Sadie barrels up the stairs. She has to step over me.
“You’re supposed to be in bed,” she says, and then she kicks me. I want to yell ouch because that really hurt. But I hold my tongue. I don’t want Mom to know I was eavesdropping.
It takes me extra-long to fall asleep. I’m starting to wonder if maybe all this isn’t such a great idea. What if, because of me, Sadie doesn’t get into a good college? What if, because of me, Mom gets into trouble with her Coldwell Banker boss?
But what if, because of me, seven hundred thousand kids get out of homework jail?
I tap my meditation app. The Guided Meditation slow-breathes me to sleep.
13
Back to Court
This time at the federal courthouse, Judge Otis Wright the Third doesn’t keep us waiting. At exactly ten o’clock he walks into his courtroom, and the bailiff says, “All rise. The United States District Court, Los Angeles County, is now in session. Judge Otis Wright the Third presiding.”
Everyone stands, and I mean everyone. The courtroom is packed with kids, parents, teachers, and reporters.
Mr. Powell came with our whole class. He made a special request for a field trip today. Mr. Hill signed that special request because he thinks the school board is going to win and that’ll prove he was right to suspend me.
Livingston Gulch is there, of course. Mr. Hill is standing next to him.
Otis Wright the Third says, “You may be seated,” and we all sit at once, like we’re doing the wave at a Dodgers game. “In the matter of Warren v. Board of Education, are the plaintiffs prepared to make their opening remarks?”
Mr. Kalman stands. “We are, Your Honor.”
“Proceed.”
“Your Honor, every home in this country has something called a door. The people on the inside get to close it. Lock it if they want. A burglar can’t come through that door. Neither can the police without probable cause. Yet our schools seem to think they have a key to every home in America, and after hours they can come barging in. A dozen sight words for a kindergartener to memorize. Twenty-five math problems for a first-grader to solve. Book reports. Dioramas. And a great white forest of worksheets. What’s their probable cause? That homework increases learning? There’s no evidence for that claim. In fact, the Cooper Study out of Duke University showed that in high school, too much homework can have a negative effect on learning. In middle school, homework has little or no impact on test scores. And in elementary school, homework made test scores decline.”
“Decline?” the judge asks. “Why’s that?”
“Because young brains—all brains—need downtime to absorb what they’ve learned. The only thing homework increases is stress. My client, Sam Warren, is here to represent all the kids in the district, and all their families, who are asking this court to hang a sign on their front doors: NO TRESPASSING. NO MORE HOMEWORK IN OUR HOMES.”
Mr. Kalman steps back and sits down. Livingston Gulch raises his hand.
“Yes, Mr. Gulch?”
“Mind if I ask the boy a question?”
“Go ahead.”
Gulch leans in close to me. I can smell the spearmint gum he spat out on his way into court. Plus the In-N-Out Double-Double he had for breakfast. He screws up one eye at me and says, “What level are you up to on Martian Battle Craft?”
“Master Guardian.”
He looks away from me to the crowd. “He must not be doing that much homework. I don’t know about you, but I’ve tried that game. Can’t get past Junior Cadet myself.”
Laughter rumbles from Mr. Hill’s side of the courtroom.
I feel myself turning bright red.
“I play the game to get my energy out,” I say.
“What’s that, son?” Judge Otis Wright the Third asks.
“It’s a may-do. After my must-dos get done. Playing video games helps me feel better. If I didn’t have so much homework, I probably wouldn’t need to play them that often. And I’d be stuck at Junior Cadet. Like him.”
This time all the laughter comes from the kids’ side of the room.
I’m expecting the judge to pound his gavel for order in the court, but it’s Gulch’s raised hand that quiets everyone down.
“Yes, Mr. Gulch?” Judge Otis Wright the Third says.
“De minimis non curat lex.”
The court is silent. Even Judge Wright is speechless.
“The law,” Gulch translates, “does not concern itself with trifles.”
“Are you suggesting it was wrong of me to hear this case?”
“No, Judge Wright, I am not. But if this delicate boy needs his downtime more than the rest of us, he should apply for a 504 Education Plan. It’s how the district accommodates a child with a learning disability identified by the law. But to aim his arrow at the institution of homework is to waste the time of this fine court. What’s more, the research I saw suggests that homework is helpful.”
He pulls an index card from his shirt pocket and puts on his reading glasses. “Consider this from Harvard University: ‘High schoolers who do their homework earn GPAs that are thirty percent higher than those who don’t. Middle schools that give one to two hours per night have higher test scores than the low-achieving schools that don’t.’ The only reasonable conclusion: homework helps kids learn.”
“Objection!” Sadie shouts, jumping to her feet. Which is pretty funny if you consider that she’s never been to law school. “Mr. Gulch is misinterpreting those studies.”
“Who’s she?” Gulch asks.
“My legal assistant,” Mr. Kalman says.
“Qualifications?”
Sean springs up.
“Captain of the debate team. Winner of six Lincoln-Douglas awards and over ninety speaker points at the state finals.”
Otis Wright the Third tells Sadie to “proceed.”
“Thank you, Your Honor,” she says. “Mr. Gulch has a flaw in his logic. First of all, the higher grade point average among students who do their homework might only prove that by doing their homework, they please their teachers, who reward them with higher grades. It doesn’t necessarily mean they’re learning anything.”
“What about the test scores?”
“There may be
