Yours Turly, Shirley
Ann M. Martin
FOR
Uncle Rick, Aunt Merlena,
Carolyn, and Peter
Contents
Chapter 1. September
Chapter 2. October
Chapter 3. November
Chapter 4. December
Chapter 5. January
Chapter 6. February
Chapter 7. March
Chapter 8. April
Chapter 9. May
Chapter 10. June
A Personal History by Ann M. Martin
Chapter One: September
BZZZZZ!
Shirley Basini’s alarm clock went off and Shirley rolled over, grabbed it, and threw it at the wall. Shirley’s clock looked like a baseball and you were supposed to throw it at the wall. That was the only way to turn it off.
Shirley loved things like that. She liked jokes and laughing and making people laugh. She had a pearl ring that could squirt out a stream of water when someone leaned over to admire it, and a set of windup chattering teeth, and a pair of green sunglasses a foot wide. Shirley had won the glasses at a carnival. When she wore them, she looked like a fly.
Blam. The clock hit the wall and the buzzing stopped.
“Thank you,” murmured Shirley. She buried her head under her pillow. Shirley liked sleeping as much as she liked laughing. But she knew she couldn’t go back to sleep that morning.
It was the first day of school. The first day of fourth grade.
“Yuck,” said Shirley. Shirley did not love school. She hated it. It was her number one hate. Shirley had something called dyslexia. It was a learning disability. Her eyes saw letters and numbers but the letters and numbers got twisted around on the way to her brain. They were turned upside down and downside up, and made into a big jumble. Reading and writing and math were the hardest for Shirley. If Shirley didn’t concentrate, concentrate, concentrate, reading English was as difficult as reading Chinese.
Shirley’s parents had taken her to a million doctors and clinics before they found out exactly what was wrong. Shirley had thought that was stupid. What was wrong was that she could barely read or write, and math was a mystery to her. Who needed a doctor to tell them that? Any fool could see it.
A more important question was what should be done about it. Everyone seemed to have a different opinion.
One doctor said, “Vitamin therapy. Take plenty of vitamins, especially vitamin A. Good for the eyes.”
Another doctor said, “She has dyslexia but she also has a lazy eye,” and made Shirley wear a patch over one eye for a whole year. That was in second grade. It hadn’t done any good.
Her teachers all said (and most of the doctors agreed), “Yes, Shirley does have dyslexia. School is difficult for her. But she’s a very smart girl. If she’d pay attention and try harder, she could do much better. Maybe as well as Joe.”
Joe was Shirley’s big brother. He did not have a learning disability. He was nineteen, and so smart that a fancy university had practically begged him to come be a student, and then had let him take all their hardest classes. Joe always got As. Straight As.
However, Shirley had a big secret, and she hadn’t told it to anybody. Her secret was that she was trying. Hard. And look where it was getting her. Nowhere. She had to read baby books and count on her fingers. Furthermore, her third-grade teacher had written something scary on her end-of-the-year report card. She had written that if Shirley didn’t do well and make lots and lots of progress in fourth grade, she would have to repeat the grade. Stay back.
Oh, boy. That was something Joe had never done. In fact, he had skipped fourth grade.
So Shirley was worried. That report card had ruined her whole summer. And now she had to face fourth grade.
Shirley crawled out of bed. She rescued her alarm clock, which had landed on a pile of dirty clothes, and put on a pair of jeans, her teddy-bear shirt, and her running shoes. Then she stood in front of the mirror and brushed her hair. Shirley’s hair was brown. So were her eyes. So were the eyes and hair of Joe and both her parents. But Shirley was the only one in her family who wore her hair in ponytails. She was also the only one who wore glasses. Shirley liked her glasses. She thought they made her look smart.
Shirley tied pink ribbons around her ponytails, put on her squirting pearl ring, and went downstairs.
“Morning,” said Joe.
“Morning,” said her parents.
“Morning,” Shirley replied. For some reason, she was always the last person downstairs. She could never figure it out.
Shirley sat down next to Joe and across from her father. Her mother dished up plates of scrambled eggs, toast, and fruit.
“It’s hard to believe school is starting again,” said Mrs. Basini as she took her seat.
“I know,” Joe replied. “Back to work for everybody.”
Shirley grimaced, but all she said was, “I wish you didn’t have to go back to college today, Joe. Can’t you stick around until tomorrow? Until I see what kind of teacher Mr. Bradley is?”
“I wish I could, kid, but Chris and Henry are picking me up in” (Joe checked his watch) “twenty minutes. Classes start tomorrow.”
Shirley nodded.
“It’s back to the grindstone for all of us today, peanut,” Mr. Basini spoke up. He wiped his mouth on a paper napkin. “My classes start today, too.” Shirley’s father taught English at DuBarre College in the little New Hampshire town where the Basinis lived.
“And fall hours start at the library today,” added Mrs. Basini. “I do hope you’ll spend some more time there this year, Shirley,” she added. (Shirley scowled.) “The first meeting of the Animal Rescue League will be held this afternoon,” Mrs. Basini went on, “and tomorrow the PTA holds a meeting.”
Shirley’s father had one job. Mrs. Basini had about sixty-eight. Her main job was working part-time in the children’s room at the public library. But she also volunteered at the hospital, drove the Meals-on-Wheels van one afternoon each week, and went to almost every meeting of every organization in town. She was only happy if she was busy, busy, busy—helping people and working for “causes.”
Unfortunately, one of Mrs. Basini’s biggest causes over the past two years had been Shirley and her dyslexia. Mrs. Basini was a great success at everything she did, so she was very disappointed that Shirley wasn’t a success. At anything. Worse, Shirley was often a failure. Last year, in third grade, her report card had been a mass of Cs, Ds, and even Fs. Mrs. Basini was not happy about that, dyslexia or no dyslexia. Maybe, Shirley thought, fourth grade would be great and she would become a wonderful student, and Mrs. Basini could spend more time with Meals-on-Wheels and less time being upset with Shirley.
But Shirley wasn’t very hopeful.
A few minutes later, a horn honked in front of the Basinis’ house.
“That’s Chris and Henry!” said Joe, jumping up.
The Basinis ran outside and helped Joe load his suitcases and stereo and books and reading lamp and rug and bedspread and pillows into the car. Chris’s old Ford looked so loaded down Shirley wasn’t sure it would make it to the end of the street, let alone to their school, which was in another state.
“Bye!” Joe called as the car pulled away. “Good luck with Mr. Bradley, Shirley! See you at Thanksgiving!”
The Basinis watched the car until it reached the end of their street. Then Mrs. Basini said, “Better get a move on, Shirley.”
It was time to go. Time for fourth grade.
Shirley brushed her teeth, filled her squirting ring with water, and took her lunch from the counter in the kitchen. Since the Basinis had spent so much time saying good-bye to Joe, Mr. Basini drove Shirley to school on his way to DuBarre. Usually, Shirley
walked.
Shirley stood outside her classroom. She peeked in the doorway. She was not the last student to arrive at Room 4C. But she wasn’t the first, either. About ten other kids were there. And since they were sitting quietly at their desks, Shirley figured Mr. Bradley must be there, too. If he wasn’t, the kids would have been running around, talking about summer camp, showing off cuts and bruises, and throwing spitballs or playing with cootie-catchers.
Shirley was disappointed. She had wanted to squirt her pearl ring at Ned Hernandez. Oh, well. Maybe later in the day.
Shirley took a deep breath. She patted her ponytails and tried to tuck in her teddy-bear shirt. Then she stepped into Room 4C.
Mr. Bradley was there, all right. He was sitting on his desk (not at it, on it). The desk was next to a wall which Shirley hadn’t been able to see from the doorway. “Good morning,” said Mr. Bradley pleasantly. “And you are—?”
Shirley knew she was supposed to say, “Shirley Basini,” but she couldn’t pass up the opportunity for a good laugh. She just couldn’t. Her classmates expected her to make them laugh. And, when Shirley thought about it, that was the only thing she did even halfway well in school. Make the kids laugh.
“I’m fine, thanks, and you?” said Shirley.
Her classmates giggled, but very quietly. Even though Mr. Bradley was sitting on his desk, they didn’t know if he was the kind of teacher who liked jokes.
Mr. Bradley smiled. “Couldn’t be better,” he replied.
Shirley let out a breath. Maybe Mr. Bradley would be okay after all.
“Your name, please?” Mr. Bradley went on.
“Shirley Basini.”
“Okay, Shirley Basini. Your desk is right over there. Would you please take a seat?”
“Take a seat? Sure.” Shirley set her lunch box on her desk. Then she picked up her chair. “Where would you like me to take it?” she asked politely.
She was pleased to hear more laughter, but Mr. Bradley said, “I meant, sit on it.” He didn’t sound so pleasant anymore.
Shirley sat.
She watched as the rest of her classmates entered the room. Mr. Bradley greeted them. Each time he said, “And you are—?” the student answered with his or her name. No one else said, “Fine, thanks, and you?” Shirley felt quite happy. At least she was off to a good start with the other kids.
The bell rang. Mr. Bradley looked around Room 4C with satisfaction. Every seat was filled. “Shirley,” he said, “would you please hop up and close the door?”
Shirley grinned. What an opportunity. “Okay,” she replied. She stood up, lifted one foot in the air, and hopped over to the door. She closed the door and hopped back to her desk.
The kids laughed.
Mr. Bradley smiled. “Ah. I see we have a comedienne. Shirley, why don’t you come up here and give us your whole routine right now? You could get it out of the way, and I’m sure the class would enjoy it. It would be a pleasant start to the new school year.”
Her routine? Shirley didn’t have a routine—exactly. She slid down in her seat, her face reddening. “Uh, no thanks,” she told her teacher. “Maybe later.”
“Fine,” replied Mr. Bradley. “No more funny business, then.”
Shirley nodded.
Mr. Bradley began the day. He led Shirley’s class in the Pledge of Allegiance. He explained his classroom rules. He assigned cubbies where coats and lunches could be kept. He handed out science books and social studies books.
Yuck, thought Shirley.
Finally, Mr. Bradley stood in front of 4C with a stack of papers. “I am now going to pass out—”
Shirley jumped up from her chair. “Help him!” she cried. “He’s going to pass out! Get the smelling salts! Call the nurse!”
“That will be quite enough, Shirley,” said Mr. Bradley, but the class didn’t hear him. Everyone was laughing too hard. “That will be quite enough, Shirley,” Mr. Bradley repeated, more loudly.
It wasn’t necessary for him to repeat it. Shirley was already sitting down again.
Mr. Bradley handed out the papers.
Shirley looked down at hers and felt her stomach flip-flop. A test. A test on the first day of school.
“This is not a test,” said Mr. Bradley. “It’s an evaluation. It will help me find out what your reading, math, and spelling skills are. I’ve looked at your records from last year, but now I want to see your actual work. You will not be graded, so don’t worry about this. Just try to relax and do your best. You may begin.”
Shirley tried to read the first word on the page. The letters swam before her eyes. MANE? Oh, no. Of course. NAME. Shirley wrote her name on the line. Then she moved on to the rest of the page. It was filled with problems and questions. Shirley read the first one slowly.
If Mary has four bags with three apples in each, and John has two bags with four apples in each, how many apples do Mary and John have together?
Numbers, numbers, numbers. Shirley felt confused with all those fours and threes and twos in her brain. She did what her teachers had always told her to do. She concentrated. Hard. It didn’t help. Four, three, two. Three, four, two. Shirley wanted more than anything to find the right answer for Mr. Bradley, but she was running out of time. She couldn’t take this long on every problem. Should she skip it? No, she couldn’t skip the very first one. She had to write down some answer. She thought and thought.
When Mr. Bradley finally collected the papers, Shirley let out a huge sigh. She knew she’d done badly, as usual. But she didn’t know how badly until after lunch. Mr. Bradley must have looked at the evaluations as soon as Shirley and her classmates went to the cafeteria. Right after recess he assigned spelling groups, reading groups, and math groups. He put everyone but Shirley into a group. He handed out workbooks and readers, and gave each group an assignment. Then he called Shirley to his desk.
I’m in trouble already? thought Shirley.
Shirley,” Mr. Bradley whispered.
“Yes?”
“I’ve looked at your evaluation. And before school started, I talked to your third-grade teacher.”
“You did?” said Shirley in a small voice.
“Yes. And I’m aware of the trouble you’ve been having. I want you to know that I’ll give you plenty of extra help this year. I’ll do anything to keep you from staying back. But you have to help me. We both have to work hard. If you like, you could even get some extra help in the Resource Room.”
“The Resource Room! But that’s for retards!”
“Shirley,” said Mr. Bradley, “in the first place, that’s not true. And in the second place, ‘retards’ is not a very nice word.”
“Sorry.”
That’s okay. All right. We’ll forget about the Resource Room for now. But you have to agree to work with me, and to work hard. Is that a deal?”
“Deal,” said Shirley, feeling relieved about the Resource Room.
“Good. Now you may not like everything I decide to do, but I’m counting on you to cooperate.”
Mr. Bradley was right. Shirley certainly didn’t like everything he did. For starters she wound up in the worst, most babyish spelling and math groups of all. (No matter what the teacher named the groups, you could always tell which was worst and which was best.) But the most horrible thing was that Shirley wound up in a reading group all by herself. And Mr. Bradley had to leave the room to find a special second-grade reader for her.
Shirley hung her head. But while her teacher was gone, she got an idea. “Hey, Ned!” she called.
Ned Hernandez looked up from a piece of paper on which he was drawing two spaceships that were crashing in a fiery explosion. In third grade, Shirley had liked Ned. Sort of.
“Yeah?” said Ned.
Shirley stood up. “Look at the ring my parents gave me for my birthday. It’s a real pearl. Isn’t it pretty?”
She held it out.
Ned leaned over to look at it. “How come they let you wear a real pearl to school?” he asked.
r /> Shirley didn’t answer. Squish. She squeezed the little rubber ball that was hidden in her hand. Water sprayed out of the pearl and into Ned’s face.
“Hey!” he cried.
Shirley thought he was going to get angry. Instead he said, “Cool. Can I see it?”
Shirley took her ring off. She handed it around. Everyone was very impressed. They were so impressed that they hardly paid any attention when Mr. Bradley returned with the second-grade reading book for Shirley.
A little while later, the bell rang and Shirley breathed a sigh of relief. Somehow, she had squeaked through the first day of school.
When Shirley got home that afternoon, she found a surprise. Her mother was there. So was her father. Mr. Basini was hardly ever at home when school let out.
Mrs. Basini greeted Shirley with a big hug. “We have wonderful news for you,” she said. “You’ll never guess.”
“Tell me, then,” said Shirley. “What?” She was relieved that her mother hadn’t asked about school. She always asked how it had gone, and would have been terribly disappointed to hear about her evaluations and the second-grade reader.
“You are going to be a big sister. You’re going to have a brother!”
Shirley was speechless.
“Isn’t that wonderful?” said her father.
Shirley found her voice. “You’re pregnant, Mom?” she asked incredulously. Mrs. Basini was older than the mothers of most of Shirley’s friends.
“No,” said her mother. “We’ve adopted a child. Last year your father and I decided that we could help out by giving a home to a child who really needs one.”
Ah, thought Shirley. Another one of her mother’s causes.
“So we applied to adopt a Vietnamese child. And the agency called us today. A child is available. He’s three years old. And he’ll be ours next month, on October fifteenth.”
“What do you think, peanut?” asked Mr. Basini.
“I think,” replied Shirley, a smile spreading across her face, “that it’s great! I mean, good. I mean, okay. I mean, I’m not sure.” Her smile faded away.