Testing, Testing, 1, 2, 3

In this session, A. LaFaye from Sylvanocity reads her own short story "Testing, Testing, I, 2, 3" which follows the efforts of young Patrick Troy to pass a standardized test in order to get into high school. The trouble is, he has a terrible time passing any test..until he starts mowing the lawn of the neighborhood "witch" Ms. Whittamore who shows them the magic than can exist in one moment.

Transcript

Good evening.

This is A La Faye of Sylvanosity,

And tonight I'm going to be sharing Testing,

Testing 1-2-3.

Before we begin our story,

I want to invite you to settle into bed.

Hopefully you're wearing your favorite comfy jammies.

You're surrounded by things that give you comfort.

Close your eyes for a second.

Take a deep,

Cleansing breath.

Let it out slowly.

Think of the things today that interested you,

That inspired you,

That led you to think,

Hmm,

Now there's a possibility.

Maybe there were a few things that intrigued you,

That raised a question you still haven't answered yet.

Maybe those are the type of questions that may lead to good dreams tonight.

Hmm,

You never know.

We'll have to see.

Now,

Let's look at a young man who always had a lot of questions and not enough answers.

Does that ever happen to you?

Hmm,

Well,

Let's see what happens to him in Testing,

Testing 1-2-3 by A La Faye.

Yep,

That's right.

That's me.

Last spring,

I had one chance of getting into high school the following year,

Passing the eighth grade standardized tests.

I did so badly on the pre-tests,

They started to call me the idiot of Seville.

That's where I'm from,

A town called Seville.

But I'm not an idiot.

I'm really not.

Long ago,

The Greeks used to say an idiot was a guy who didn't know anything about other cultures.

I know a lot about other cultures.

Heck,

I just explained what the ancient Greeks meant when they called some guy an idiot.

When the kids at school called me an idiot,

They meant the kind of stupid jerk who couldn't even pass the stinking old pre-test.

I did so bad on those things,

Mr.

Hemshaw,

The guidance counselor,

Sent me in to be tested for a learning disability.

Again,

I'm not so good at reading textbooks,

Doing homework,

Or taking tests.

Don't get me wrong,

I love to learn new stuff.

It's just the stuff that I want to learn doesn't show up in textbooks or on tests.

Actually,

I used to do great on tests.

I whizzed through them and be done in enough time to get back to the book I was reading.

Nowadays,

I get kind of lost inside the test.

I read a question like,

What was the importance of the Continental Congress?

Then I get to thinking about the delegates who stood in the Congress demanding a stop to taxation without representation while they held slaves.

Who represented those slaves?

Why couldn't they see that those African people had undeniable rights,

Too?

What about women and the poor?

Did they really just want the power for themselves to keep the money they paid in taxes?

See what I mean?

I get lost when I'm taking a test.

I never finish them anymore.

In those pre-tests,

I got most of the questions I answered right,

But I only answered a quarter of them.

Mr.

Henshaw figured I had a learning disability that made it hard for me to read and take tests.

But the people who tested me for that said I didn't apply myself.

That diagnosis sent my dad through the roof.

In fact,

He quartered me on the roof just outside my room.

I was out there working on a star map when he crawled out and planted himself next to me.

He sat there for a minute staring,

Then said,

Schools like learning to play an instrument,

Patrick.

You never get good at it if you don't practice to the point of hating it.

You've got to commit to it,

Or you could end up the only 30-year-old eighth grader.

You spent a lot of time on that speech,

I asked.

He laughed.

Practice makes perfect.

And he wanted me to practice my homework every night,

All night.

He even threatened to take away my mowing job until my grades got better.

That would have been a killer.

I did my best thinking while mowing.

The engine noise cut out the rest of the world,

And I just let her rip,

Mentally speaking.

I mowed on autopilot.

Thought about all the things I'd been studying,

Taxation without representation,

Brown dwarf stars,

And Pythagorean's theorem.

I'd be mowing the same lawns for four years so I could mow them by memory.

That's what I did for Mrs.

Widemore's lawn.

I had just started mowing for her a week after the pre-test.

She hired me through the mail.

That may seem odd,

But I get a lot of weird stuff in the mail.

When I hit second grade,

I started getting a blank card each week.

I didn't know who sent them.

There was never a return address on the envelope.

No postmark.

Just my name.

Each one was a different blind-you-bright color,

But they never had one word on the card inside.

Mrs.

Widemore's card was bright,

Too.

There was no return address.

I even thought it was another blank card,

But instead she asked me to mow her lawn for her every Saturday at noon.

Hiring someone through the mail is a little odd,

But not for Mrs.

Widemore.

Everyone said she was a witch.

When I went to elementary school,

My friends and I had to walk by her place every day.

Kids told all sorts of creepy tales about her.

Hang witches' claw roots along her front fence.

Those little creeps even threw rotten eggs at her house on Halloween.

I never did any of that crazy stuff.

I just wanted to know what her yard really looked like.

Except for the narrow strip in front of her house,

Her whole yard was hidden from view by nine-foot hedges.

No one I knew ever saw behind those hedges.

In fact,

No one ever saw Mrs.

Widemore.

Not even her neighbor,

Mrs.

Clausen.

I mow her lawn,

Too.

She's always telling me stories about her eerie neighbor,

Like how she sees an odd blue glow in Mrs.

Widemore's cupola at night and the strange chiming that echoes from the old woman's house on occasion.

Mrs.

Widemore stays well hidden behind those hedges,

And the chance to get a look on the other side of them was exactly what made me accept the job,

Even though she wrote that she planned to pay me with only a book.

At five to noon that Saturday,

I pushed my mower up to her front porch,

Then went up to ring the bell and see where she wanted me to start.

Only the screen door stood between me and her front hall,

Which led straight down the center of the house to a back door.

I could see the green leaves of her hedges through the screen door in the back.

The whole house looked shadowy and dark.

No one answered the bell.

A gust of wind came up,

Rustled the ivy along the front wall,

And blew the screen door wide open.

I expected it to bang shut,

But it hung open.

I stepped into the hallway to give Mrs.

Widemore a shout,

Figuring she might be hard of hearing.

The front door clanked shut as I called for her.

The wind swooshed through each room as I walked on the hall,

Calling out.

You'd think the breeze meant to hurry me through the house the way it swept along behind me.

It even opened the back door.

I stepped out onto the porch and froze.

The entire backyard was a carpet of flower rings.

Rust-colored mums grew in the center,

Ringed by blue,

Fuzzy flowers surrounded by pink daisies.

The kinds of flowers,

All different kinds of flowers,

Rippled right up to the edge of the porch.

I'd never seen such a thing in my life.

No wonder she kept her yard hedged in.

If she didn't,

The place would be crowded with gawkers.

The sound of someone clearing her throat turned me around.

Mrs.

Widemore sat on a wicker chair,

Her long legs flung over an arm with a book plopped in her lap.

I expected a proper old lady with her gray hair and a bun who wore fancy old-fashioned flowery dresses and brooches.

Instead,

She wore short pants covered in stars and no shoes.

Her gray hair hung over her shoulders.

Hello,

I'm Patrick Croy.

I've come to do your lawn.

Do you want me to start in front?

She pointed to an old-fashioned push mower with whirly blades.

It sat next to a porcupine statue standing at the edge of her backyard.

Old people like to use old things.

No problem.

That gave me more time to think over my study guide for the big tests.

You want me to use that out front?

She shook her head and pointed to the flower circles.

Why didn't she talk to me?

Was she mute?

Did she really want me to cut down all those great-looking flowers?

You want me to mow your flowers?

Nodding,

She held up a card.

It looked blank.

I walked closer,

Figuring she couldn't speak,

So I had to read her instructions.

As I got up closer,

The cards seemed to have gray squiggly lines that moved around like curly hair caught in the wind.

Standing right in front of her,

The lines darkened and stiffened into letters.

I thought I needed to get my eyes checked for new glasses.

That happened every spring.

The card read,

The Butterflies Need Exercise.

She smiled,

Her misty eyes getting all shiny.

The old lady had to be nuts,

But I didn't want to upset her,

So I started mowing her flowers.

I felt guilty for cutting them down.

Then I noticed the butterflies taking flight in colors as brilliant and varied as the flowers.

They took off in all directions,

Like the flower petals had turned into wings.

I had to stop and watch them fly.

As they flew higher,

They looked like bits of confetti headed for the clouds.

Mrs.

Woodamore cleared her throat.

When I looked her way,

She waved her hand to tell me to get busy.

Sorry,

I said,

Mowing ahead.

The entire sky filled with bright wings as I moved in a circle.

I don't know why I did it that way,

But it almost felt like I traveled down a spiral slide that kept pushing me forward.

By the time I had the backyard done,

I felt dizzy.

I had to lie down for a minute,

But it gave me a chance to see the last of the butterflies fly off.

The backyard looked like the school gym after a dance.

Instead of strutted streamers,

The place was covered in shed petals.

As I stepped onto the porch,

Mrs.

Woodamore stood up to hand me the book she'd been reading.

I felt like a dwarf.

She towered over me,

And I'm already five-ten.

I'd never seen such a giant woman before.

No wonder why she needed tall hedges to keep her privacy.

I took the book.

She held up another card.

In that close-up,

It looked like the litter swirled.

I figured I was still a little dizzy.

The card read,

To help you study.

Thanks,

I said,

But I was wondering how a hermetic old lady knew about the tests.

Same time next Sunday?

Saturday,

I mean.

She nodded.

I came out her front door,

Feeling like I'd just walked out of an intense movie,

And I hadn't quite readjusted to the real world yet.

I checked my watch to be sure I'd get to Mrs.

Claussen's on time.

My watch said noon.

How could it only be twelve o'clock?

There was no way I could have mowed that yard in five minutes.

I figured my watch battery had run low again.

That happened to me a lot.

My mom said it was my magnetic personality.

Ha-ha.

I opened the book to see what one she'd given me,

And discovered that the thing was as blank as the cards I got in the mail.

She must have wanted me to use it to take notes while I studied.

Pocketing the book,

I headed over to Mrs.

Claussen's.

After an afternoon of mowing,

I headed home to study.

I studied all week.

My dad sent me straight to my room after supper.

I had to study there until it was time for bed.

The following Saturday,

I showed up at Mrs.

Widamore's house,

Ready to mow her front lawn.

No one answered the bell.

The wind opened the door and wished me through the house again.

And as before,

I stood in the back porch,

Frozen in amazement.

The flowers stood as tall and bright,

As if they'd been growing all spring.

I turned to Mrs.

Widamore,

Hoping she could tell me how she made flowers grow like mutant weeds.

She stood next to me,

Holding up a card.

In my shock,

The letters looked all over me.

Getting a hold of myself,

I could read,

Did you enjoy the book?

Oh yeah,

It's great for taking notes.

Taking notes?

The words nearly sprang off the card.

Why did she write so fast?

I didn't even see her take out a pen.

The book was blank?

I thought it was for note taking.

The book is as blank as this card.

Right then,

I realized my eyes had seen everything clearly.

Only my mind had been out of focus.

The words on that card did change and move.

Mrs.

Widamore never stopped to write.

Her thoughts just leapt onto the card.

She really was a witch,

And she'd given me a magic book.

I wanted to run home and read it,

But Mrs.

Widamore's card read,

Do your work,

Then study.

I nodded,

Saying,

Thank you,

Thank you.

Spinning through the flowers,

I sent the butterflies to wing and gave them their aerobatic exercise.

Then I rushed off to finish the other logs,

My mind constantly wondering what kinds of secrets that book really held.

Finally,

I made it home into my room so I could crack that book open.

I saw no words,

Not even a smudge.

I squinted,

Tilted the book,

Looked at it through a magnifying glass.

Nothing worked.

I'm no warlock,

I told myself.

The only one who could read that book was Mrs.

Widamore.

Why'd she even give it to me?

I threw the book into a corner and ignored it all week.

I went back to Mrs.

Widamore's the next Saturday,

But the front door was shut.

The note on it said,

Come back only after you've read from the book.

I don't want my butterflies cared for by any simple-minded dolt.

Stop relying on your eyes.

Use your head.

The magic's in the moment itself.

Going Mrs.

Clausen's Yard that afternoon,

I tried to figure out what Mrs.

Widamore was trying to tell me.

The magic is in the moment itself.

What's that supposed to mean?

Sure I'd gotten lost in the moment before,

Drifted from the Continental Congress to a plantation in the Carolinas.

But where's the magic in that?

Staring into the grass in front of me,

I let myself drift into the greenness of it,

Hoping that getting lost in that one moment would show me something.

I tried again.

The whips of the blades slowed,

Like those on a helicopter,

Just after the engine's been turned off.

And there,

In mid-wing flap,

Hung a blue butterfly.

I'd captured it in a moment.

I didn't even finish Mrs.

Clausen's Yard.

I ran straight home.

Flopping down on my bed with the book,

I stared at the page and let my mind drift into it.

Words rose up like growing plants.

It read,

Magic in the Middle Ages was as commonplace as prayer.

I pulled the words up and kept right on going.

I read about kitchen spells to make the bread rise,

The sour milk go good,

The random cut heal without infection.

I read until my mind filled up,

Like a computer's hard drive.

I could have sworn I heard a ding like a warning message.

This brain is full.

I'd read half the book.

Usually it'd take me all day to read that much.

But when I looked at the clock,

Hardly any time had passed.

I stayed in the moment through half the book.

I wanted to announce my talent,

Tell everyone I knew.

Who would believe me?

Mrs.

Whittemore,

That's who.

I ran over there.

Her door stood open.

I found her waiting for me on the back porch.

Babbling,

I started to tell her everything.

She smiled,

Her eyebrows arched,

And held up a note.

Congratulations.

Now get to work.

I could have flown behind that mower.

In fact,

I'm not so sure I didn't.

As I left,

Mrs.

Whittemore passed me a note.

Don't neglect your duties,

Patty.

Magic thins when you're not responsible.

Okay,

I won't,

I shouted on my way to finish Mrs.

Clausen's lawn.

That night,

I read on about magic.

Dad came in with a plate of sandwiches to check on me.

You studying,

Patrick?

I raised the book to say,

Yeah,

Sure,

Dad.

But Mrs.

Whittemore's words echoed back to me.

Don't neglect your duties,

Patty.

I was sure no question about magic would show up on the test.

So I said,

I'll get right on it,

Dad.

Biting into a sandwich,

Dad said,

Good to hear it.

Putting the book aside,

I gathered up all of my textbooks and my study guide,

Then set to work.

Trying to get lost into the school books just made my headache.

A strange thumping caught my attention.

The cover of Mrs.

Whittemore's book flapped like a wing.

Opening it up,

I found a note guard sticking out of the seam.

It read,

Why walk when you can fly?

And Mrs.

Whittemore's flowing hand.

Staring into the book,

I dove into the American Revolution.

Everything appeared in that book.

Maps of battles,

Conditions of hospitals,

Forts and prisons.

I read about officers,

Infantrymen,

Women on the home front,

Women who marched into battle as men,

Slaves who fought for the right to be free,

Children who studied the war firsthand.

I knew salaries,

Strategies,

And sailing techniques for delivering supplies.

As soon as a question rose in my mind,

An answer sprawled out onto the page.

I journeyed through the entire war in one night.

I traveled into the realm of mathematics next,

Science after that.

I not only learned equations,

Theories,

And discoveries,

But the histories behind them,

The origins of numbers,

The lives of the people who mapped out the mysteries of the world.

And at school,

Whenever a teacher handed out a unit test,

I dove into the moment,

Wading my way through each question at my own speed.

When I came up with my own question,

I scribbled it on a piece of scratch paper to look it up later.

I finished each test in ten minutes or less,

Then kept writing in my scratch paper so the teacher wouldn't suspect.

On Saturdays,

Mrs.

Whittemore and I talked as I mowed.

Her words appeared on a pad of paper hanging off the mower handle.

She told me how she noticed me as a child.

I was the only one who didn't caulk,

Gawk,

Or leave roots,

Or throw rotten eggs.

She'd often see me passing with my nose in a book,

Heard the questions as they formed in my head.

She'd been sending me letters for years,

Waiting for me to be ready to read them.

So that's who sent me those blank cards.

They weren't blank after all.

I thanked Mrs.

Whittemore,

But she said having company who could understand her was all the thanks she needed.

Boy,

Can I see how important it is to have someone who understands you.

Thanks to Mrs.

Whittemore,

Understanding of how I learned,

I took my own time in finishing those tests.

Not only did I pass them,

But I ranked so high up in the state that they finally realized how much school bored me and let me skip a grade.

Now I'm the only fourteen-year-old sophomore at Seville High.

I'm willing to bet I'm the only kid in all of Seville who knows how to make butterflies fly.

Hmm,

Would you like to learn how to make butterflies fly?

Better yet,

If you had a magic book,

What would it be able to do?

Would it be able to answer all of your questions?

Or take you into a story you make up as you go along?

Or perhaps it would be your favorite story,

But every time you read it,

Something new would happen.

You know,

When it comes to creating things,

There is an endless amount of possibilities.

You know where else there can be an amazing amount of possibilities?

In your dreams.

I know I'm tired.

Are you?

Are you snuggled in nice and warm?

Are you relaxed?

Are you ready to drift off into a dream where you might mow a lawn with circles of flowers and butterflies that need exercise?

Good night now.

This has been A La Faye with Sylvanophilie,

Sharing with you the story,

Listing one,

Two,

Three.

Good night.

Reviews

Another teallu good one. Thank you again!