Michael Laser - Cheater

“Appearances can be deceiving.”

“Come on, Karl. If it walks like a duck and tastes like a duck.”

“But you just said you need proof.”

“I’m in English and Spanish with her. I’ve been sitting behind her, one seat over. It’s just a matter of time before I catch her in the act.”

In the café window, the rock star is leaning way forward and singing to Cara. She seems pleased and amused-as if this were her due, as queen.

They have a test on Moby-Dick coming up on Monday . He has to warn her.

Unless he doesn’t.

In the park, Jonah and Matt are doing the Winter Pepper, the opposite of a somersault. Lizette is staring at Karl.

He turns his head sharply, away from Lizette, away from Samantha.

“I can see it now: ‘First High School Student Ever to Win Pulitzer Prize.’”

“But why are you so fixated on this?” Karl asks. “Cheating isn’t that big a deal-relatively speaking. It’s not the worst thing in the world.”

“Are you kidding? This is a sensational story: ‘Behind the wholesome suburban facade lurks a festering pit of dishonesty.’”

“A ‘festering pit’?”

“Come on, Karl, doesn’t it bother you that people like Cara get better grades than everybody else, without even studying? When I catch them, I’m going to print their names in three-inch letters on the front page, with the headline, ‘DIE, CHEATERS, DIE.’ ”

Lizette takes a step toward Karl. Whatever blood was left in his face now drains at high speed.

She doesn’t cross the street, though. She calls to the others and leads them away, out of the park, up State Street.

“You know, you’re actually a decent conversationalist. Most people are so boring-all they want to talk about is Me Me Me. They’re so self-involved. I hate that, don’t you?”

He watches his three friends plus his replacement recede into the distance. Sadness nearly smothers him.

“Hey-I just thought of something. You could help me catch the cheaters!”

“I could?”

“You’re the guy they’ll all come to, to see if you’d give them answers. You’re the perfect bait. I bet people have approached you already.”

“No, not really.”

“Well, it’ll happen. And when it does, you’ll say, Yes! You can go undercover and catch the whole rotten bunch of them!”

She reaches around and pats herself on the back. “Who’s clever? Who’s a muckraker? Thank you, thank you.”

A police car races past them with its lights flashing, blue, white, and red. The siren gives one startling blast, and Karl jumps off the bench.

“I’d better get going now. See you, bye.”

“I’ll check in with you, Karl. Very discreetly. We’ll make a great team.”

She laughs, behind him, a happy little bird.

His mother is reading a book in the living room, with her nightly mug of tea wrapped in one hand. (It’s the bright orange jack-o’-lantern mug Karl painted in second grade, faded now, but still her favorite.) Before she can speak even one teasing syllable about his date, she sees the look on his face and censors herself.

For that, he’s grateful.

Monday morning, on line at the Muffin Man’s truck, is that Cara, or does she have an identical cousin who’s even more attractive?

The hair is shorter, it swoops across the top of her forehead, then plunges down like a curved blade to just under her chin. She’s wearing a short black skirt and a red halter top with flowery golden Chinese-style brocade. (Wow.)

The iPod cover, leopard-spotted, answers the question: yep, that’s Cara.

Karl hasn’t been able to get her out of his mind since Friday night. Ten times he dialed her number minus the last digit. His options basically boil down to these: tell her off and walk away, or ask if she had some good reason for treating him like a small flying insect, the kind you swat without even noticing, and then walk away. He can’t do either, though, because what if there was some extenuating circumstance? Then his angry accusations will bounce back and splatter him in the face.

She smiles sleepily as she waits her turn, white wires trailing down from her earbuds. He could keep walking and pretend he didn’t see her, but that would be so cowardly. Really: Lizette was right, at some point, you have to get a spine.

“Hi,” he murmurs, joining her on line.

She nods-to the music, not him-and then shuts it off.

“Morning, Mister Nice Guy.”

“You better not be cutting in,” growls the slovenly student behind her.

“I’m not buying anything,” Karl mumbles.

This isn’t a good place to confront Cara, but Karl prods himself. No excuses.

“You weren’t home Friday night,” he says.

“Uh-oh, stalker alert.”

“Around seven-thirty, I mean.”

“Double alert: stalker with a wristwatch.”

Then she remembers.

“Ohhhhhh,” she says. “Oops-memory failure.” She blinks ironically, impersonating a silent-movie heroine. “Can you ever forgive me?”

“You really just forgot?”

The blinking stops. An evasive smile bends her lips. “No, I didn’t forget.”

He can’t speak the words out loud: So, you blew me off

intentionally?

“I wanted to hear this band play, and the singer invited me. But I didn’t want to hurt your feelings. I guess I handled the situation poorly, huh?”

There’s no point answering.

“But it’s over now, it’s in the past. We can laugh about it. Ha ha ha ha ha.”

Karl doubts he will ever laugh again.

“Come on, don’t hide in your Tomb of Gloom. Give me a chance to make it up to you. Tell you what: after school today, I’ll go home with you and we’ll play Genie and Master. Your wish is my command. Would that pay off my debt to society?”

He stumbles as they step off the curb. The lady inside the Muffin Man truck says, in a thick Russian accent, “Yes, what muffin today?”

Karl has a decision to make: to let go of the humiliation and see what might happen in his room later, or to refuse, because she will treat him like an endlessly abusable puppy for as long as he allows it.

He can’t decide, but he holds her books for her as she unwraps her chocolate-chip muffin. They’re heading up the winding path to the school’s side entrance (What could I ask for if I’m the Master?)- when Jon Higginbottom, a dancer with huge shoulders, appears from nowhere, dips Cara in his arms so they look like the Gone With the Wind poster, and starts purring to her in pseudo-Italian. “Mi scatellini, mi pocciabelli, non me sapito, rigatoni, che questo!”

She laughs as he kisses her pale throat.

“Who is-a this person?” Jon asks, nodding at Karl. “I kill-a heem!”

“No, you mustn’t,” Cara says, “for he is my long-lost half-brother from Latvia.”

From there to the lockers, where he hands over her books, Karl trails just behind them. It’s the longest two-hundred-yard walk of his life, but at least it settles the Cara question once and for all.

Not until Samantha Abrabarba pinches his arm at the doorway of Ms. Singh’s classroom-where an essay test on Moby-Dick will begin just minutes from now-does Karl realize that he forgot to warn Cara about Samantha. It’s too late now, but he races down the aisle and snags the seat that’s behind Cara and one over, so Samantha can’t sit there.

She pounces on the seat next to his, hissing, “Dum-dum, I told you that’s where I have to sit! Trade with me!”