Michael Laser - Cheater

And it would create a different sort of permanent record. A public proclamation of Karl’s cheating, in print.

“I wonder if you’ve realized yet,” Klimchock says loudly, jarringly, “that, even if I choose to ignore this incident, no highly selective college will admit you.”

He waits for Karl to ask the obvious question, and Karl obliges him.

“Why not?”

“Because you haven’t done anything for three years except get perfect grades. That won’t fly, Karl.”

“I’ve been working on independent projects outside of school.”

“I don’t care if you’ve cured cancer, AIDS, and hemorrhoids, they still want to see that you’re capable of functioning in a group. You know: plays well with others. When you have your pick of the best and the brightest, there’s no reason to accept a social misfit.”

This sounds true. The news would have paralyzed Karl with despair under other circumstances, but right now, it’s just… incidental. Gravy. The icing on the cake.

“I could make that problem go away for you,” Klimchock says. He rolls a yellow pencil playfully across his desk blotter with a flick of a fingernail, then rolls it back the opposite way with the other hand.

“How?”

“I can put you on the fencing team, which I coach myself. And I can write a letter of recommendation, praising your inspirational team leadership, your awesome powers of concentration, and the astonishing grace of your lunges.”

The offer doesn’t feel real. Klimchock’s just spouting words, babbling. He would never do what he says.

“Do I sense distrust? I really can do this, Karl. And will. In exchange for you know what. You can walk out of here right now and tell your friends I just wanted to chat about colleges. There’s no reason for anyone to know about any of this. You help me, and I’ll help you.”

“But-wouldn’t that be cheating?”

Klimchock rubs his watery eyes with his pinkies, frowning. Karl can’t tell if the assistant principal will see the error of his ways, or throw a stapler at him.

“I’m willing to bend the rules,” Klimchock says, “just this once. In pursuit of a higher goal.”

He swivels in his chair, 180 degrees, giving Karl privacy so he can decide.

Karl weighs the alternatives one more time: turn the Confederates in, or sacrifice himself for their sake. He remembers that they blackmailed him and don’t deserve his loyalty. He remembers that he doesn’t want to be a slimy snitch.

“I’m late for the superintendent,” Klimchock says to the wall behind his desk. “I need your decision now.”

Karl says, “Okay.”

Klimchock swivels fast and stops himself by slapping the blotter with two flat hands.

“My decision is… I have to think about it.”

The pink fingers on the blotter retract slowly, and turn into fists.

Mrs. D’Souza offers Karl a cookie on his way out. He doesn’t hear her.

(She understands: it happens all the time.)

Shell-shocked, pale, basically blasted to pieces, Karl takes his backpack from his locker and heads out of the school. The bell sounds just as he reaches the front steps. It’s the first of the lunch periods, and swarms of students follow him out.

“Karl!”

He keeps his back to her and speeds up, but the clatter of little wheels on concrete gets louder and louder, closer and closer. It’s like waiting for a torpedo to hit.

“What did he say to you? What was that about?”

Samantha and her small rolling suitcase accompany him as he turns toward the corner. His main objective is not to fall apart in front of her.

“Nothing. He just wanted to talk to me about colleges.”

“I seriously doubt that. You’re hiding something, aren’t you? Let’s see if I can guess. He wants to catch cheaters. What would he want with you? Hmmm.”

Time oozes forward. Another ordeal to get through.

“Did he ask you the same thing I did? About people approaching you for help? And he swore you to secrecy?”

“Er-I shouldn’t say.”

“Listen, Karl, if you tell him anything, you can leak it to me, too. You have to.”

“I’ll think about it.”

“Do you want to come over to my house for lunch?” she asks, out of the bluest blue. “I live right over there.” She points to a pink and purple house with a great deal of decorative molding. “I could show you my room,” and she winks at him, which is the second most terrifying event of the day.

“My parents are expecting me at home,” he lies.

“You could call them. If you came with me, we’d have the whole house to ourselves.”

“I better not,” he mumbles.

She shakes her head. “I wish you didn’t have to play so mysterious with me. We’ll never get anywhere that way.”

“Sorry.”

“It’s like you’re always hiding something.”

“I’m not.”

“Yes you are.” She pokes the side of his head with her index finger. “I know you’re in there, secrets. Come out with your hands up.”

They’ve come to her house. Lining the edges of the front walk like soldiers are two parallel rows of bushes, each a perfectly pruned sphere. Up on the second floor, one of the windows reveals a baby blue ceiling through sheer lavender curtains. A row of stuffed animals sits on the sill.

Her finger tickles his scalp. “You will come to my room,” she says, hypnotist-style. “You will obey.”

A silver Mercedes goes by, with Phillip Upchurch at the wheel. Upchurch watches them with a malevolent sort of fascination. He heard the announcement on the P.A., no doubt. Karl gets the message: you couldn’t stay out of trouble,could you? Well, I can’t save you this time, moron.

He veers away from Samantha. “Sorry. I’ll see you later.”

There’s an ominous quiet behind him: the little wheels aren’t clattering. He doesn’t look back.

Just before dinner, he finds three new messages in his email, not counting the pharmaceutical spam. He opens Lizette’s first.

I HOPE THE KLIMCHOCK THING WASN’T WHAT IT SOUNDED LIKE. BTW, HAPPY BIRTHDAY, LATE. I’M STILL NOT TALKING TO YOU.

If he could climb into the monitor, he would search until he found her, so he could tell her-what?

To his relief, Blaine’s message doesn’t contain a threat against his property or his loved ones: it’s just a question mark. He deletes it without replying.

Since he can’t have Lizette’s sympathy, he sends Cara a note. KLIMCHOCK CAUGHT ME, TOO. THERE GOES MY LIFE.

Will she respond? Don’t hold your breath , he advises himself.

Jonah’s note, last of the three, includes a mysterious link to YouTube. When he plays the video, it’s the Fabulous Flying Stringbinis, that night on State Street. Their faces freeze in absurd, clowning expressions each time the stream buffers. He consumes the small blurred images hungrily, and when the clip ends, he plays it again.

The Quick Pick-Me-Up of Death: Jonah and Matt go flying. “Hey!”

“One of my high school friends went to Princeton,” Karl’s dad is saying, “and he used to tell crazy stories about the fraternity pranks there. Supposedly, this one guy hung naked from the top of my friend’s door, and when he came back to his room, the guy grabbed his head in a naked scissor-lock. I always wondered if my friend was exaggerating.”