Michael Laser - Cheater

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?”