Chapter 2

Buddy Paris was in the living room reading the local newspaper when Lizzie rushed through the front door. He waited for his youngest daughter to bellow out her usual greeting "Hi Dad, I'm home" and was surprised when it didn't come. The only sound was the pounding of small feet on the wooded stairs,followed by the closing of the door to Lizzie's room.

Buddy finished an article about town council's approval of plans for a new modern elementary school to replace Willow Street and two older schools, and then sat listening for sounds from upstairs.

 If he could hear Hannah Montana, it meant Lizzie had slapped a CD into her portable stereo and was already working on her homework. If there was laughter, she was probably on the phone to Shanice. A metallic pinging would mean her PS3 was back in action (after a glorious three month reprieve)  and he'd have to call his pig-tailed darling at least three times before she'd come down to dinner.

But today there was something he was not used to: silence.

He put the paper down and crept to the bottom of the stairs.

"Lizzie honey, is that you?" he called. No answer. "Lizzie?"

Buddy climbed the stairs and walked to Lizzie's door at the end of the hall. He knocked gently on a space between two Twilight posters and pushed the door open. His daughter was lying face down on her bed, sobbing into her pillow.

"I hate school," she said turning to confront her stunned father. "I'm never going back, and you can't make me."

"It's okay baby, don't cry," he whispered. He lowered himself   carefully onto the bed and wrapped his arms around his daughter. "Whatever happened, we'll make it right."

Lizzie resisted the bear hug for an instant, and then collapsed into the security of his arms.

They're pretty hairy arms, Lizzie thought fleetingly, before she let the tears flow.

Buddy's distress for Lizzie was mixed with joy that his pre-teen daughter could still find comfort in his arms. Lizzie was an affectionate child, but in recent months she'd stopped reaching out for his hand when they walked together, and she didn't always seek that kiss goodbye when he dropped her off at a friend's house for a sleep-over.

As Lizzie stirred, he reluctantly let her go. She grabbed a tissue from her bedside table, and blew her nose loudly.

Before Buddy could ask what was really wrong, Lizzie hopped across the small room and began rooting in the yellow backpack. She produced a green binder with a fuzzy Webkinz cover and pulled out a two-page report written in pencil. She handed it to him like a prosecutor presenting damning evidence to a witness in court.

The writing was smudged, but he immediately recognized the paper as a project Lizzie had been working on in front of the television two nights ago. He'd started to tell her to go work at her desk, but sadly, got distracted by the program himself.

The essay was about the importance of neighbours. There were a few spelling mistakes and some missing punctuation, but Buddy thought the paper, on whole, made some fine points.

"So what's the problem?" he asked, now genuinely confused.

Lizzie rolled her eyes and huffed, exasperated. She poked at the teacher's comment written neatly in red ink in the corner.

Take more pride in your work.

"He hates me. He's hated me since the first day of school. He hates everything I do. That note proves it."

"Hold on second. What do you think this comment means?"

"It means he hates me. He's going to flunk me and I'm going to spend the rest of my life stuck in the Grade 5 classroom."

As if the matter was settled, she flopped back on her bed and stuck her face deep into the feather pillow.

Buddy stifled a laugh. Lizzie was so much like her mother.

"Sweetie, I don't think that's what he means at all. I think Mr. Thompson is trying to send you a message."

Lizzie rolled over, listening.

"I think Mr. Thompson wants you to try harder. He knows you're a good student, but he doesn't think you're giving it everything you've got. Maybe he thinks you're coasting."

"He's got some funny way of showing that he thinks I'm good."

"Maybe you're just not showing him how good you really are. Let's take this essay for instance. Is this REALLY your best work? Can you really tell me a smart girl like you doesn't know how to spell beautiful?"

Lizzie fiddled with one of her hair elastics and avoided her father's gaze. She picked at a piece of fuzz on her pants, hoping her father would say something and break the silence.

"Look at me," he commanded gently. "The only way you are going to get anywhere in life is to work hard at it. Whether you're a musician, a writer, an athlete or a welder like me, hard work is the key. If you work hard, you'll win - if you don't, you won't.

"When I was playing basketball, we'd always say a quick prayer just before the game would start. Then the coach would tell us: Nothing will work unless you do. I think that's all Mr. Thompson is trying to say. He wants you to get off the bench and start shooting for the hoop."

Lizzie had never thought about it like that. Maybe Mr. Thompson didn't hate her. Maybe he was just trying to get her mojo going.

"Dad," said Lizzie putting her hands on either side of his face and looking into his eyes. "Do all your words of advice come from old basketball coaches?"

In the two seconds it took Buddy to figure out she was kidding, Lizzie threw her arms around his neck, and climbed onto his back.

"Okay, I think I get it," she said. "Can we please go downstairs now for a snack before dinner? I'm going to have to keep my energy up if I'm going to start sinking those baskets for Mr. Thompson. Isn't that right coach?"