Teacher's Pet by Laurie Halse Anderson

the eye. I wonder if he’d give me credit for that? PUPIL. It has a “pup” in it. PUP-IL. PUP-ILL—that makes me think about sick puppies.
    Stop it! Get a grip!
    I need a map to get my mind back to taking this quiz. Maybe I need a map to the Land of Studying for Tests, too.
    The girl next to me puts her pencil down. She’s done already?
    â€œFive more minutes,” Mr. Carlson says.
    Five minutes? Argh!
    I race through the quiz, trying to write down words that sound important and scientific. I sure hope he doesn’t grade for spelling.
    â€œPass your papers forward,” Mr. Carlson says. He takes another transparency out of a file folder and puts it on the overhead projector. “Today we’ll see how the brain deals with signals sent to it by the eye and other sensory organs. It’s really cool. You’ll love it.”
    Right.
    He starts to talk about neurons and synapses and chemicals. The girl next to me is writing all this down. I know I should, too, but my brain hurts. It’s been a really long day, and all I want is a nap.
    I wish I knew how to study. I’d love to finish quizzes five minutes before everybody else. I wish I could like school. It’s no fun hating it, being afraid of failing all the time, feeling trapped. I see the way kids look when they get good grades. That’s how I feel when I win a basketball game, only school is more important than basketball.
    I don’t know why I even try. What’s the use? Unless Mr. Carlson knows how to give brain transplants, I’m stuck with this one.
    My pencil stops taking notes about nerve cells. It draws dogs instead—German shepherds, basset hounds, frisky black Labs—all having their chins scratched, their heads patted, or their necks rubbed.
    Scout lies motionless next to Mr. Carlson’s desk. I bet he’s sound asleep. Told you he was smart.
    Finally, the bell rings. Most of the kids take off before the bell stops. I move more slowly, cram ming my notes, my textbook, and my binder into my backpack. My head still hurts. Quizzes give me a headache.
    The door bangs open. David, Brenna, Zoe, and Sunita stride in. Scout scrambles to his feet, and Mr. Carlson stands up.
    â€œHave no fear, Dr. Mac’s Place is here! David announces.

Chapter Eight
    S eeing my friends snaps me out of my pop-quiz gloom. They glance curiously at Mr. Carlson and Scout, then join me by the windows. They heard about my teacher and his dog on Saturday, after we got home from the guide-dog school.
    Zoe scans the cages on the counter. “We have to clean all of those before the late bus leaves?” she asks. “We’ll never get it done.”
    â€œSure we will,” I say. “I’ve got it figured out. There’s a big cardboard box in the back of the room. If we put the animals in there temporarily, we’ll each be able to take a cage. We’ll be done in no time.”
    â€œWe should keep an inventory,” Sunita says in her most practical tone of voice. “We don’t want any of them to chew through the cardboard and escape.”
    â€œWhat happens if they eat each other?” Zoe asks, eyeing the fat guinea pigs.
    â€œThey won‘t,” Brenna says as I set the box on the ground by the window. “These are all herbivores, well-fed herbivores. The only thing in danger of being eaten is a stray carrot.”
    David helps me move the animals to the box, and we start to “freshen up” the cages, putting in clean shavings, washing out food dishes and water bottles, and wiping down the exercise wheels, toys, and glass walls.
    â€œI’ve never held a gerbil before,” Sunita says as she cups a gray one in her hand. The gerbil twitches its nose and studies her. “They really have personality, don’t they?”
    â€œThey’re much better than the chicks we hatched in third grade,” David says as he lets a hamster run up his arm. The hamster