Why Johnny Can’t Read. Or Breathe.

By John Magee

Based on Rewards for Students Under a Microscope from the Tuesday, March 3, 2009, Science Times section of The New York Times.

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“I’m sorry, Mrs. McGillicuddy, but Johnny just hasn’t applied himself,” said Vice-Principal Warren with a resigned shake of his bald head. “He simply doesn’t merit inclusion in the reward payment program.”

Desperation flirted with determination in Joan McGillicuddy’s motherly brown eyes as they searched for an omen of hope amid the Vice-Principal's rather cramped and cluttered office. Beneath Joan's worn blue jumpsuit she wore an old, but well maintained pressure suit. This two-layer and slightly shabby-looking approach was common among those who lived in the colony’s dubious outlying neighborhoods where the air supply was thin at best.

Without being aware of the gesture, Joan ducked her head like a boxer and continued her attempted negotiation. “Look, he’s come a long way, hasn’t he? I mean, last year he barely knew his alphabet. Now he’s reading full sentences.”

“Oh, I won’t deny that there’s been some progress.” Vice-Principal Warren pulled he glasses off his nose, rubbed them thoughtfully with his handkerchief. “But he hasn’t kept up with the rest of his class, and we only have so many places available for advancement and reward.” He set the glasses back on his face and chuckled. “I mean, it would hardly be a bonus incentive program if the rewards just went to everybody.”

“Perhaps with some tutoring…” Joan started.

“No, I’m afraid not.” Warren sighed. Why was it that parents were always the last to realize the truth about their children’s failures? It was hard enough trying to keep a school running out here on this remote planet in the backwaters of the BludgeCo sector with all of the budget cutbacks. And yet these parents of failing children always seemed to think that there was an endless supply of largesse to be spent upon their lazy and ill-fit progeny. Perhaps a lack of motivation in the students starts with a lack of motivation in the parents, he reflected. Yes, a poor home environment was the start of troubles for so many of these youngsters.

Mind you, he didn’t like failing students. Really, he would much rather pass them all along. But there wasn’t much he could do about it. The criteria were clearly laid out in endless memos from BludgeCo Edu-Vision headquarters. All he was doing was implementing policy, not making policy. Why didn’t this frumpy woman recognize that? And on a frontier world of limited resources, his duties were clearly defined.

He determined to make it clear to her. “In truth, the boy is incorrigible. He draws pictures of butterflies and dinosaurs while the others are studying. Three times in the last month he spent his full recess running about and singing songs instead of trying to catch up with his deficient studies. Do you know how much extra oxygen is spent when students run and sing instead of studying? Good heavens, if all the students start acting that way we would hardly have enough air to make it to lunchtime.”

“But surely there must be a way we can work this out,” said Joan. “He did make progress. Perhaps if you could see your way clear to providing a percentage of the bonus, then when he catches back up next year…” she began.

“No. It’s out of the question.” Vice-Principal Warren decided it was time to wrap this up. “Now, I’ll need you to sign this form acknowledging that Johnny failed to make sufficient progress towards his goals this year.” He pushed a WriteScreen across the desk. “And the one below it in which you acknowledge that he will not receive a bonus or other reward of excellence as a result. And the final form acknowledges that you are withdrawing Johnny from this private school because his failure to produce bonus-level results has left you unable to pay the tuition.” He paused for a moment. There had been that rather uncomfortable incident several years ago when a total down-and-outer from West End had turned out to have an uncle who was an upper-level executive back on BludgeWorld who footed the full tuition for his laggardly grand-nephew. “You are unable to pay the tuition without the bonus payments, aren’t you?”

“You know that we can’t even afford Johnny’s oxygen allotment at home without the bonus payments.”

"That's unfortunate, but it's hardly this school's responsibility to pay the oxygen bills of non-students." Warren continued, "The final form states that you understand that because Johnny will no longer be attending DrudgeCo Edu-Vision classes, and because there are no alternate schools available on this planet, he will no longer be classified as a 'desirable future consumer' under The Contract and will no longer be a party to its terms."

Desperation began to win out over determination in Joan McGillicuddy’s brown eyes. She began to raise her voice, “What if I don’t sign the forms? You can’t make me sign a form that calls Johnny a failure! He’s my boy … my beautiful baby boy.”

“Failure to acknowledge the registered results of schoolwork would put you in violation of The Contract,” said Warren, his voice softening. “You have two other children – Martha and Eddie – who are still meeting their reward-program requirements. If you choose to default on your obligations, all of your dependents will be in violation of The Contract. Martha and Eddie will also become ineligible for the bonus payment program.”

Warren fixed a firm eye on Mrs. McGillicuddy, “If you’re in violation of The Contract, Martha and Eddie’s expulsion will be the least of your problems.”

Joan knew that she had no choice. Desperation and determination fled, and all that remained was resignation and sorrow. She took the stylus in her hand and shakily signed the forms as they appeared.

“Good day, Mrs. McGillicuddy,” said Warren as he pressed the button that opened his door to the anteroom outside, where Johnny waited on a seat. Joan McGillicuddy turned with slumped shoulders to take Johnny home from school the final time.

“Look, Ma,” said Johnny, holding his WriteScreen up to her in his six-year-old hands. “This is the best picture of Fred the Dinosaur I’ve made yet.”

Warren poked his head out his door. “Oh, and please leave his WriteScreen on the reception shelf. School Property, you know.”

“We’re going to leave Fred the Dinosaur here, Johnny,” said Joan. She kissed the short brown hair on top of his head, took the WriteScreen out of his hands, and set it on the shelf. “He’ll have to go to school without you now.”

“If I’m home all day, can I sing songs all day?” asked Johnny. Joan took his hand and they stepped out the door. They couldn’t afford slidewalk fare, so they began the long walk to the oxygen-poor environs of West End.

“No, Johnny,” said Joan softly. “It’s probably best if you stop singing altogether.”