Cheater Read online

  “That’s an understatement.”

  An old man in a wheelchair goes past the doorway, peeking in. When he’s out of sight, Lizette kicks the doorframe with her sneaker and says a quiet, “Ow.”

  “Are you okay?”

  “Yeah. I think.”

  She’s far away from him, and still angry. Maybe she’s too angry to ever forgive him; otherwise, wouldn’t she come back to him?

  The disappointment silences him, until he remembers what Cara said: That’s because you care about him so much.

  Powered by the last grain of hope left inside him, he asks, “Was Cara right? About you liking me?”

  “Yeah. Uh-huh.” She’s focusing on the little opening in the doorframe where the latch fits in. “I like being around you. I never know what’s going to come out of your mouth- some comment that I have to think about and figure out a half hour later. When you’re not saying something that sends me into a raging fit, that is.”

  “That’s the best thing anybody ever said to me.”

  Lizette smiles, a long line with a little hook at the end, but she still avoids looking at him.

  It would be reasonable to assume that they’ll finally let go of their doubts and insecurities and lunge at each other now. But it’s not that simple, not for these two. When you’re really shy-really, really shy-even this much reassurance isn’t quite enough. [1]

  “Tell you what,” Lizette says. “Can we just pretend we didn’t say any of this stuff, till after the test?”

  “Okay, but why?”

  “Because we need our heads on straight for the next few days.”

  Karl agrees. She’s so wise and mature, he thinks.

  While they wait for Mr. Frenais to come back with the rubber cement, Lizette wanders back to the hospital bed. Discreetly, she walks two fingers onto the sheet until they reach his hand. There, on his palm, the two fingers do a little Rockettes-style dance. Neither of them knows what to do next-so they’re both relieved when Mr. Frenais walks in with the Staples bag and says, “That was easy.”

  A good dad, he pretends he sees nothing as Lizette rockets backward, away from Karl. Then it’s back to business: brushing the viscous rubber cement onto the bottom of the microphone, parting Karl’s hair to clear a narrow runway of scalp, pressing the mike firmly into place, and artfully arranging Karl’s hair around it. While pressing down on the mike and waiting for the cement to dry, Mr. Frenais says, “I’m curious about one thing, Karl.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I’m wondering, can you tell me, in fifty words or less, why you don’t want to go through life cheating?”

  Mr. Frenais has short gray hair that stands straight up. He looks like a retired astronaut, or a little general, and has a rough, hoarse voice-you can easily imagine him yelling orders at his football team-but he asks this question in a kindly way, almost like a minister. That’s good, because Karl knows this is a test, which will either win him Mr. Frenais’s support or provoke his eternal disapproval. As calmly as he can, he thinks and speaks.

  “I guess, more than anything else, it’s about what kind of person you want to be,” he says.

  “You’re sure that’s the reason?”

  With sinking hopes, Karl replies, “I think so, uh-huh.”

  “Pretty good answer,” Mr. Frenais says, and takes a break from holding the mike in place so he can shake Karl’s hand. “I was thinking more along the lines of, if you cheat, you have to always worry about someone catching you, and that’s not the best way to live-but I like what you said, too.”

  Mr. Frenais’s hand is rough and calloused, but Karl is so relieved, he’d gladly keep shaking it all day.

  Mr. Frenais, however, goes back to pressing on the mike, and adds a P.S.: “’Course, all this sneakin’ around wouldn’t be necessary if you’d done the right thing in the first place. But nobody’s perfect. Except my little girl here.”

  After a long fifteen minutes, Karl can nod and even shake his head without dislodging the microphone. Both Lizette and her father swear they can’t see a trace of it through his hair. The two Frenaises say good-bye for now; Lizette waggles two fingers, reminding him of her little dance on his hand.

  As soon as he’s alone, Karl’s innards swish like dirty laundry around an agitator. What if he can’t get Klimchock and Upchurch to say what he needs them to say? What if he tries too hard and they get suspicious, or if he sweats so much that his hair gets soaked and flat, exposing the microphone? If they see it, they’ll reach in and tear Karl’s liver out. An infinite number of things could go wrong-but worse than any What if is the one thing that’s certain. No college will accept a convicted cheater.

  Maybe he’d better start paying attention to those commercials for technical schools, the ones where, each time you learn how to use a tool, it goes in your toolbox.

  Lizette calls Mr. Klimchock at the school and Phillip Upchurch at his house, and delivers the message that Karl is still in the hospital, and he thinks he’s too sick to take the test.

  They wait together for the first visitor to show up. Each time they hear the elevator bell go dong, they look at each other with a grim sort of gaze, This is it, the moment of truth. Frankly, it gets pretty absurd after a while. A dozen strangers wander past the doorway-a dozen grim gazes-but then, just as Karl lets out a little snort at the comedy of it all, their first visitor shows up.

  It’s an Upchurch, but not Phillip.

  Randall Upchurch, Realtor and candidate for mayor, could pass for a male model, thirty years later (except, perhaps, for the shape of his head, which reminds Karl of a paramecium). His creamy white suit shows off the depth of his tan-which, to tell the truth, has sort of an orange tint, unless that’s a reflection from his peach-colored shirt. He wears his thinning hair combed straight back, and his teeth are as white as a new ream of paper.

  “Karl Petrofsky?” he asks.

  Karl nods.

  “Randy Upchurch, glad to meet you.”

  He shakes Karl’s hand firmly but cordially. Lizette is about to slip out of the room when the other elevator dongs, and they hear a familiar urgent rhythm: Mr. Klimchock’s heavy-footed approach.

  Karl and Lizette exchange a panicked glance (Both at once?!) and then Klimchock is there in the doorway in his standard gray suit, frowning impatiently.

  Karl’s stomach slides a bit to the side as Mr. Upchurch’s cologne surrounds him.

  While Karl’s soul thrashes in a helpless panic, Mr. Klimchock’s frown evolves into a fit of confused consternation. His shining, smooth scalp turns deep pink. He can’t speak.

  “Klimmy!” Mr. Upchurch laughs. “How’s the education biz? Still molding America’s future, one pimple at a time?”

  Mr. Klimchock’s mouth opens, but no words come out. His cheek twitches.

  Another dong-and Samantha Abrabarba enters the room, carrying a small turquoise gift bag. She’s wearing lavender slacks today, and a yellow blouse with a big foofy front. It seems to Karl that she must go through lipstick and eye makeup by the vat.

  “I thought I’d have you to myself, cutie-pie,” she says, taking in the crowd. “Mind if I cut in front?” she asks Mr. Upchurch, and hands Karl the gift bag. Inside, a Beanie Babies stegosaurus peeks out, with plaid fur. She leans over and kisses Karl on the cheek while he sends Lizette a scrunch-browed grimace-She’s crazy, I don’t even like her-but Lizette misses the signal because she’s glaring at the floor.

  “You’re a popular young man,” Mr. Upchurch says.

  No need to reply, because Samantha takes over. “This is peculiar,” she says, eyeing the two older men. “What are you two doing here?”

  The assistant principal and Mr. Upchurch dart evasive glances around the room.

  “What does Phillip Upchurch have to do with Karl?” Samantha wonders out loud. “And why would Mr. Klimchock come visit you in the hospital?”

  Lizette moves to the foot of Karl’s bed and addresses them all crankily. “Listen, y’all-Karl is still sick, in
case you didn’t notice. You can’t come in here all together, you’ll wear him out and then he’ll have a relapse. Could we get some cooperation here?”

  Samantha gives Lizette a suspicious sidelong gaze. “Karl, why is she bossing everybody around? Do you want to whisper anything in my ear?”

  “No, everything’s fine.”

  “I smell something fishy. Why would they all be here together?”

  Mr. Upchurch lets out an extremely fake guffaw. Mr. Klimchock follows his lead with a strained Hmp hmp hmp.

  “You’re not fooling me,” Samantha says dryly.

  “Will you please just-be quiet!” blurts Lizette.

  “No, and you can’t make me.”

  “Young lady,” Mr. Upchurch says benevolently, “we’re just here to visit Karl. We’re not sinisterly plotting anything.”

  She leans in close-so close that Karl can smell her mint toothpaste-and murmurs, “What’s going on, Karl? Tell me so I can rescue you!”

  “Nothing’s going on, they’re just visiting.”

  “Okay, people,” Lizette announces, “here’s what we’re going to do. We’re gonna take turns. Everybody will get to see Karl, one by one, okay? No mob scenes, just nice, private conversations. You’ll all get your turn. Eenie-meenie-minie-mo-you first,” and she points at Mr. Upchurch. “The rest of us’ll wait outside-there’s a bench at the end of the hall. Let’s go. Come on, before visiting hours are over.”

  She steers Samantha out the door with a hand on her shoulder, and gives Mr. Klimchock’s suit sleeve a tug as well. Karl’s heart fills with admiration and gratitude.

  “That’s one macho young lady,” Upchurch comments. “I assume she’s not your girlfriend.”

  “Not exactly. Not yet. Maybe, sort of.”

  The unexpected answer amuses Upchurch, but only briefly. Taking his time, he peeks out the doorway, just as his son did. Karl waits for him to come closer before coaxing the words from him-but Mr. Upchurch never gets near him.

  “I supposed Klimmy’s here for the same reason I am,” he says, pacing the room. “He wants you to take the SAT and bring up the school’s average. Am I right?”

  “Probably.”

  “Good to know he and I are on the same page. Listen, I really can’t stay-there’s a campaign fund-raiser over at Chez Shea-but this shouldn’t take long. You’re obviously a very smart young man. I think Phillip must have gotten off on the wrong foot with you. He still has a lot to learn about people skills.”

  An odd movement in the hall catches Karl’s eye. It’s Lizette, outside the doorway, hiding from Upchurch, wiggling her thumb at Karl, sliding it horizontally, over and over, above her head. What could this mean? It looks like she wants him to set his hair on fire with a cigarette lighter.

  The switch! He turned the mike off to save battery power and forgot to turn it back on.

  “Excuse me a second,” he tells Mr. Upchurch, and hurries with his IV pole into the bathroom, where he flushes the toilet, slides the switch, and readjusts his hair in the mirror.

  “Sorry to interrupt,” he says, and climbs back into the bed.

  Mr. Upchurch turns his back to Karl. “You know why I’m here. Let’s be frank.”

  “What? I can’t hear you, my ears are a little clogged. Could you come closer?”

  Karl is sweating all over, including his scalp. Will he electrocute himself? Not really: a nine-volt battery can’t deliver a fatal shock. But he learned long ago in the garage that it can give you a painful burn-painful enough so he would have to tear the microphone off his scalp-which gives him all the more reason to sweat.

  “Let’s get down to it, Karl,” Mr. Upchurch says, but-can’t he understand English?-he’s still facing the door, making sure no one else walks in.

  “Hold on, wait, I wanted to ask you first“-can’t you just turn around?!-“how do you know Mr. Klimchock? How come he got so upset when he saw you?”

  Mr. Upchurch snorts to himself. “That’s a long story. But I suppose it might help to share it with you.” He paces the room as he speaks. “Klimmy and I went through school together, just like you and Phillip. Believe it or not, we had some things in common: good singing voices, and a strong interest in Felicia Maniscalco. His interest was more romantic, mine was purely physical. Our senior year, the class musical was The King and I. Everyone knew Felicia would play Anna-no one else could compare. That’s why Klimmy and I both wanted to play the king: to get close to her. But, while Klimmy assumed his talent would win him the part-and he really did have a terrific voice, much better than mine-I wanted it more. I made an arrangement with the kid who was playing the piano during auditions. In exchange for an outrageous fee, he messed up while playing for Klimmy. Your Mr. Klimchock was a high-strung young man; the fumbling piano threw him completely off. He had a fit, right there on the auditorium stage, in front of Felicia and everyone else. It was sad to see.” Upchurch smirks, still tickled by the memory. “So, I played the king, and he ended up playing Tuptim’s secret boyfriend-the monk. I’ll tell you something: bouncing around the stage with Felicia, singing ‘Shall We Dance?’ under the lights, that’s still one of the best memories of my life.”

  An incredible thought distracts Karl: he sympathizes with Mr. Klimchock!

  “Did you end up marrying her?” he asks.

  “Are you joking? She was an airhead. Her talents were all anatomical.”

  At this moment, Karl’s main concern is getting Upchurch to turn around and face the mike. But he’s afraid of being too obvious. “I’m not sure I get the point of the story.”

  “I’ll be blunt, then. I’m still the same guy, Karl. When I want something, I get it. That includes winning the mayoral race, and getting my son into Harvard.”

  Some inner instinct tells Karl that it might help to taunt Upchurch. Maybe then he’ll get mad and spell out his demands without wasting more time.

  “Why do you want to be mayor so badly? Are you a megalomaniac?”

  Upchurch raises one eyebrow, surprised but not impressed. “No, it’s not about power for power’s sake. It’s about what you can do with it. There are opportunities in this town that have gone to waste.”

  “Such as?”

  “I can’t go into specifics. But I’ll say this much: after I’m elected, there’ll be a lot more than ducks in Swivel Brook Park.”

  This is getting way off the subject, but-Upchurch wants to build houses in the prettiest park in town?!

  “I see you’re surprised. Don’t worry, it’ll be very tastefully done. How do you like the name Brookside?”

  Nurse Francesca interrupts them with a cheerful “Hi, Karl.” She’s pushing a haggard man with a mustache in a wheelchair. The man’s foot is thickly wrapped in bandages. “Say hello to your new roommate, Mister Prell. Or, excuse me, Officer Prell. He stopped a robbery at the TCBY today.”

  “It wasn’t a robbery, it was a drunk waving a gun around,” says Officer Prell unhappily. “I just wish I had bulletproof shoes.”

  As Nurse Francesca sets the policeman up in Mr. Hydine’s old bed, Karl and his visitor share a scowl. They have important things to say, private things. How can they talk now? (You had to blab about your real estate projects!)

  Karl’s plan is ruined. He’s stopped-defeated-destroyed.

  Randall Upchurch, however, won’t let a mere wounded cop foil his scheme. “Excuse us,” he tells the nurse and her patient, “Karl wanted to tell me something in private.”

  He draws the curtain all the way around the bed and comes within six inches of Karl’s nose. (Bless you, Nurse Francesca!) “No time for chitchat now,” he whispers. “You’re going to take the SAT Saturday. You’ll transmit the answers to Phillip and the others. He told me about the scheme with the pencil-it’s brilliant. I’ll make it worth your while. Let’s say, five thousand dollars cash, in two installments, one after the test and one after the scores come back.”

  “But what if I say no?”

  “Then a pack of hungry dogs will enter your
home while you sleep and leave nothing but three sets of bones.”

  “Um-literally or figuratively?” Karl asks.

  Mr. Upchurch gives Karl a long, hard, contemptuous glare-an especially scary experience because of the microphone in his hair. A fresh torrent of sweat pours from him. The tension is too much. He twitches, and that sudden movement undoes the rubber cement’s grip. He can feel the little black box slip a quarter-inch to the side.

  “Hey, Karl,” Nurse Francesca calls through the curtain, “in case I don’t see you before you go home, good luck in school and everything.”

  “Thanks,” he tells the curtain. “Am I going home soon?”

  “Any time now.”

  Her footsteps fade away. They’re going to discharge him before he gets Klimchock on tape. But it doesn’t really matter, because Randall Upchurch will murder him when he sees the microphone fall off his head.

  “I would take a shower first thing, if I were you,” Upchurch tells him. “You sweat like a pig.”

  “Mm-hm,” Karl replies.

  “You won’t let us down, right?”

  “I’ll be there.”

  “Good man. And just to make sure, I’ll be listening from my car across the street.”

  That’s it-he’s gone. Karl has escaped the first of the swinging axes, but there’s no time for celebration. He grabs the mike and speaks straight into it, whispering. “Lizette! Come! Emergency!”

  “You’re soaked!” she observes as she slips inside the curtain. “What’d he do, hose you down?”

  He holds up the little mike. “The glue lost its grip. And they’re going to send me home any minute now. I don’t know what to do!”

  Her father didn’t leave the rubber cement, and even if he had, there’s not enough time for it to dry.

  Drowning in a sea of despair, banging his bones against the rocks of hysteria, Karl shakes his head and lets out a thin, high squeak.

  “Stop it,” Lizette commands. “Just calm down.”

  Since he can’t stop shaking his head, she takes drastic action, grabbing him by the shoulders and really shaking him. His head flies around like a bobble-head doll’s.