only has one book in his home, and that his teacher has taken a chance by allowing him to read books that are not approved by the Ministry of Education in Afghanistan. What did you think about this?
Discuss how a writer uses “foreshadowing” in a book. How does Clements use foreshadowing throughout Extra Credit? Identify parts of the story where foreshadowing is present.
While reading this book, we learn that Abby and Sadeed are taking risks by communicating with one another. Why do you think Sadeed decides to correspond with Abby when he knows that it is forbidden? Do you think Abby realizes that her letters to Sadeed would create controversy at home and in Afghanistan?
When Abby gives her oral report on her project at the end of the book, her classmates look bored and uninterested. Imagine you are a student in Abby’s class. Would you feel the same way about her report? Why or why not?
Abby is reluctant to do her extra credit assignm
ent at first. But how was the project actually a good thing for her in the end?
By the end of the story, Abby and Sadeed have a greater understanding of each other’s lives and cultures. What else do you think Abby and Sadeed learned from exchanging letters?
ACTIVITIES AND RESEARCH
How much did you know about the country of Afghanistan before reading Extra Credit? Find out more about this country. Research the history of Afghanistan, and think about present-day life in this country. What problems does the country face today?
Start your own “Project Pen Pal”! Find and communicate with your own pen pal. Conduct research on the Internet to find organizations that supply pen pal names and information. Then, after a few months of correspondence, create a bulletin board similar to Abby’s.
Think about the significance of the small rock Sadeed sends to Abby from Afghanistan, and the dirt Abby sends from Illinois to Afghanistan. If your pen pal were in another country, what would you send to them to represent your hometown? What might they send you?
Extra Credit is a book that celebrates the power of friendship. Make a list of other books you’ve enjoyed that celebrate friendship.
What would it be like to be a character in Extra Credit? Imagine if you had the power to jump into this book. Would you be a friend of Abby, Sadeed, or someone else? Why?
Read Arnold Lobel’s story Frog and Toad Are Friends. Why do you think Clements chose this book to highlight in Extra Credit? Do you identify more with Frog? Or Toad?
Continue the story in Extra Credit after the book ends. Write about what you think happens to Abby and Sadeed. Do Abby and Sadeed get back in touch again? Do they ever meet? What does the future hold for Abby and Sadeed?
NOT APPROPRIATE
Clay Hensley frowned at the paper on the table. It wasn’t a very good drawing. He’d made tons of better ones . . . like that picture he’d made of the old man sitting on the bridge? Now, that was good—even won a prize. This drawing? It was okay, just a simple portrait. It wasn’t going to win any prizes—but then, it wasn’t supposed to. It was supposed to do something else. Soon.
Out of the corner of his eye Clay saw Mr. Dash get up from his desk. The class period was almost over, so the art teacher was beginning his inspections, same as always.
Clay squinted and kept working on the portrait, shading a little here, erasing a little there, trying to get the expression on the face just right—actually, trying to get the whole head to look right. It wasn’t easy.
Ears were hard to draw. The nose, too. And eyes? Forget about it. Not like drawing a tree. Or a piece of fruit.
Mr. Dash was at the back of the art room now, talking softly, moving from table to table.
“You see there, where the mountains meet the sky? Your lines need to be thinner and lighter there—it’ll make everything seem farther away. Good detail work on that tree in the foreground.”
Mr. Dash had to be talking to Marcia. Clay was sure. She was the only kid in sixth grade good enough at drawing to get advice like that. Except for him.
Clay kept working on his drawing, but his hand was so tense he was squeezing the pencil. He picked up his eraser and made a correction . . . then he had an idea. He took his big brother’s cell phone from the pocket of his jeans, carefully, so no one would notice—Mitch would not be happy if some teacher took it away from him. One-handed, he clicked to the camera function and took a photo of his drawing, then another. He slipped the phone back into his pocket and picked up his pencil again.
Mr. Dash was working his way along the tables in Clay’s row now.
“Good improvement there, James.”
The teacher shuffled a few steps closer.
“Those shadows? Don’t push on your pencil—makes ’em look muddy.”
“But I want them really dark.”
That was BriAnne talking, two tables away.
“Then just use a pencil with softer lead—4B, or even 6B.”
Clay pretended to be busy with his work, but he knew Mr. Dash was right behind him now, looking over his shoulder. He heard the teacher suck in a quick breath, and then hold it.
Clay began counting. One thousand one, one thousand two . . . The art teacher let his breath out slowly.
Then he spoke, his voice low and strained.
“Clay . . .”
Clay kept working.
“Clay, stop it. Stop drawing.”
He turned around and looked up at Mr. Dash. “Why?”
“You know why, Clay. That’s . . . not appropriate. Your drawing’s not appropriate.”
Clay put a confused look on his face. “You said we could draw anything today. And I wanted to draw a jackass.”
Several kids laughed. The whole class tuned in, and the kids sitting close tried to get a look at his drawing.
Clay had a hard time not smiling. He was already imagining how fun it was going to be to tell his brother, Mitch, about this.
Mr. Dash raised his voice a little. “Please don’t say ‘jackass.’”
Clay rolled his eyes. “Fine. I wanted to draw a donkey. A stupid-looking donkey, that’s all. And I think it’s good. Don’t you think this is a really dumb-looking donkey?”
More kids started laughing.
Mr. Dash swiveled his head and glared around the room. “Class,” he growled, “be quiet.”
The room went dead silent. The art teacher was over six feet tall, with broad shoulders, huge hands, and a bright red beard that covered most of his face. No student ever disobeyed an order from Mr. Dash.
With one exception. Because Clay kept talking.
“I mean, c’mon, Mr. Dash. If you’d said, ‘Whatever you do, don’t draw a donkey wearing glasses today,’ then I wouldn’t have. But you didn’t say that. So I drew a donkey wearing glasses. Who has a mustache.”
Then Clay held up his drawing so everyone else in the class could see he was telling the truth.
It was all true. He had made a picture of a donkey with a mustache who was wearing a sport coat and a striped necktie and dark-rimmed glasses—a donkey that looked remarkably stupid. And funny.
But not a single kid laughed.
Because that long-faced donkey looked like someone, a real person—a man every kid in the room was scared of. Except for one.
Clay had drawn a donkey that looked like Mr. Kelling, the principal of Truman Elementary School.
ON PURPOSE
Clay knew what he was doing. He’d made the drawing on purpose, he’d let Mr. Dash see it on purpose, and then he’d held it up on purpose so everyone else in the classroom could see it too—and that last action was important.
Because now Mr. Dash couldn’t just give him a scolding and move on—no way.
Every student in the class had seen the principal looking like a stupid jackass, and once those kids got out of the art room, they would tell all their friends about the hilarious drawing Clay Hensley had made. And sooner or later, the principal would hear about it—he would. And, when Mr. Kelling did hear about it, he would come stomping down the hall to the art room, his eyes blazing and his mustache twitching, and he would demand to know why Mr. Dash hadn’t done something about that terrible boy and his terrible behavior.
So Mr. Dash had to do something. Clay was sure about that.
Would the art teacher keep him after school? Clay didn’t care—as long as he got home in time for dinner. Mitch was going to be there tonight, and in a way, the more stuff that happened now, the better. He’d have that much more of a story to tell his big brother. Detention in the art room? No problem.
But Clay didn’t think that was going to happen. It was Friday, a warm, sunny October day, and he had seen Mr. Dash ride his big motorcycle into the school parking lot this morning. It was perfect weather for cruising, and the back roads of Belden County were going to be beautiful this afternoon. The art teacher would not be staying late for a detention, not today.
Clay was pretty sure about that, too.
“Give me the dra
wing.”
Clay handed it over, and Mr. Dash walked to his desk and took a large tan envelope out of a drawer. He slipped the drawing inside and sealed the envelope with tape. Then he picked up a marker and wrote on the front.
He handed the envelope to Clay and said, “Take this to the office and give it to the secretary. And then wait there until Mr. Kelling talks to you himself. Understand?”
Clay nodded, his face blank and serious. He didn’t want to be disrespectful toward Mr. Dash. He was a pretty good guy. He was just doing what he had to, that’s all.
As Clay picked up his backpack and headed for the door, every other kid was watching, studying his face, trying to imagine why he had made that drawing—and trying to imagine what Mr. Kelling was going to do when he saw it.
BriAnne whispered to James, and in the quiet room everyone heard her.
“Clay’s really gonna get it this time.”
TO SEE AND BE SEEN
Getting from the art room to the office wasn’t going to take long—maybe a minute. But Clay wasn’t in a hurry.
He stopped at the water fountain and took a long drink.
He studied all the artwork in the display cases, including two of his own drawings.
He went into the boys’ room and stood in front of the big mirror and combed his long black hair into three different styles. Then he combed it all back to his regular look—parted straight down the middle and tucked behind his ears, the same way Mitch wore his. Even though Mitch was seven years older, the two of them looked a lot alike, almost like twins—everybody said so.
As he came out of the washroom, a voice boomed, “Hey, get to the office now!”
Mr. Dash was standing outside the art room.
Clay waved and then ducked around the corner into the front hall. But he didn’t go toward the office, not yet. He waited ten seconds, then peeked back around the corner.
Mr. Dash was gone, so Clay scooted across the open intersection and trotted halfway down the east hallway to the music room. He knew Hank Bowers had chorus now. He stood in the open doorway, pointing and nodding at other kids until they finally got his friend’s attention. Then he made faces and scratched his armpits like a chimpanzee until Hank laughed out loud and got yelled at by Mrs. Norris.