THE BIGGEST TEST IN THE UNIVERSE

Young Sam has heard stories about the end-of-year test in Mr. Albright’s class. It’s as big as a telephone book, older students groan. Your head will look like a marble when you’re done; your arm will be in a sling. (“Some arms fall off,” shrieks one girl at Sam.) Understandably, Sam has a gathering case of the willies. Even his family is (inadvertently) undercutting his teetering confidence; his mother remembers endless reports, his grandfather remembers teachers measuring his head at the end of term—if it hadn’t grown, woe was he. Mr. Albright is as cool as a cucumber, pouring oil on troubled waters, but the waters still tremble. Poydar works her magic here, playfully kindling a little blaze under Sam’s apprehension, all the while defusing it with the goofy preposterousness of the legends surrounding the test. Said and done, Sam’s class now has their own legends to pass on: “Yeah,” said one kid to a younger one. “I know a kid who had to eat it!” The tradition continues. (Picture book. 4-8)