Gemma Halliday - Social Suicide

Even before the cheating bust, Mr. Tipkins had garnered a reputation for being one of the toughest teachers on campus. Sam had taken his summer school precalculus class and swore it took ten years off her life.

“Mr. Tipkins?” I asked, approaching his desk.

He looked up, blinking at me from behind his bifocals. “Yes?”

“Hartley Featherstone?” I said. “From the Herbert Hoover High Homepage ?”

He nodded. “I know who you are. You’re late. I usually leave at lunch.”

Due to budget cuts, our school could afford only a set number of full-time teachers who received benefits. The rest had to make do with part-time status, taking only four periods a day.

“Have a seat,” he said, indicating a desk in the front row.

I did, pulling out a micro-recorder from my book bag.

“What’s that?” Mr. Tipkins asked.

“Recorder. Just so I don’t forget any important points.”

He frowned. “What’s wrong with taking notes? Your hand broken or something?”

“Um. No. I just… This is easier.”

He narrowed his eyes at me. “Easier. God, technology has made your generation so lazy.”

I cleared my throat, not sure I had a response for that. Instead, I put my recorder away and took out a piece of binder paper and a pen.

“Um, I wanted to talk to you about Sydney Sanders.”

He nodded. “Another lazy kid.”

“You caught Sydney cheating, correct?”

Mr. Tipkins nodded again. “That’s right. She thought she was so clever. Can you believe she actually tried to tell me it was just the current fashion to paint letters on your fingernails?”

I grinned, making sure I wrote that quote down. “So, she tried to deny it?”

“‘Tried’ being the key word,” Mr. Tipkins emphasized. “Poor thing’s about as sharp as a sphere.”

I blinked at him.

“Because a sphere is completely round without any angles or edges?”

I nodded. I knew. It was just the first time I’d heard geometry used in a simile. “So you caught Sydney, and she tried to deny it. At what point did you realize that Quinn was involved as well?”

“About the time we hauled Sydney down to the vice principal’s office. When her parents showed up, she said the whole thing had been Quinn’s idea.”

I raised an eyebrow. Ouch. Giving up your best friend like that was cold. “And did you confront Quinn?”

He nodded. “Sure did. When I told her Sydney gave her up, she was about as discreet as a set of real numbers.”

I wasn’t sure how discreet numbers could be, let alone fake versus real, but I thought I got the gist. “She confessed?”

He nodded. “She said that it was her idea, but that Sydney had gotten the actual answers and painted both their nails with the letters.”

“How did she get the answers?”

Mr. Tipkins threw his hands up. “How should I know?”

“They didn’t say?”

He shook his head. “No. They wouldn’t tell us how they obtained the answers, so they were both suspended and the administration is looking into it.” He leaned in. “Honestly? We’ll probably never know.”

Not necessarily. In fact, I hoped to answer that very question this afternoon when I talked to Sydney.

“Tell me about the test,” I said, switching gears. “How hard would it be for Sydney to steal the answers?”

“Very. I have four different exams for each section we study. I rotate them every four years, so that no student is ever taking a test that anyone else on campus has ever taken. Meaning no upperclassmen can give answers to lowerclassmen. No test ever goes home, even corrected ones. Before the start of every exam, all cell phones are collected to prevent anyone texting answers across the room. I tell you, I spend more time trying to make test answers secure than I do teaching.”

I bit my lip. I had to agree he’d devised a pretty good system. “Where are the tests kept?”

“Cabinet.” He pointed to a gunmetal gray file cabinet beside the whiteboard. “And I keep it locked whenever I leave the room.”

I glanced at the thing. It looked about as old as Mr. Tipkins’s cords. I was no expert, but I had a feeling that anyone with a paper clip could break into that thing. Add to that the fact that most classroom doors were left unlocked, and it was hardly Fort Knox in here.

“Are there any other copies?” I asked.

“A master copy is kept in the teachers’ lounge, but,” he added, wagging a finger at me, “only teachers have access to the lounge. There’s no way a student could have slipped in there unnoticed.”

This I knew for a fact. Teachers guarded the lounge, their one student-free haven, more heavily than the secret service protected the president. Not only did every teacher need a key to get in, but at any given time of day at least one of them was stationed inside at the coffeepot, standing sentinel over their sacred space. If Sydney had swiped the test, chances were she’d done it in the classroom.

“How would Sydney know which test you were going to give out?”

Again he shrugged. “I told you, I rotate them. I suppose someone could figure out what year we were on by asking around. But it wouldn’t be easy.”

I nodded. “Just one more question. Are you planning to implement any new anti-cheating measures in light of this incident?”

He nodded vigorously. “You bet I am. From now on, I will inspect everyone’s hands before I give them a test. Turning me into a warden more than a teacher,” he mumbled. “Are we finished here?”

“Yep. Thanks for your time, Mr. Tipkins,” I said, getting up from the desk.

He nodded my way, then pulled a sandwich that looked soggy and limp from a battered paper bag next to his desk.

For a moment, I almost felt sorry for him.

The next two periods dragged so slowly I thought I actually saw the hands of the clock going backward at one point. My mind was completely on my interview with Sydney, only halfway listening as Mrs. Blasberg explained inverse functions and Señorita Gonzalez conjugated verbs. By the time the bell rang, I was practically vibrating with the need to get out. I made a beeline for my locker, quickly shoving my books in and taking homework out. I was just slamming it shut when Ashley Stannic jogged up.

“Hartley, did you read my article online today?” Ashley asked.

“Um, no. Sorry. I’m kinda late-”

“Ohmigod. I got like a total ton of hits! I wrote about Sydney Sanders losing the homecoming nom and who people might write in to fill her place, and everyone was, like, all over it with comments and stuff.”

That stopped me in my tracks.

“Wait-Chase told me the Sydney story was mine.”

Ashley blinked at me. “Oh. He did? Well, I mean, maybe he changed his mind?”

“Did Chase say you could write about Sydney?”

Ashley nodded. “He edited the article this afternoon during study hall.”

I felt anger welling in my stomach. “Where is he now?”

She shrugged, her eyes still wide with innocence. “Um, the workroom, I guess.”

I spun around, and marched toward the room. Sydney Sanders wasn’t going anywhere. My interview with her could wait. Chase, however, was going to hear an immediate earful.

He had his back to the door when I stormed through it, his head hunched over some piece of paper that Chris Fret was showing him.

“The cheating story is mine!” I announced. Loudly.

So loudly, I think I saw Chris jump. Chase turned around slowly.

“Hartley,” he said. His voice was super calm, which of course, just got me more riled up.

“Ashley told me that she got ‘a total ton of hits’ from her article on Sydney Sanders.”

Chase nodded. “Yeah. She did.”

“I thought you gave that story to me.”