Michael Laser - Cheater

“I can’t even see your face.”

“You’re not missing much.”

“You’re wrong. As usual.”

She takes off the Devil Rays cap and faces him, or tries to. Her eyes drop from his to her lap, and then bounce back up, again and again, like a pair of Super Balls.

The next time she speaks, it’s without jokes. “I don’t think I can stand this much longer, Karl.”

Footsteps approach from far away, on gravel. Voices talking: more than one.

Now or never, Karl.

He puts his hand on her shoulder-lightly, in case she swats it away. (She doesn’t.) He leans across the gulf…

When Jonah and Matt arrive, they find two people under a lamppost, kissing on the bench where Karl said to meet him. So where’s Karl?

Unless-no, it can’t be-

The kissing couple soon realizes they’re not alone. Karl flushes red, Lizette thinks she may die, Jonah doesn’t know where to look. Matt says, “Well, well, well, what have we here?”

Karl and Lizette are still fumbling with their Ums and Ers when Blaine, Vijay, and Tim arrive: a head-on collision of Karl’s parallel universes.

No massive explosion results, however, because there in the middle of Swivel Brook is a stainless steel turtle shooting out flames, jets of water, and hypnotic music.

“Karl, you’re one weird puppy.”

“If it’s supposed to scare the ducks away, it’s not working.”

“My grandmother had one of those in her basement.”

“I think it’s cool. Strange, but cool.”

“Flaming Flutes and Fountains! Kooky Creation in Creek! Boy Genius Strikes Again!”

Karl doesn’t mind the teasing. In fact, he sort of enjoys it. He has worked on the Turtle for almost a year; his friends’ jokes are a warped sort of recognition.

After one last taunt about polluting the public waterways, the gathered teens settle into quiet contemplation. Vijay takes a picture of the Turtle with his cell phone as it plays a dreamy bit of melody. Jonah, smiling serenely, pats Karl on the shoulder.

Stillness falls around them. Lizette, her leg still pressed against Karl’s, rubs his ribs with a knuckle and looks left and right, signaling him to check out his audience.

The teasers have turned into gawkers. Mesmerized, they forget to make wisecracks-which is the best response Karl could have wished for.

His world is perfect.

Or, almost perfect. True perfection comes a moment later, when Lizette squeezes his hand and whispers in his ear, “What a guy.”

Randall Upchurch withdrew from the mayoral race after the town newspaper published photos of him maniacally clobbering a streetlight with a tennis racquet. The photos, taken by a youngster from a nearby porch, quickly sprouted on computer desktops around town and beyond.

No news of Mr. Klimchock ever reached Abraham Lincoln High School again. A search of his name brought up nothing on Google except an ad for an elderly optometrist in Indianapolis. The handful of students who heard the recording during the SAT assume that he changed his name and moved far away. (They’re right.)

The faculty adviser censored Samantha Abrabarba’s story about Karl and the SAT. She went on to investigate the finances of the Garden Club (also censored), and unsanitary conditions in the cafeteria-an exposé that she submitted to the New York Times. She’s still waiting to hear back.

Phillip Upchurch was accepted at Harvard. He plans to join the Parliamentary Debate Society there, attend Harvard Law School, run for Congress, and then-who knows?

MANY THANKS to the teenage students who helped me figure out the facts of high school life and language: Arielle Walter, Sarah Pearlstein-Levy, Louise Webster, and Danny Knitzer. (Note: they didn’t tell me anything about cheating. Really!)

Editor Stephanie Lurie proposed the idea for this book to me in five words: “High-tech cheating in high school.” I said, “Nah, doesn’t sound like my kind of book.” Fortunately, when I changed my mind and called her back, she said, “Okay,” and went on to offer smart, on-target suggestions at every point. Thanks, too, to: Scott White, supercounselor at Montclair High School, for the basic realities of junior year-transformed here into unrealities. Dr. Elliot Barnathan, for always answering questions that begin “What sort of medical problem could I give a character that would…?” Joe Bleshman, for legal counsel. Mara Daniel, for relaying my German questions to the proper authorities. Steve Albin, for explaining what it means to spoof an address. David Wright, for “the astonishing grace of your lunges.” Ira Tyler, for the Czar-dine joke, circa 1970. And, of course, my wife, Jennifer Prost, for answering oddball questions all day long (e.g., “What sort of outfit would a teenager’s mother put together for him for a date, using just what’s in his closet, if he’s not that cool?”)-or, let me qualify that: thanks, Jen, for the answers you gave when you didn’t say, “How should I know?” Finally, thanks to my tireless research assistant, Google, which answered questions that would have left me stumped ten years ago, usually in 0.003 seconds or less. Thanks, Ya Big Goog.

[1]Noted psychologist Waldo S. Tutwiler comments: “Among those who fall in love and idolize the loved one, but don’t have a high opinion of themselves, there is a strong and logical belief that the beloved moves on an elevated plane, far higher than the lowly land where they themselves dwell-so how could the adored one possibly return their feelings? The advice I give to my young clients in such cases is that this whole way of thinking is a self-destructive mistake. Yes, I tell them, go ahead and desire the appealing person-but stop thinking you’re a toad by comparison! There’s no need to grovel in the mud. Besides, from a purely practical point of view, this attitude will destroy any chance you may have of forming a real relationship. Stand at your full height and meet the loved one’s gaze with dignity. Then, and only then, will you have a chance at romantic happiness.” [Author’s Note: Learn from Dr. Tutwiler and you may be able to save yourself years of heartache and thousands of dollars in therapy bills. If only Karl could read this!]