Class Action Read online

  Contents

  * * *

  Title Page

  Contents

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  My Homework Wakes the Neighborhood

  I Stand on a Desk

  Thinking It Through

  How to Annoy a Big Sister

  The Principal Calls Me a Moron

  The Mailbox Wars

  We Build a Team

  We Raise a Small Fortune

  We Go to Court

  Going Viral

  We Build Our Case

  Sadie versus Mom

  Back to Court

  A New Face on the Sign

  Sam Francisco

  Best Sundae Ever

  Coffee and Candlelight

  One of Us Flies First Class

  The March

  The Homework Suite

  Heaven Help Us

  Warren v. Board of Education

  What Happened to Mr. Kalman

  The Supreme Court Rules

  Epilogue

  Glossary of Legal Terms

  Appendix of Supreme Court Cases Mentioned in This Book

  Gratitude

  Sample Chapter from ARMSTRONG AND CHARLIE

  Buy the Book

  Middle Grade Mania!

  About the Author

  Connect with HMH on Social Media

  Copyright © 2018 by Steven B. Frank

  All rights reserved. For information about permission to reproduce selections from this book, write to [email protected] or to Permissions, Houghton Mifflin Harcourt Publishing Company, 3 Park Avenue, 19th Floor, New York, New York 10016.

  hmhco.com

  Map of the National Mall and Memorial Parks on pp. 160–61 courtesy of the National Parks Service.

  Cover illustration © 2018 by Andy Smith

  Cover design by Sharismar Rodriguez

  The Library of Congress has cataloged the print edition as follows:

  Names: Frank, Steven, 1963–author.

  Title: Class action / by Steven B. Frank.

  Description: Boston ; New York : Houghton Mifflin Harcourt, [2018] | Summary: With the help of his older sister, his three best friends, and his elderly neighbor, sixth grader Sam Warren brings a class action suit against the Los Angeles School Board, arguing that homework is unconstitutional, and his case goes all the way to the Supreme Court.

  Identifiers: LCCN 2017014151 | ISBN 9781328799203

  Subjects: | CYAC: Legal stories. | Homework—Fiction.

  Classification: LCC PZ7.1.F746 Cl 2018 | DDC [Fic]—dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2017014151

  eISBN 978-1-328-47691-3

  v2.0318

  FOR MY STUDENTS, WHOSE HOMES I MAY HAVE UNLAWFULLY ENTERED OVER THE YEARS.

  I know we’ve come a long way,

  We’re changing day to day,

  But tell me, where do the children play?

  —Cat Stevens

  1

  My Homework Wakes the Neighborhood

  “Cookies first.”

  “Homework first.”

  “Need my cookies upfront, Mom. Otherwise I can’t concentrate.”

  “Okay, one cookie now. Then homework. Then one more cookie.”

  “Two cookies now. Then homework. Then three more cookies.”

  “Too many cookies.”

  “Too much homework.”

  This is how it usually goes between Mom and me. But today I’m bargaining extra-hard. Dad got off work early and is still in his construction clothes.

  “Treehouse?” he says, holding up the plans we drew last summer.

  “Homework,” I say.

  Now while I’m sitting down to twenty-five math problems, an endangered species report, and a language arts packet—action verbs versus linking, can you feel the joy?—he’s taping our plans back on the fridge. I get to look at them every time I reach for a glass of milk to go with my cookies.

  After dinner I help clean up, take a shower, and brush my teeth. I study the week’s spelling words, alphabetize my sources for the bibliography, finish writing chapter notes for World History, read twenty pages of Black Ships Before Troy, and go over the mistakes on my math quiz. That, I’m happy to say, takes only fifteen minutes. Thanks to my friend Catalina, I got most of them right.

  Finally, I sit down at the piano, the one place besides our backyard I want to be. I’m working on a Herbie Hancock song called “Cantaloupe Island.” A weird thing happens to me when I play the piano. I’m not in our living room anymore but in my Sound Forest far away. The ground is soft and spongy and full of Dr. Seuss trees, their leaves changing color to the music. Wild birds keep beat on the branches. For Herbie Hancock, the trees turn Popsicle orange, the birds sky blue.

  “Sam.” Mom’s voice breaks in like it’s being squeezed through a long tube. “Didn’t you have a worksheet on decimals?”

  “Already did that,” I say, fingers flying across the keys.

  She holds up the worksheet in front of my song sheet. She flips it over.

  There was another side.

  My head falls forward and thuds against G, F, C, and a bunch of sharps.

  In the middle of the night, I wake up with an anxiety attack. It feels like someone’s pounding a drum kit inside my chest. I reach for my phone and tap the meditation app that Bernice recommended.

  Bernice is my mom’s parenting teacher. Every other month, a group of moms and a few dads go to her house to learn how to be better parents. I don’t know what they talk about, but the next day these annoying quotes pop out at us from Mom’s mouth. Things like, You can’t prepare the path for the child; you have to prepare the child for the path. Or, Empty stomach, empty head. Or, Follow through and you won’t have to follow up.

  Advice pills, we call them, when Mom’s out of range.

  “You may be feeling stress from a real deadline,” the Guided Meditation Lady says to me in her soft, breathy voice, “or it may be brought on by a self-made pressure.”

  “It’s a real deadline.”

  “Be mindful of where in your body you’re feeling tense.”

  “Well, I’ve got sweaty palms, for one. And my stomach feels like I swallowed a shoe.”

  “Whatever you feel is a natural response to the stress of life. Just let yourself feel those feelings, and they’ll melt away.”

  Easy for her to say. She hasn’t seen my homework planner.

  I’m not allowed in my parents’ room after ten unless it’s an emergency, a.k.a. unexpected situation that demands immediate action. The dictionary just gave me permission to barge in.

  Mom is on her back sound asleep, with her head tilted toward the door. Moms always sleep on the side closest to the door. They’re like firemen next to the pole. When a kid cries out in the middle of the night, who comes running?

  Not dads. They’ll sleep through anything. Even an emergency.

  I hover over Mom like a zombie, watching her breathe. She doesn’t even have to crack a lid to know I’m there.

  “Sam,” she whispers, “what’s the matter?”

  “Bibliography.”

  “What about it?”

  “Forgot.”

  “You can do it for Wednesday.”

  “He’ll take off points.”

  She sighs. “A consequence builds character.”

  Here’s something about parents they don’t teach in parenting class. When Mom says no, go around to the snoring side of the bed.

  “Dad,” I whisper. “Wake up.”

  He sounds like Darth Vader with asthma. I’m surprised he doesn’t wake himself up with all that wheezing.

  “Dad, need a little help here.”

  When a mom wakes up in the middle of the night,
she does it with the ease of a light switch turning on. A dad wakes up like a guy being electrocuted.

  I poke him in the arm.

  “What?! What?! What’s the matter?”

  “Bibliography,” I say.

  In the office, I flip through my stack of index cards, alphabetized by author’s last name or, if there’s no author, by title. My dad believes kids should take responsibility, but for things that make sense for kids to do, like feeding their pets, fixing their own bikes, or safely operating power tools. Not bibliographies past midnight. So he types for me.

  “Hey, Sam,” he whispers between sources. “Next Monday is Columbus Day. Three-day weekend. Maybe we can start the treehouse then.”

  “Maybe,” I say. But the truth is, I’m not so sure it’s a good idea. Even if we find time to build the thing, when will I play in it?

  The office door opens. Mom is standing there with her arms locked across her chest. She looks like an exclamation point.

  “He has to have a bibliography,” Dad says.

  “Sam knew about this project two weeks ago. He should have finished it.”

  “I did finish. Forgot one thing.”

  “It’s okay to let him fail, you know. Failure is the greenhouse of success.”

  Then they get into a debate over parenting styles. A LOUD debate, which only ends when the door flies open, and a teenager with purple hair and dark circles under her eyes stares us down.

  My big sister, Sadie. Technically, half sister Sadie. She’s Dad’s daughter from his first marriage. Her mom, Emily, died when she was five, which was a tragedy. But some tragedies lead to good things. In this case it led to me. After Sadie’s mom died, Dad decided to sell their house.

  He fell in love with the realtor.

  Guess who the realtor was.

  “It’s the middle of the night,” Sadie says. “Some of us are trying to study.”

  Note that she did not say some of us are trying to sleep, which would be a healthy response from a teenager at two in the morning. If you think I have it bad, you should see how much homework Sadie gets. On average, four hours a night. She’s in the HGM Program at North Hollywood High. It stands for “Highly Gifted Magnet,” and you have to score in the 99.5th percentile on standardized tests to get in. On top of that, she’s captain of the speech and debate team, does mock trial twice a year, and has a bunch of essays to write because she’s a twelfth-grader applying to college.

  No wonder she drinks coffee at night.

  Sadie stomps back to her room and slams the door. The slam sets off a massive explosion in the kitchen. It sounds like a cross between a car alarm and a night full of hungry coyotes.

  You wouldn’t think two small dogs could make this much noise. But Lucy and Mollie, our twin terriers, yip and howl whenever they hear a high C on the piano or a stranger at the door.

  Or their pack wide-awake in the middle of the night.

  While our dogs are causing all the other dogs in the zip code to howl, the phone rings. My bibliography just woke the neighborhood.

  “Hello?” Dad says. “Yes, Mr. Kalman, I know what time it is.”

  It’s the old man across the street. He’s a retired lawyer, and believe me, you don’t want to annoy him.

  “No, I don’t know how many sleeping pills you took four hours ago. Three, huh? Twenty-seven left in the bottle. Yes, I agree twenty-seven would be a fatal dose for two small dogs.”

  If Mr. Kalman gets anywhere near their bowls, Lucy and Mollie will be stiffs.

  2

  I Stand on a Desk

  Next morning before school we line up for handball. There’s Jaesang, Catalina, Alistair, and me. The Fab Four of Reed Middle School. Jaesang’s a sports genius—he knows every stat of every player of just about every league. On Career Day he announced his plans to own the Lakers someday. I like that about Jaesang. He dreams big. He promised me my own skybox at Staples Center. That’s a friend.

  Every day we thank our stars for Catalina. She’s like our very own math tutor, only better because she helps us for free and explains math in a way kids understand. She loves numbers so much, when she heard there would be a pi contest next March, she set her goal of learning a thousand digits past the decimal. She wants to beat the eighth-grade boys.

  Cat doesn’t do math just in her head. She even does it in her hair. At least two feet long, dark and wavy and wild if she’d leave it alone. But her abuelita tames her hair, braiding it into one long rope.

  “It’s the power of three, Sam,” she tells me. “Una cuerda de tres hebras no se rompe rápido. A three-strand rope is not easily broken.”

  Alistair is our resident goofball and the most disorgan­ized person on the planet. If not for his hands, arms, knees, and toes—on hot days he wears sandals—he’d never remember a thing. Early on his mom taught him to write stuff down. But Post-its and planners don’t work for Alistair. There’s only one surface he can count on not losing, and that’s his own skin.

  But put him in a kitchen, and my friend Alistair remembers everything, down to how many teaspoons of vanilla are in his red velvet cupcakes. Weird how people keep track of the things they love.

  “You watch MasterChef Junior last night?” Alistair says. “They’ve got this Louisiana girl on. Man, can she flambé! Brought the judges to their knees. Literally.”

  “How do you have time for MasterChef Junior with all the homework we get?”

  “I watch while I do my homework.”

  “Your mom lets you?” Jaesang asks.

  “I showed her this article from the LA Times. It’s all about how the multitasking brain learns better.”

  “When do you have time to read the paper?”

  “Once a day. When I’m pooping.”

  “Alistair!” we all groan.

  “What’s wrong with pooping?” he says. “It’s the final step of a great meal.”

  I’m in next against Jaesang, but I might as well go straight to the back of the line. For a kid who looks like he’s made of toothpicks, Jaesang will surprise you. He’s like a praying mantis. They can carry ten times their own weight. Someday Jaesang will too.

  His slicey puts me out, and I head for the back of the line. But then I notice that the door to the auditorium isn’t closed all the way, and I’ve still got Herbie Hancock in my head, so I walk over.

  Our school piano’s old and a little out of tune. But it’s a piano. Soon my fingers are flying and I’m back in my grove of Dr. Seuss trees with purple, yellow, and bright orange leaves. Something about this song makes the whole world pop.

  When I finish, I hear applause. I look around and there’s Mr. Trotter, our music teacher, in his wool cap and white beard. He speaks in a brogue—what he calls his Irish accent.

  “Well, Sam, I’d say I’ve made the right choice.”

  “Choice for what?”

  “There’s room for just one solo in the winter program. I picked you.”

  A sixth-grader has never gotten the solo before. I feel like jumping so high, I’ll land on Jaesang’s future team.

  In class we do a worksheet on the Code of Hammurabi. It’s this ancient tablet from four thousand years ago with 282 of the harshest laws in history. It’s where we get the saying “an eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth.” According to the Code, if you were a surgeon and your knife slipped and you accidentally killed a patient, you’d have both your hands cut off. If you were adopted and said to your mom, You’re not my mother, you’d have your tongue cut out. And if you were a builder, like my dad, and a house you built collapsed and killed the owner’s son, your son would be put to death.

  Just when I’m thinking how glad I am that nowadays we have building inspectors, Mr. Powell makes an announcement.

  “I know you’re all excited for the Columbus Day weekend,” he says. And it’s true. Columbus is our favorite explorer because he comes with a Monday off.

  “But,” our teacher goes on, and Alistair and I swap a smile.

  “There’s
always a butt,” I say.

  “Some bigger than others,” Alistair says. He does his in-chair version of the Truffle Shuffle from The Goonies.

  And here it comes. “You’ll be taking a practice CAASPP test next week, so I’m sending home a review packet.”

  The CAASPP test. You probably know it as the California Assessment of Student Performance and Progress. We call it the GASP test because it makes it hard for us to breathe.

  Mr. Powell goes around the room, dropping these mega-packets on everyone’s desk. They sound like someone getting spanked.

  Thwack. Thwack. Thwack.

  Catalina puts up her hand. “We already have a Lit Circle project for Miss Lopez.”

  “My review packets shouldn’t take you more than an hour a day.”

  Thwack.

  “What about our endangered species report for Mr. Dane?” Alistair calls out.

  “Those were on the calendar for today. Didn’t you bring yours?”

  Thwack.

  The problem with Alistair’s note-taking system is that at some point during the week, he takes a shower.

  Jaesang tells Mr. Powell that he’s flying to Seattle to visit his grandparents for the long weekend.

  “Good. They can quiz you on prepositional phrases.”

  “They’re from Korea. They don’t speak English.”

  “Maybe you’ll sit next to a native English speaker on the plane.”

  Thwack.

  He makes his way around the classroom, dropping the packets on desk after desk after desk, kids flinching at every thwack.

  I think about my dad sitting in his sixth-grade classroom when he was a boy. Back then kids hardly ever had homework. Soon as the bell rang, they were free.

  Free to have fun.

  Free to play with friends.

  Free to build treehouses with their dads.

  A tiny word starts to form in my mouth. Two letters. One syllable. Don’t ask me how. It just comes.

  “No,” I say.

  “No?” Mr. Powell repeats.

  “No more. It’s been like this since third grade.”