Cheater Read online

  “Sounds like another bluff to me. Remember We’ll destroy your cat?”

  “Believe me, Karl, this guy doesn’t make false threats. You don’t want to test him.” Blaine backs out of the garage. “Don’t shoot the messenger, okay?”

  How will Karl take this setback? Depression would be understandable. Despair, definitely. But his spirit has grown over the past weeks, and what he’s feeling right now, more than anything, is anger. He’s so mad, in fact, that when he heads back into the house, he flings open the door at the back of the garage, fast; his windbreaker flaps in the breeze, and the doorknob gets caught on the windbreaker’s pocket. This hardly seems possible, but (Petrofsky’s Second Law of Klutzodynamics: When you’re most agitated, that’s when you do the most ridiculously clumsy things) the knob wedges itself into the small pocket inside the outer pocket, and when Karl tries to free himself, he can’t. His anger turns to frantic frustration. He can either stay hooked indefinitely, or he can rip the windbreaker to shreds. He’s leaning toward the latter.

  We’ll leave him in this absurd predicament and hope he realizes in time that there’s a third, more sensible option: slip the windbreaker off and come back to it later, when he’s calmer.

  (Remember this the next time you find yourself speared like a hot dog on the two sharp prongs of a dilemma: there’s usually a third solution that doesn’t involve the destruction of self or property. To find it, take a deep breath, calm down, and think. )

  RULE #10 (also known as the Tiny Elevator Rule): You go down alone. When you’re caught, they may offer a deal-but your comrades are all depending on your courage. Not everyone has the guts to resist. But who do you want to model yourself on, the gutsy hero or the yellow-bellied snitch? Be strong. Be proud. Don’t cave!

  Chapter 10

  Happy birthday, Karl.

  You’re seventeen today-old enough to drive alone in your home state, once you pass the road test.

  Your friends Vijay and Noah have purchased a special gift for you, a little gizmo that you’re sure to love. Go ahead, open it. (Don’t look so grim! It’s your birthday, for goodness’ sake!)

  “Oh-it’s a pen.”

  I-BALL, say the letters on the clip. For a few happy milliseconds, he mistakes this for an ordinary pen, a dull but appreciated gift from two guys who cared enough to acknowledge his birthday.

  “Click it,” Vijay tells him, grinning.

  He does.

  “Noah, what time is it?” Vijay asks.

  “I can’t tell. Karl, what does my watch say?”

  Karl glances at Noah’s watch and sees-huh?-a jittery image of a sneaker on concrete. His sneaker. Wait-the image moves-now a silver PT Cruiser is driving by on Noah’s watch dial-just like the one that’s turning the corner onto Shlink Street.

  Vijay moves the tip of the pen so it points at himself, and there he is on the watch dial, crisp and clear. He points it back at the school, and there’s Lincoln High, tiny on the dial. “We all chipped in. It’s from an online spy store.”

  “Best birthday present you ever got, right?”

  Uncharacteristically peppy, Vijay puts on some unidentifiable accent (Arnold Schwarzenegger?) and says, “It is the maximum in miniaturization.”

  If they perceive his misery, they don’t show it. He’d really like to snap the pen in two and throw the pieces over the nearest roof, but that would be rude, and besides, he’s pretty sure they’ll be expecting him to use the pen during tomorrow’s German test. Which he can’t refuse to do, no matter what, or innocent victims will suffer.

  Vijay has to get a haircut, and the barbershop is halfway to Karl’s house, so they walk together. “We’re lucky to live in the electronic age,” Vijay remarks.

  Deep in his sorrow, Karl blurts a blunt question. “Why do you keep cheating? At some point your luck’s going to run out. You’ll ruin your life when you didn’t need to.”

  Vijay swings his book bag merrily. “You must be on some kind of antihappiness drug. Lighten up!”

  Though he didn’t expect to convince Vijay instantaneously, this disappoints Karl.

  “You know why I really do it?” Vijay says. “The technical challenge is only half the reason. I like that people need my skill. No one else at school can do this-just me. I wouldn’t give that up.”

  Here’s what hurts: Karl likes Vijay (though the memory of the cat-destruction threat hangs behind his friendly feelings like a toxic cloud). He really wants to alter Vijay’s trajectory before he flies right into Klimchock’s wide-open jaws. But he doesn’t know how.

  “Anyway,” Vijay adds, “what’s the point of having technology if you don’t use it?”

  They’ve come to the barbershop. Vijay shakes Karl’s hand and repeats his Happy Birthday wish before going in. Then he reminds Karl to take good care of his gift until tomorrow.

  Musings of a young American walking home alone on his seventeenth birthday:

  I’m an idiot. All this time, I thought my problem was being too smart, and everyone thinking I’m a geek. But I was wrong-my real problem is, I was too stupid to see through their flattery. And I deserted my real friends. I made every possible mistake.

  After a quick stop at home to drop off his backpack, it’s over to the driving school on Hillside Avenue-where Jonah is standing at the curb, waiting for his lesson.

  He had to trade days because of an orthodontist appointment, he explains. In the awkward minutes before their instructors take them out, they stand together, shifting their weight from foot to foot.

  “So-happy birthday,” Jonah says. “You going to do anything?”

  “No, just going out to eat with my parents.”

  Karl assumes Jonah must be thinking about the same thing he’s thinking about: Lizette’s birthday, in December, when they went bowling and Matt’s fingers got stuck in the ball and he slipped on the slick lane and went sliding halfway to the pins, and they couldn’t stop laughing.

  But that’s not what Jonah’s thinking. “How come you dumped us, Karl?” he asks.

  Somewhere, a woodpecker drums against a tree trunk. And again.

  “I didn’t think you were that kind of person-who’d ditch your friends because you found some cooler ones.”

  “That’s not what happened. Really-it’s not.”

  At least, it’s only half the story.

  “Okay, then, what happened?”

  Here comes Mr. Pizzuti, in the blue Corolla, holding his cigarette out the window.

  “Lizette got mad at me. We had a fight.”

  “About what?”

  “I can’t tell you. But she was right and I was wrong.”

  Jonah has a habit of covering his braces with his lips at all times, except when he’s so happy that he forgets about them. The sun glints brightly now on the steel bonded to his front teeth. “Maybe if I told her you said that, you guys could talk it over and make up.”

  Make up. As if they were a couple.

  “I wish we could, but she won’t. It’s complicated.”

  “You never know until you try.”

  “Usually that’s true, but not this time.”

  During his lesson, Karl imagines Jonah reporting his words to Lizette (He says he was wrong and you were right!) and Lizette coming over to ask if he’s going to stop cheating now, and him saying he can’t, they’re blackmailing him, and her not believing him and slapping his face-right cheek, left cheek, right cheek, left cheek-before stomping out and slamming the door. Fortunately, these visions don’t interfere with his driving, except for when he fails to stop for a school bus letting off its tiny passengers. (Mr. Pizzuti jams on his brake, and the bus driver gives Karl the sort of glower usually reserved for swindlers of widows and orphans.)

  His parents take him out to dinner at Beau Thai. After this long, gruesome day, spending his birthday night with his parents is an almost unbearable sorrow. “What would you like to do after dinner, Karl?” his mom asks. “We’re up for just about anything.”

  “Skiing
may be hard to arrange this time of year,” his dad comments.

  “No, um, I made plans with some friends, if that’s okay,” he lies.

  “Oh, the heartbreak,” Dad says, pretending to sob.

  “Do you want us to drop you off at someone’s house?”

  “No, it’s not till later. I can walk.”

  At home, he waits in hope and dread for Lizette to call. The phone rings-but it’s Grandma Agnes, calling from California to sing “Happy Birthday to You” with her pals at the pool.

  Walking to his, er, friend’s house-in other words, walking aimlessly through town, on quiet streets where no one will see him-Karl thinks back to other birthdays. There was the party at the tae kwon do place in kindergarten, when Jonah threw up. The blur of parties in the house when he was tiny, recorded in never-watched videos and in the family photo album. (Chocolate all over his face and hands, cone-hat on his head.) The backyard carnival party with the tug-of-war and the egg race.

  This birthday stands alone, though. The absolute low point.

  The next morning, Karl uses the I-Ball pen to give Tim and Ian the answers to a German test on adjective endings. As he’s filling in the -er after gut- (Ich bin ein guter Student), the hiss of the P.A. system forewarns everyone that an announcement is coming.

  “Karl Petrofsky. Pack your books. You’re going to Mr. Klimchock’s office. Leave your test where it is. See you soon.”

  Karl and Herr Franklin stare at each other, equally helpless, equally paralyzed.

  “Right now, Karl,” says The Voice. “I’m waiting.”

  Herr Franklin clearly wants to offer support as Karl goes out, but all he can do is place his hand on Karl’s shoulder- a hand that burns, partly because Karl knows he doesn’t deserve the sympathy, and partly because it’s really hot.

  The picture in Karl’s mind, as he makes the long journey down to the office, comes from War of the Worlds, with Tom Cruise: a giant robot tentacle reaches down, grabs a plump, juicy human, and hoists him into the spidery alien vessel, screaming and fighting. Karl’s face has gone bloodless. The empty, echoey stairwells still smell like paint. How did he know? Did someone tell him about the pen? It couldn’t have been Herr Franklin. Past the small display case of trophies won by the math and chess teams, past the exhibition of blue, multiarmed deities painted by Sita Tiwari-Is there any chance this isn’t about cheating?

  At last he arrives at the office, where Mrs. D’Souza, Mr. Klimchock’s secretary, keeps a plate of gingerbread cookies on the corner of her desk, a consolation for any student unfortunate enough to be called down to see her boss.

  “Mr. Klimchock wanted to see me,” Karl mumbles.

  “Yes, Karl, I heard. Would you like a cookie first?”

  “No, but thanks.”

  “Good luck.”

  She does an odd thing with her face. She pulls her lips in tight, knits her brow as if in anguish, and nods. Courage. Be strong.

  She’s a nice person, Karl reflects as he steps through the door. How can she stand to work for him?

  Mr. Klimchock, sucking on something, holds an open tin of lemon Altoids out to Karl, across his desk. Karl shakes his head, then adds, “No thank you.”

  “Sit down, sit down,” he’s told as the assistant principal rises to his feet.

  A peculiar calm settles on Karl as he takes a seat. Most likely it’s a physiological response to anxiety-overload-but he’s actually relieved to be here. No matter what happens, he has escaped once and for all from the Confederacy.

  Klimchock moves around the office like a boxer, never settling in one spot for long. “Expelled? Disgraced? A brilliant career flushed down the toilet? There’s no way a boy like you is going to let it happen.”

  He sounds cheerful. Karl waits for the sledgehammer’s blow.

  “The good news is, I’m willing to keep this entire incident out of your records.”

  In his fear of being asked to name names, Karl forgot that part-the penalty for cheating, the permanent record of his crime. He commands himself to hold it together, to stay strong and not think about his parents and their ivy-covered dreams, at least until he’s out of here-but his head keeps getting lighter and lighter.

  Or, what if…

  Having nothing to lose, he goes for the long shot. “Um- what are you talking about?”

  Klimchock comes up alongside him. Before Karl knows what’s happening, Klimchock has snatched the I-Ball pen from his shirt pocket. The assistant principal studies the pen until he finds the tiny lens near the tip. “Denial won’t work, Karl. You shouldn’t have been so obvious-moving the pen over the paper like a flashlight, tsk tsk.”

  He hands Karl a yellow pad. “I’ll keep this pen as evidence. You can use one of mine.” Giving Karl a Bic pen from the mug on his desk, he puts a finger to his own lips and says, “I won’t say a word. Just write what I need to know and you can leave. No harm, no foul.”

  Karl rests his hand on the pen so it won’t roll away and fall on the floor. He’s thinking hard. What could he do that would make a college overlook the note on his records? What he comes up with is: single-handedly rescuing a dozen girls and a nun from a stranded cable car over a rocky gorge.

  “Feel free to give me the names any way you like. You can paint them on my wall if that’ll make you happy.”

  When Karl fails to join in Klimchock’s chuckle, the assistant principal drums his fingertips on Karl’s shoulder. “I know this isn’t easy. There are so many nasty names for people who do this. Rat. Stool pigeon. Informer. But there’s another way to look at it. When you inform on bad people, you’re really a hero. Not a snitch-a whistle-blower. Someone who sees rottenness and reports it, for the common good. What a service you’ll be doing for this school! Remember what the Munchkins sang to Dorothy? ‘You will be a bust, be a bust, be a bust, in the Hall of Fame.’”

  Karl worries that, by stubbornly refusing to take up the pen, he’s behaving rudely. The assistant principal checks his watch and paces the room. “I have a little time problem, Karl. I’m supposed to meet with the superintendent in ten minutes. I’m sorry, but I really don’t have the luxury of letting you wallow in your qualms. I expect you to do the right thing and save your hide-so let’s cut the bull and get down to it.”

  Karl considers his options. One: sacrifice his future to protect a bunch of slimeballs. Two: turn them in like a cowardly, treacherous sleaze, just to protect himself.

  A gentle rap at the door interrupts the stillness. “What is it?” Mr. Klimchock barks.

  The door opens slightly, and a small, gift-wrapped box appears, in the palm of a pale hand that belongs, it turns out, to Miss Verp.

  “I saw something at Town Stationery and I thought you would-”

  Finding Karl there, twisting his neck to see her, Miss Verp freezes with her jaws open.

  “Didn’t Edna tell you I had a student with me?”

  “She stepped away.”

  “Just leave it on the file cabinet. Go, thanks, good-bye.”

  The door closes. The mystery gift, in blue and gold metallic wrapping paper, sits cheerily on the gray steel.

  “Getting back to business,” Klimchock says, “think of it this way. Would your so-called friends risk anything to keep your name secret? Would they risk, say, dessert for a month?”

  “Cara did,” Karl croaks.

  “Cara Nzada? You can’t compare yourself with her. She has a pathological attitude problem. She’ll go far-from misdemeanor to felony to life in a trailer park, looking older than her years.”

  Until now, Karl wasn’t sure he’d be able to withstand the assistant principal’s threats. Thanks to this reminder of Klimchock’s cruelty, however, Karl discovers that he’s stronger than he thought.

  “Time’s running out. Let’s get that hand moving.”

  Staring at the shiny pink head, Karl can’t stop hearing the words Come to the Dark Side, Luke.

  “You’re not going to sacrifice your future for a bunch of brats who used you l
ike a vending machine: put in ten cents’ worth of flattery, make the twerp feel like he’s in with the in crowd, and out come the right answers. What a bargain.”

  Ouch.

  The eye of the hurricane passes. All is still for a few moments. Klimchock stares out the window, then wanders over to his Fiddler on the Roof poster. Turning his back to Karl, he inspects the shoe that rests on the tiny, sagging house. “You may be thinking to yourself, How did this man get to be so fanatical, so obsessed? Am I right?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “There’s a reason, Karl. If I despise cheating, if rooting it out is my passion, I have good cause. A long time ago, when I was roughly your age, attending this high school, I lost out on something I wanted very badly. And the reason I lost was that the other guy cheated. So-now you’re thinking, Get over it! But I never did get over it-because it changed the course of my life. It crept into my guts and stayed there. There is nothing on earth I hate more than a cheater.”

  “What did you lose out on?”

  “None of your business. I’m just explaining that I’m not an evil madman who lives to torment teenagers. I seek justice.”

  Karl does his best to meet Mr. Klimchock’s gaze, but his eyes keep drifting away, to the place on the assistant principal’s scalp where the creased forehead meets the smooth dome-the swooping line behind which his hair once grew. The startling idea of Klimchock with a full head of hair reminds Karl that the assistant principal was young once, a teenager, and maybe not a vicious maniac. Like a curved universe, this is a concept that’s easy to state but hard to grasp. Karl understands this much, though: if an innocent baby can grow up and become Mr. Klimchock, then there’s no guarantee that some hideous trauma won’t warp him, too.

  “I’d like to send you back to class now,” Mr. Klimchock says, and taps the yellow pad.

  Time and fate are closing in on him.

  “It’s all right, son. I know they manipulated you-I know you didn’t do it to improve your own grades. You’re not the one I’m after.”

  He will pay for this the rest of his life if he keeps resisting-all to protect some honorless thieves who (Klimchock has this much right) never cared about him in the slightest-who blackmailed him and threatened his friends to keep him from quitting. (Who was that on the phone with Blaine? The question plagues him like an itch he can’t reach.)