Cheater Read online

She keeps her grip on his shoulders even after she stops shaking him. For a moment or three, it looks as if she may crash through the invisible wall and kiss him-but then she lets go and takes the microphone from him. “Let’s just get this done,” she says.

  Taking the Orbit gum out of her mouth, she flattens it against the dried rubber cement on the bottom of the microphone and sets it back on Karl’s head, pushing painfully hard. Then she fluffs his damp hair around it. “You’ve looked better,” she says, and hurries out.

  She doesn’t get far, though. “Excuse me,” says a friendly old lady, just outside the curtain. “I’m looking for Karl Petrofsky. I have his discharge papers.”

  “I just saw him run into the toilet to throw up,” Lizette replies. “He said something about the food here.”

  “Oh,” says the pleasant lady.

  “Maybe you should come back in a half hour or so,” Lizette suggests.

  “I’ll do that. Could you tell him to have someone with him who can take him home?”

  “I’ll let him know. Soon as he stops heaving.”

  “Thank you.”

  Before Karl can fully comprehend his debt to Lizette, a hand yanks the curtain open.

  “What was he doing here?” Mr. Klimchock whispers, red-faced.

  “He? Nothing. Why?”

  Klimchock goes to the doorway and checks the hall, then returns to Karl’s bedside. “I’ll ask again. What was HE doing here?”

  The wormy vein appears on his forehead again.

  “He just came to visit. He’s a friend of my family-my mother. They know each other from work.”

  Klimchock regards Karl with distrust and distaste. “You’re lying. Why would Randall Upchurch come visit you?”

  His eyes move right and left, the outward signs of fevered thinking. He takes a whistling, inward breath.

  “Phillip is in this with you! Isn’t he?”

  Klimchock’s face lights up with glee. If he were a miser, there would be dollar signs on his eyeballs.

  “It’s too good to be true. Phillip Upchurch! Glory, glory, hallelujah!”

  Karl has never seen the assistant principal this happy. Possibly, no one has. A small but heavy weight sits on his scalp, reminding him of his mission.

  “What exactly do you want me to do, Mr. Klimchock?”

  “I’ve already told you. This doesn’t change the plan-it just means the prize will be bigger than I ever hoped.”

  “Could you just remind me of the details? I’ve been sick, I can’t remember what you said.”

  Klimchock gazes at Karl questioningly. He pauses and listens through the curtain as visitors approach the doorway and pass. Then he comes closer, just as Upchurch did.

  Unlike Randall Upchurch, though, Klimchock gropes Karl’s chest through the flimsy blue hospital gown. His fingers probe every inch of flesh and bone.

  “Hey!” Karl protests. “Stop that!”

  “Are you wearing a wire, Karl? Is that it? Are you and Upchurch setting a trap?”

  With the hidden microphone held in place only by a soft, malleable wad of gum, Karl states emphatically, “No! And get your hands off me-that’s totally inappropriate.”

  Klimchock backs away. “Apologies. I suppose I’m overly suspicious.”

  While Klimchock blushes, a wave of confusion and discomfort breaks over Karl. What am I doing?-he can hear the question asked in his own voice, internally but loudly. Observing himself from above, he doesn’t like what he sees. It’s just… sleazy, trapping these two men. Nasty and merciless as they are, he doesn’t want to be the sort of person who lies and schemes to destroy others. Yes, they deserve to be exposed, to be stopped-but look how devious he’s being. The whole thing nauseates him.

  Keeping his voice to a murmur, Klimchock begins again. “Can we finish our business now?”

  A clamor interrupts him. “There he is!” “How’s it going, Hopalong?” “What did the doctors say, will you ever tap-dance again?” “He needed this like he needs a hole in the foot.”

  The boisterous off-duty cops keep teasing Officer Prell- and as they do, Samantha comes storming into the room, rips open the curtain, and says, “I know what’s going on! It’s a conspiracy! You want Phillip to be the valedictorian! You’re pressuring Karl to mess up on purpose, aren’t you? Aren’t you?!”

  Before Mr. Klimchock can even process this accusation, Lizette is there, pulling on Samantha’s arm. “You’re crazy! Let them be.”

  “You’re in cahoots with them!” Samantha accuses her.

  “What kind of person are you? Nobody says cahoots.”

  “You’re trying to shift the spotlight, but it won’t work.”

  “Young lady,” Mr. Klimchock says, “you’ve misread this entire situation. Believe me.”

  Samantha breaks free of Lizette ‘s grip. “I’ll stand by you, Karl. Don’t let them intimidate you. You’re Number One!”

  Karl’s heart hasn’t beat for several seconds, at least that he’s aware of. He pleads with her. “They’re not pressuring me! Just go out there and sit on the bench-everything’s okay!”

  “I’m not leaving until they do.”

  “Please go!”

  Samantha shakes her head. “You’ve got him terrorized. I’m warning you two-if you try to cheat Karl out of his rightful place, I swear, I’ll get the story on CNN.”

  “Would you just leave?” Lizette says.

  “Hello, Mister Petrofsky, are you feeling better now?”

  The sweet little old lady with the clipboard is back.

  “I just need you to sign these papers for me. I’ll bet you’re happy to be going home.”

  None of the four of them says a word. One of the cops calls through the curtain, “Everything okay in there?”

  A gurgling comes from deep in Karl’s gut. He squeezes his eyes shut, fighting down his rising gorge. “Karl?” Lizette asks. “What’s going on?”

  “Could someone bring me a garbage can?”

  Lizette, mistaking Karl’s illness for an Oscar-worthy performance, says, “Mr. Klimchock, will you stay with Karl while I go get a nurse?”

  “Of course. The rest of you had better wait outside.”

  “I think,” the lady with the clipboard says, “we’d better wait a bit longer before discharging you.”

  When Karl opens his eyes again, he’s alone with Mr. Klimchock, surrounded by the drawn curtain. “Well done,” Mr. Klimchock says. “Now let’s finish our conversation before the earth quakes and swallows the entire hospital.” He drops his voice to a whisper. “You have to take the SAT, Karl. You have to cheat again, so I can catch the rest of them. You don’t have a choice. I’ve already offered to keep your cheating out of your school records and to lie to colleges that you’re a top-notch fencer. You can’t say no. Think of your parents. I’m sure it would kill them to see your academic career snuffed out before it began.”

  That’s it: Karl is done. He has caught Klimchock in his trap.

  “All right,” he says gloomily. “I’ll do it.”

  Mr. Klimchock glows. Then he bursts into song-quietly, so the off-duty cops won’t hear, but still in a pure and handsome tenor. “Wonder of wonder, miracle of miracles…”

  Armed with the evidence to crush Klimchock and Upchurch, both of whom would cheerfully crush him, Karl doesn’t rejoice. Far from it. After all this frantic effort, he would like nothing better than to throw the recordings in the trash. He’s just not the Enemy-Devouring Type; the whole plan disturbs him more and more with each passing moment.

  In this state of nausea, he remembers what Lizette said: I wish there were a way for Karl to duck and let them fire away at each other.

  Karl wishes there were, too.

  Midnight. A ringing noise pokes into Karl’s sleep, annoyingly, persistently.

  His cell phone.

  Eyes still closed, “Hello?”

  “Karl, right?”

  The voice belongs to a guy about his age, but Karl doesn’t recognize it. “Who’s th
is?”

  “You can call me the Guru. I’m the master of deceit, the specialist in scams and schemes, the world’s champion cheater. A girl named Cara got in touch with me-she said you got caught, and now you’re planning to sacrifice yourself so you can bring down some tyrannical assistant principal. Do I have the facts right?”

  Down the hall, at the nurses’ station, a radio is playing softly. In less than a minute, the guy on the phone has shown himself to be possibly the most obnoxious person Karl has ever listened to.

  “It’s a little more complicated than that, but basically, yeah, that’s right.”

  “Okay. Free advice: don’t let so-called Nobility fog up your brain. There has to be a better way-but you won’t find it till you expand your thinking.”

  “All I’ve been doing is thinking. I can’t see any other way.”

  “That’s why I’m here, kid. I’m your crisis hotline, your guardian angel, your personal mahatma. You’ve got to stop letting them intimidate you.”

  The Guru’s chattering leaves Karl deeply skeptical. This guy is having way too much fun. He doubts that the self-proclaimed authority will have a single good suggestion to make.

  “If you’ve got any ideas, would you please just tell me?”

  “Hey, I can’t solve your problems for you. All I can do is open your mind and lead you to the Gates of Wisdom. You have to go the rest of the way yourself.”

  If he doesn’t say something useful in the next thirty seconds,Karl resolves, I’m hanging up.

  “Go ahead, Guru. I’m listening.”

  In the empty air on the other end, Karl hears the sound of a mouse clicking in rapid bursts. While he’s supposedly saving Karl from doom, the great Guru is also playing a game on his computer. Wonderful.

  “Okay. First we eliminate self-destruction as an option. Then we think: how can we scare the living crap out of this guy so he’ll leave you alone? I’m not talking about illegal weaponry here. More like butterflies with huge eyes on their wings-give the illusion of great size and menace. What could you say to this fiend that would…”

  The rest of the Guru’s blather evaporates into the air, a harmless, odorless gas. He has said the magic words; he has given Karl the answer, without realizing it. Despite the emptiness of his boasts, he was right about one thing: there is another way out.

  Karl hangs up and takes the pen and the hospital note-pad from the bedside table. He’s got a great deal of planning to do. Between now and the SAT, he may not have time to sleep.

  RULE #15: “Cheat on the SAT? Oooooo, no one would do that. It would be like jackhammering the original Ten Commandments. Wouldn’t it?” Answer: Uh… no. It’s not a sacred ritual, it’s just another test. As I told a friend recently, you have to stop letting them intimidate you!

  Chapter 15

  Early morning fog. Damp chill in the air. Quiet out, except for a blue jay shrieking and the loose fan belt slapping as Mom lets the engine idle.

  Karl’s heavy exhaustion helps subdue his anxiety. Ironic: for once, he’s nervous before a test like everyone else, though for very different reasons.

  “You’re sure you’re up to this?” his mother asks. “You don’t have to go in. You can take it the next time instead.”

  In his altered state, he notices every crumpled scrap of paper in the cup holder, and the coffee stain on the emergency-brake handle. “I’m totally fine,” he claims. A little burp brings up the taste of the hard-boiled eggs she served him an hour before.

  “Quick: antelope is to deer as cantaloupe is to what?”

  “Mom, they don’t give analogies anymore.”

  His head is light as he steps out of the car, though his body seems to have put on an extra hundred pounds. He moves slowly so he won’t lose his balance and fall over.

  “I’ll pick you up at twelve-thirty,” his mother calls through the open window. “Hopefully the car’ll be fixed by then. If not, we’ll have a nice walk home. Don’t forget to eat those nuts in the break! I love you.”

  He blows her a kiss-their old habit, an involuntary reflex-and the white Accord heads down the street.

  He walks along the ragged line outside the school door. Antonio Feferman sips casually from a Starbucks cup; Ivan Fretz turns the pages of a thick review book, skimming with rapid head movements. The sleeves of Karl’s jacket rub his arm hairs uncomfortably; that’s how he knows he’s still sick.

  “Who let the cadaver out of the lab?”

  Lizette pulls Karl into the line.

  “Hey, Karl, you don’t look your usual bubbly self.”

  That’s Matt, nervously nodding. Jonah’s there, too. Subdued, he shakes Karl’s hand.

  “So,” Karl says softly, “you’re taking the test even though…”

  “I’m hoping they’ll let me back into school. Somehow.”

  He smiles, trying to be brave. There’s something different about him. He looks more grown up, less awkward.

  “Braces off. Last week.”

  “You’ve been out of touch, big guy.”

  “Yeah, you missed my three home-run game,” Lizette says.

  She seems tense-which is understandable on SAT day, especially since she’s involved in a conspiracy, and also doesn’t know exactly where she stands with Karl and whether they’ll soon be a couple or will stay-sigh-just friends.

  “So, old chum,” says Matt, “would you be open to sending us the right answers, telepathically?”

  “Look at him,” Lizette comments, a quick change of subject. “He’s a wreck. You better hope the essay topic is Why I Feel Like Dog Doo Today.”

  “You wouldn’t be nervous, would you, Karl?” Matt pokes him in the chest. “That would not be logical.”

  He deserves the taunts, he supposes. After all, he did heartlessly abandon the three of them. The funny thing is, he enjoys the teasing. It’s good to be back.

  Farther back on the line, a slender patch of blue moves metronome-fashion in the air. This is Blaine’s sweater sleeve, waving. Behind him stand Vijay, Ian, Tim, and Noah. Vijay sends Karl a discreet thumbs-up.

  Karl turns his head away, as if dodging a blinding flash.

  Up at the head of the line, Phillip Upchurch stands apart in his khaki slacks and blazer. (If a Harvard scout puts in a surprise appearance, at least Phillip won’t have to worry about being underdressed.) Mr. Sweddy, the gym teacher, checks his watch repeatedly. With him stand four unfamiliar men in dark suits and sunglasses. Each has a square white badge on his jacket, but they’re too far away to read the little words. “Who do you think they are?” Karl asks.

  Lizette: “FBI?”

  “They look more like an a cappella group,” says Matt.

  Eight o’clock. The line begins to move. Karl pats his pockets: three number two pencils in his windbreaker’s inside pocket (all wooden, none electronic); admission ticket in his windbreaker’s outer pocket, left side; student ID in left pants pocket; Baggie full of salted nuts in windbreaker’s outer pocket, right side; iPod Nano loaded with incriminating recordings in left shirt pocket, covered by flap; and digital transmitter in right shirt pocket, likewise hidden by flap.

  “Into the mouth of the monster marched the innocent multitudes,” Matt moans.

  Passing through the entranceway, Karl reads the badges of the men in dark suits. They all say the same thing: ETS, PRINCETON.

  Educational Testing Service. The makers of the test.

  What’s that thumping in the distance? Oh-his heart.

  The students file through the dim hallway, past the band room, the office, the nurse’s office, the auditorium, the art studio-around many corners, like obedient mice in a maze. The school looks different this Saturday morning, with all the doors closed and the room lights out. Bleak. Deserted.

  In the gym, four teachers-Watney, Singh, Franklin, and Verp-huddle together by the bleachers.

  Karl and his friends mill around like everyone else, waiting for whatever comes next. “Now I know how cattle feel when they’re herded int
o the slaughterhouse,” Jonah says.

  “Son, you’ve got to work on that attitude,” Lizette replies.

  Karl’s laugh dies fast when he notices the entire Confederacy hovering just behind him-including Phillip Upchurch.

  “Hey, amigo,” says Blaine. “Good to go?”

  Though Karl has engineered a massive deception, a simple lie is harder to pull off. “Rmff,” he says, nodding.

  Blaine pats him on the back. “Good luck-to all of us.” He adds a private murmur: “Visualize success.”

  “Attention, students,” Miss Verp announces, in a voice like a drawer full of silverware landing on the floor. “You will now divide yourselves into four equal groups.”

  The teachers spread out along the bottom row of the bleachers and wait for the students to line up in front of them. Karl wanders over to Herr Franklin, who seems the least likely of the four to notice anything. His friends come with him, and so does the Confederacy.

  The mass migration arouses suspicion. Here comes Miss Verp, whispering in Herr Franklin’s ear-and there he goes, taking over her group. Alarmingly, Miss Verp gives Karl a malicious smile as she says, “Follow me, students.”

  Something pink hurries into the gym. It’s Samantha, wearing a satin jacket with padded shoulders, searching urgently among the students as they file out the opposite way.

  Karl turns to hide, but it’s too late, she’s spotted him. “We got stuck in the car, waiting for the Healthy Hearts Walkathon to cross Jefferson Avenue. You never saw a bunch of people move so slowly.”

  “Ssh!” Miss Verp hisses, and points wrathfully at Samantha.

  Each of the four teachers leads his or her group a different way. By the time the Verp group arrives at room 211, one of the ETS men is already there, standing guard with crossed arms over two plastic bags on the teacher’s desk. The students fan out and take seats-Samantha and Lizette flank Karl, eyeing each other with suspicion and hostility, respectively-but Miss Verp corrects them. “Don’t sit directly behind or next to anyone else. Leave at least one empty seat in front, back, left, and right. No one should be within four feet of anyone else.”

  After some comical shuffling about (if only he could laugh!), Karl ends up in the middle of the room, with Samantha in front of him to the left and Lizette behind him to the right. Miss Verp hands a test booklet to each student individually-she tosses Karl’s on his desk, slap-and then repeats the process with the answer sheets.