Michael Laser - Cheater

“Before we begin filling in the forms and reading the instructions, let me introduce Mr. O’Malley.”

The man in the suit, who has stationed himself at the back of the room, salutes with three fingers and a microscopic smile as the students turn and gaze at him. He has a pasty, blotchy complexion, a sturdy physique, and very small ears.

“Mr. O’Malley is here on official business from the ETS in Princeton. I can’t say more, but I’d advise you to follow all of the directions to the letter, and keep your eyes on your own work.”

“I called them,” Samantha whispers to Karl. “They have a hotline for tips.”

“Ssh!”

While Miss Verp writes the school’s address and code number on the blackboard, the members of the Confederacy trade glances that express defiance, smug confidence, boredom, and amusement. Vijay and Blaine check in with Karl silently: Vijay with a No sweat wink, and Blaine with a questioning look, You okay?

Not only is Karl not okay, he has begun (despite Vijay’s wink) to sweat profusely. If Mr. O’Malley sees him activate the iPod and transmitter, his plans will come flying apart like pieces of a giant turbine hit by a grenade, with lethal results.

Miss Verp reads the detailed instructions in a loud, buzzing monotone, pausing every minute or so to look up and ask, “Does everyone understand?” but not waiting for a reply. Acidic fluids have been sloshing in Karl’s stomach all morning. Imagining Mr. O’Malley leading him out of the room in handcuffs, he yearns to glance back at Lizette for moral support; he can’t afford to attract the ETS man’s attention, though.

Woozy, dizzy, fuzzy-brained, he remembers his adversaries, Klimchock and Upchurch, and pictures them playing soccer with his head. Frankly, he can’t visualize success.

Despite what Karl might think, Mr. Klimchock is not laughing nefariously at this moment, or rubbing his hands together in an archvillainous manner. He’s standing in his office with a helmetlike headset on: a device he read about in High School Administration Quarterly . Developed for precisely this purpose by a physics teacher in Bowbells, North Dakota, the headset makes radio waves visible. Mr. Klimchock tunes his clock-radio to the local oldies station, turns around, and sees his office filled with rippling curtains of sound. In bliss, he floats through this aurora borealis of luminous, ghostly filaments, and anticipates victory.

He turns to the clock-radio again and sees a glowing, throbbing circle that indicates the speaker. The vibrating diaphragm in each cheater’s earphone will show up this same way, minutes from now, when he leaves his office and visits the four classrooms.

His quest has succeeded, at last.

Across the street from the school, a single car is parked, a silver Mercedes in the shade of a locust tree. Inside, Randall Upchurch has his radio tuned to quiet static on 98.5 FM as he reviews the talking points for his speech at the Chamber of Commerce lunch, later today. This is a pleasant time for him: his campaign manager has drafted some excellent material (he especially likes the bit about better schools with smarter-i.e., less-spending), and he’s enjoying the knowledge that he has gone the extra mile for his son, taking time from his impossibly busy schedule to make sure the Petrofsky kid keeps his word, because this day will be crucial in shaping Phillip’s future. (Too bad his son has grown up to be such a-well, never mind that, he’s still young, he may grow out of it.)

The clock in room 211 reads 8:44. Miss Verp finished reading the instructions five minutes ago and has let the students savor the moments before the test in pure, nerve-racking silence.

Ivan Fretz-that dismal, crushed creature-whispers over his shoulder, “Good luck, Karl.”

“Thanks. You too.”

Ivan rolls his eyes and sighs grimly, as if to say, It doesn’t matter how I do, I’m doomed no matter what.

Miss Verp goes to the door and closes it quietly. “Begin section one!” she screeches.

Mr. O’Malley moves up and down the aisles, inspecting. The Confederates pretend to read their test booklets while waiting for the answers to reach their earphones. Samantha searches the room like a hungry raptor, paying special attention to Blaine.

Karl sees his chance: a moment will come, and it may come only once, when Mr. O’Malley will have his back to Karl as he approaches the front of the room, and his body will obstruct Miss Verp’s line of sight. Karl will have less than a second. He must not fumble.

Unexpectedly calm, he awaits the Verpal eclipse. When it comes, he pushes on each shirt pocket once, barely perceptibly, activating first the transmitter, then the iPod.

That’s all it takes. As he starts work on the first section of the test, the two devices deliver the following message to all who happen to be tuned to 98.5 megahertz:

“This is Karl Petrofsky. Certain students asked me to help them cheat on the SAT. Mr. Klimchock found out and tried to get me to go ahead and cheat, so he could track the signal and see which students were listening. (If you can hear this, you may want to take out your earphones and hide them, fast.) Phillip Upchurch’s father also wanted me to cheat, for different reasons. Can I prove any of this? Yes.”

Next, the listeners hear Mr. Klimchock say, “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.”

A plasticky snap (the sound of Lizette’s tape recorder button) separates Klimchock’s voice from Upchurch’s.

“No time for chitchat now. You’re going to take the SAT Saturday. You’ll transmit the answers to Phillip and the others. He told me about the scheme with the pencil-it’s brilliant. I’ll make it worth your while. Let’s say, five thousand dollars cash, in two installments, one after the test and one after the scores come back.”

Karl’s voice returns now. “Only a few people know about this. I could have sent the tapes to all the newspapers, but I decided to give you both a chance. Leave me alone. Stop tyrannizing the school, Mr. Klimchock-and take that note off my student record. Mr. Upchurch, stop threatening me, and leave Swivel Brook Park alone. Because I can still mail the tapes. And don’t try to steal them, because I’ve left copies in secret locations, addressed to the New York Times, the Star Ledger, and New Jersey Magazine. If anything happens to me, they go straight in the mailbox. This concludes the audio portion of our broadcast.”

Although Karl managed to read his prepared speech with quiet bravado, he’s in a different state of mind now. Keeping his head down, he struggles to concentrate on sentence completion questions as Mr. O’Malley moves slowly up and down the aisles. And Mr. O’Malley is just one of his fears. What if the angry Confederates stab him with their pencils? Or maybe Mr. Klimchock will run into the room and skewer him with a sword. Or, Randall Upchurch may bash him in the skull with a solid gold brick.

Of course, there’s also a chance that the technology failed, and the recording didn’t reach any of them-in which case, as soon as the test is over, Blaine and the others will tear him limb from limb.

No-that’s one worry he can cross out, because up in the front row, Blaine is taking off his sweater. Mr. Cool has suddenly gotten hot; sweaty gray patches have formed on the armpits of his polo shirt. The sweater removal has mussed his hair, a first.

Over by the windows, Ian is breathing hard and fast.

Back to the test Karl goes, hunching over the desk, shutting out everything and everyone-and therefore not noticing Samantha, who’s staring back at the little red light in his shirt pocket, which is visible because the pocket flap has popped up the way those flaps so often do. The short antenna is standing up, diagonally, just enough to make its function clear.