The door swings open. The monster is in the room.
“Mr. Powell,” he says with perfect Principal Calm. “Why is Sam standing on the desk?”
“Sam has had enough of homework, Mr. Hill. He doesn’t want to write the assignment down.”
“Doesn’t he?”
Mr. Hill walks over. It’s not every day a sixth-grader is taller than the principal. He stands about eye level to Schroeder and Snoopy on my favorite T-shirt.
“Any student who refuses to write down the homework will be suspended from school. Three days. And the suspension goes on your permanent record.”
The words “permanent record” hang in the room.
Alistair sighs. “Sorry, Sam, but if I get suspended, I’ll lose kitchen privileges.”
Which for Alistair would be like any other boy losing video games. He sits and scribbles the homework on his arm.
Jaesang looks at me. I see his face go all soft, like a ball losing its air. “My mom won’t let me go to Seattle.”
He sinks to his seat and opens his planner.
One by one, the signs go down. One by one, the students go down too.
Pretty soon it’s just me and Catalina on our feet. The other day she told us how homework got her in trouble with God. Every Sunday her family goes to Iglesia del Dios Vivo, Columna y Apoyo de la Verdad, La Luz del Mundo—La Luz del Mundo for short. The congregation is huge. More than a thousand people were listening to the ministero and reading along in their prayer books.
Then came the time for silent prayer. The same thousand people in total God-inspired silence.
Except for Catalina’s abuelita, who was sitting beside her and happened to peek at what no one else could see.
The book her granddaughter was reading in church.
It wasn’t the prayer book.
It wasn’t the Bible.
It wasn’t a book of hymns.
It was World History: Ancient Civilizations. Written by so many people, their names don’t fit on the spine.
“Ai, Catalina! Qué está leyendo en iglesia?”
Nine hundred ninety-eight heads spun toward them. Plus the minister and all the heads in the choir.
“Un libro, Abuelita. Por escuela.” Then she turned to the minister and said, “Perdóname, Papá. Un montón de tarea para mañana.”
Which, in case you don’t know Spanish, means “a mountain of homework due tomorrow.”
So I’m thinking, if homework got Catalina in trouble with God, maybe God will give her the courage to stand up to homework.
She sighs. A montón of air comes out. Like she’s been holding her breath since Sunday.
Then she hangs her head, sits, and writes down the homework.
I guess now’s the time to cut my losses. I should sit down, copy the homework, play by the rules. There’ll probably be an apology to write. Loss of recess. Lunchtime on the bench. I can handle all that.
But can I handle six and a half more years of this? Sixth grade, the rest of middle school, then high school, where the homework’s even deadlier? Are we supposed to just go along like that guy in the Greek myth, pushing the rock up the mountain only to have it roll back down again?
I don’t think so. I stay on my feet.
Principal Hill pulls out his secret weapon. “A student who’s been suspended may not perform in the winter program.”
He just axed down all my trees.
Not me, though. I’m still standing.
3
Thinking It Through
When Dad loses his temper, Mom reminds him to take it in before you let it out. She means he should take in the big picture, see what he’s angry about and if it really matters, and then, if it does, go ahead and have a tantrum. Or when Sadie complains that she’s got too much stress from debate team, mock trial, homework, and college applications, Mom tells her to keep your eye on the end zone, which is perfect for Sadie because the one thing she does for fun is watch football on the couch with Dad. And whenever I’m about to do something impulsive like reach for a seventh cookie, Mom quietly reminds me to think it through, Sam.
Think it through. All the way to tomorrow morning, when you wake up with a stomachache.
Think it through. All the way to your next piano lesson and how you’ll feel if you didn’t learn the song.
Think it through. All the way to this afternoon, when the email makes it home before you do.
“A three-day suspension?!” Mom says.
I guess I didn’t think things through.
“There goes your chance of getting into a decent high school,” Sadie butts in. That’s a sister for you. Helpful, isn’t she?
Mom sighs her dragon sigh. “You will write an apology to Mr. Hill, Mr. Powell, and the class. And you will make up all the work you’re going to miss.”
But Dad defends me. “Why are they giving so much homework anyway?” he says. “We didn’t have homework when we were in sixth grade. And we turned out just fine.”
Sadie tilts her head as if to say she’s not so sure about that.
“It’s a different world now,” Mom says. “More challenging. More competitive.”
“When’s the last time Sam played outside with his friends?” I hear Dad say. “When’s the last time he built anything with me?”
“All the other kids are doing homework. Do you want Sam to fall behind?”
“All the other parents have lost their minds. Should we lose ours too?”
They ping-pong it back and forth like this for a while. Then Dad makes an astonishing, you-go-Dad declaration that warms my heart.
“From now on there will be no more homework in this house!” he says. “I forbid it!”
Would you trade this dad to another family? I wouldn’t.
“Really?” Mom says. “Okay, so if Sam doesn’t do his homework, he won’t get all As on his report card. If he doesn’t get all As on his report card—Sadie’s right—he won’t get into
