Text Leveling System

Pick of the Litter

RDQ:	1062	Max Word/Sent	34	Total Words	2574		Diff Words	688
Lex	750	Ave Word/.Sent	8	Hi Freq occurs	1935	75.2%	Hi freq	294	42.7%
AR	3.7	Long Sentences	5	Low Freq occurs	101	3.9%	Low freq	77	11.2%

My eyes were so tight and hot, the paper in front of me looked red. When I glared at the two columns of gray words, my vision blurred, and the lines squiggled and zigzagged down the page.
I didn't like spelling. No-I take that back. I hated spelling!
What I wanted to do was rip the papers to shreds, storm out the door, and not come back. I could tell Mama I was sick. If that didn't work what could my teacher do? Send me to the office? Big deal! Mrs. Bowlin never did anything. She probably wouldn't even be there.
Another puff of red clouded my vision when I glanced up from my paper to the window. Kids were still on the playground, but Danny and Mark
weren't around-they were headed to the creek to look for frogs and snakes. They were probably already there, finding all sorts of neat stuff.
Not me. I was stuck in the teachers' lounge. All alone. Writing spelling words I missed on the test. Why would anyone have a spelling test on the last Wednesday of school? Nobody had tests the last week of school. It was ridiculous! Stupid.
I hated spelling.
I clutched my pencil in my hand like a dagger. "I'd like to ... ," I muttered. Then I turned the pencil back the way it was supposed to be. If I stabbed the paper, I'd just break my lead and have to go sharpen it again. I wrote the word "persuade" at the top of the third column.
"U," I snarled to myself. "Not W, you dummy!" Then I wrote it again, right under the first "persuade."
But what I hated even more than spelling was having to write the words-in cursive. I hated that more than chicken pox. More than poison ivy.
Mrs. Dunn made us learn cursive in third grade, but when it came to a spelling test we could either
write or print. In fourth grade, Mrs. Cooperton made us use cursive. But when we had to write the words we missed, she would accept them either way. With Mrs. Nash ... we didn't have a choice.
I could remember, back in the old days, when printing was a lot faster. I could do one column of p, go back to the top and scamper down with e, then back up, and do the r s s. With cursive, I had to write the whole, stinking word. No shortcuts. Just "persuade," "persuade," "persuade," "persuade" . . . until I was so sick of it I could barf.
I ought to go home, I thought. Why not? The worst that could happen was miss recess tomorrow. I could sneak off and 
My head snapped up. The sound of the doorknob rattling yanked my eyes from the window, back to the page.
Footsteps.
Probably one of the teachers coming in to get something from the pop machine.
No. The clopping shoes came closer. They stopped right behind me.
"Almost done?" Mrs. Nash's voice made me want to turn and look up at her. I didn't. I just kept writing "persuade," over and over and over again.
She stood there, for a long time, without a word. Finally she moved beside me, turned, and leaned against the edge of the table. She didn't sit on it or my paper, but she was so close, I couldn't get my elbow up there to write. When I realized I couldn't avoid her any longer, I put my pencil down and looked up.
Mrs. Nash's eyebrows arched. "I'm sorry you're mad at me," she began.
All right, I guess I didn't look up at her maybe it was more like a glare.
"But ... ," she went on, "staying after school to write your spelling words really wasn't my idea. It was yours."
My mouth flopped open so wide, my chin almost bumped the table. I snapped my mouth shut and kept it shut.
Mrs. Nash held her school bag in her lap. She reached in, pulled out her grade book, and ran her finger down the page.
"First nine weeks, you struggled a little. Either you didn't know how to study your spelling words, or you didn't take the time to learn them." She flipped the page. "Second nine weeks, you did really well. Only missed two words, right before Christmas vacation"-she turned another page-"and two more right before spring break." She flipped the last page.
"Then you quit!"
I looked up at her, but for only an instant before I turned my eyes away.
"Not only did you quit, but two weeks ago" she tapped her finger on the page-"you missed five and you didn't turn in your spelling words the next day. I let that one slide. I knew you were worried about your grandfather, and there was a lot going on. But last week you missed two words. I was willing to forget that, too. I know your grandfather was scheduled for surgery on the day after the test. However. . ." She took a breath. "Thursday morning, you told me your paper was in your backpack, but you couldn't find it. You promised you'd keep looking. And?" she asked.
I kept my eyes on the page.
"And?" she repeated.
When I still didn't say anything, she answered herself. "And you spent every spare minute you had, writing the spelling words that you told me you did Wednesday. Right?"
"Yes, ma'am."
She sat quietly for a long time. Finally she leaned down, and made me look at her.
"You remember how we've talked about honor?" "Yes, ma'am."
"Do you remember what honor means?"
"Yes, ma'am. It means doing what's right. Not fighting on the playground, not telling lies, not cheating on a test, and ... you know ... stuff like that."
"It means a lot more, Tom. It also means trust. Trust and honor are both forms of respect. You're not on your honor just during school, or when you're taking a test. You're on your honor every day. And Tom . . ."
She made me look at her.
 it's not for me, but for you. You know what's right what's honest. You do it, not because someone might catch you, but because it's the right thing to do." She paused. "When you finish, leave your paper right here on the table. I'll pick it up in the morning." She stood and walked across the room. At the door, she hesitated. "Your mom is waiting in the west parking lot. See you tomorrow."
I sat there for a long time. Even though it made me mad to miss going to the creek with my friends, I knew Mrs. Nash was right. I did lie to her. Last week I told her I had done my spelling when I hadn't. This week I figured, since it was the end of school, she wouldn't bother. I'd lied to her. Not just once but ...
I wrote the word "persuade" again, then again, then again, then ...
Between "bureau," "tournament," and "persuade," I ran out of room on the first page. "Quotient" and "variety" took two columns on a second piece of paper.
When I finally finished, I left the papers, hopped up, raced down the hall, out the front door, and around the side of the school. As I came into
view of the parking lot, I slowed down and let my shoulders slump. Trudged slowly, almost painfully, toward Mama's car.
Racing to the car wouldn't work. Maybe if I looked sad and remorseful enough, she wouldn't be so tough on me.
Mama never said a word. Not on the way home. Not during supper, not even the next morning when she drove me to school.
In a way, I wish she had. I wish she'd yelled at me, or told Daddy what I did. Or grounded me. Something. Anything!
Not saying one single word made me feel terrible. I didn't think anything could make me feel worse.	
At least, that's what I thought. . . until Mrs. Nash finished taking attendance and lunch count on Friday morning.
She closed her grade book, stood up, and smoothed down the front of her dress. Then very softly-almost a whisper-she said:
"Thomas. I need to see you in the hall."
The instant Mrs. Nash closed the door, she wheeled on me. Glaring down with her fists on her hips, she leaned so close that her nose almost touched mine.
"Thomas, until the last three weeks, you have been one of my best students, honest and dependable. I don't have to worry about your getting in trouble on the playground, or cheating on tests.
"But what you did yesterday afternoon was totally unacceptable!"
I felt my mouth fall open. I wanted to ask what I did, but she didn't give me the chance.
"You were to finish your spelling words before you went home. Not take them with you to work on. You were to stay and then leave them on the table. Go get them-right now!"
Somehow, I managed to force my mouth to work.
"I ... I ... but I..." Even with my lips moving, I still couldn't talk. All I could do was stammer. Mrs. Nash sighed.
"I never ever dreamed I could be so disappointed in you. Even if it is the last day of school, I fully intend to call your mother and father in for a conference. I cannot believe you did that."
"Did what?" I gasped, finally.
Mrs. Nash hovered over me. Looking straight up, all I could see was her chin, and her eyes glaring down from beneath her glasses.
"You left without finishing your spelling words." "I-I finished them, Mrs. Nash. "
"Then where are they?"
My arms shook. My legs trembled. My mouth flopped, but no words came out. All I could do was point down the hall toward the teachers' lounge.
Mrs. Nash stomped off. After a few paces, she realized I wasn't following. She turned and crooked her finger. My legs were shaking so hard I didn't know if they'd hold me up. Almost staggering, I followed.
This couldn't be happening. I did my words. All five of them. Twenty-five times, each. I even counted them, twice, just to make sure. I left them on the table, like she told me.
It was a dream.
It had to be a bad dream. I was still in my bed, at home. In a second I'd wake up and ... and ... And Mrs. Nash opened the door to the teachers' lounge. Holding it wide open, she made a swooping motion with her arm for me to go in.
Maybe it wasn't a dream.
Come on, I urged. Wake up. Open your eyes. There was the table-TOTALLY EMPTY! This wasn't a nightmare. I was awake. "Where are your spelling words, Tom?"
My finger shook when I pointed at the table. Then it curled into a fist, with the rest of my fingers. My arms shook at my side. My knees trembled. Suddenly, I felt dizzy.
"Right there, Mrs. Nash." The words whooshed out of me like a gust of wind. But when I sucked in another breath, I didn't feel dizzy anymore. "I left them right there on the table."
"They're not there now."
I stared at the empty tabletop.
"Did you tell your mother you were done and run off to play with your friends? Are they in your backpack, finished? Or did you simply stop the second I left the building, not write another word, and plan to finish them during class?"
I shook my head.
"Go back to the room and get your spelling words, Tom. Let me see how much you have done."
Don't hold your breath, I told myself, forcing in another gulp of air. You'll end up flat on your face if you don't keep breathing. I felt my nostrils clamp together as I struggled to let the air out slowly.
"They were right there," I whispered. "I swear, Mrs. Nash. I finished all. . ." Pausing, I heard a gulping sound when I swallowed. ". . . of them. They were right there. I promise!"
For a long time she stood, looking down at me. I could see the expression on her face, and I could tell she still didn't believe me.
The longer we stood there, the worse I felt. My fists were so tight, my fingernails dug into my
palms. My knees locked-muscles straining until I could feel myself shaking all over. And I hurt. Not a hurt like scraping my knee on the sidewalk or getting tackled in football and landing on my shoulder. The hurt was deeper. It was clear down in the pit of my stomach.
A hurt that gnawed on my insides, because I was telling her the truth-only she didn't (or couldn't) believe me.
I guess she was waiting for me to "break." Waiting for me to tell her the truth. Waiting for me to go back to the room and get my half-finished list of spelling words out of my backpack.
But I couldn't. I had told her the truth. There was nothing more I could do.
"Let's go back to the room," she said, finally. We were almost out the door when Mrs. Nash stopped. I dodged to get out of her way, but she still bumped into me. "Sorry," she said as she walked to the far side of the teachers' lounge. I stood and watched. In the corner, she leaned over and picked up the trash can. She looked inside, then set it down. Her eyes seemed to scan every part of the room as she turned.
There was a bookshelf on the wall beside the pop machine. She walked to it, looked on each shelf, even felt above the books with her hand. She looked behind the little table where the coffeepot was, and behind the pop machine. Finally her gaze fell on me.
"Go on, Tom. I'll be down there in a second." "May I stop by the restroom?"
She nodded.
I didn't need to go. I just needed a couple of minutes to quit shaking. Everybody knew something was going on-something was wrong.
She wants to believe me, I thought as I washed my hands at the sink. I glanced at the mirror. The face that looked back at me wasn't a very nice face. It was the face of a liar.
How could Mrs. Nash believe me? I'd lied to her about forgetting my spelling words. She'd trusted me, and I'd lied to her. Even if she wanted to believe me-even though I was telling the truth-how could she now?
Why would she even try?
Friday was the longest day I ever spent in my entire life!
Mrs. Nash didn't say anything when I came back to the room. None of the guys tried to ask what was going on, either. Although I tried my best to look calm and relaxed, everybody could probably tell I was upset.
Mrs. Nash gathered up our social studies, math, and science texts. Then she let people go, one at a time, to return any library books that they had forgotten to bring back.
When Carl Decker went, Mrs. Nash followed him to the door. She had good cause to keep an eye on Carl. He was one of those guys who was always doing stuff he wasn't supposed to.

Subjective Criteria

Illustrations: No support

Dialog: Multiple speakers

Dialog: Broken dialogue

Dialog: Unlabeled Speaker

Vocabulary: Some difficult words

Language: Many descriptive words

Sentences: Multiple phrases

Text structure: Story/Poem

Inferences: Some implications

Complexity: Several ideas - closely related

Concepts: Concrete/Simple Social

Chapters

Features

Character traits

Character development

Simple Plot

First Person

Topic

Dogs

Honesty

Courage

*Animals

Helping

*Feelings, Behaviors

Low Frequency Words

arched	attendance	blurred	bowlin	bureau
column	columns	conference	cooperton	curled
cursive	decker	dependable	disappointed	dunn
fully	glare	glared	glaring	gnawed
grounded	gulp	gulping	hesitated	honest
honor	hovered	instant	intend	ivy
liar	lied	lounge	ma'am	motion
muttered	nightmare	nostrils	ought	paces
painfully	palms	paused	pausing	persuade
quotient	rattling	remorseful	respect	restroom
ridiculous	scamper	scheduled	science	shortcuts
slump	smoothed	snarled	social	squiggled
staggering	stammer	studies	surgery	swallowed
swear	tabletop	tournament	trudged	unacceptable
urged	variety	vision	wheeled	whisper
whooshed	yanked	zigzagged