Michael Laser - Cheater

Tim Bean, mischievous prankster slob, whose stringy dreadlocks have earned him the nickname Rasta Pasta Man.

Ian Higgins, bored as always, tapping his nose pensively with a plastic spork.

And Noah Marcus, foamer at the mouth, whose T-shirt of the day reads DISMANTLE THE MACHINE. (ASK ME HOW.)

Karl has known these people for years, though not well. That they have teamed up with Blaine and Cara to outwit their teachers and cheat their way through high school boggles his mind. The student body at Abraham Lincoln divides fairly neatly into subcultures-Preps, Goths, Skaters, Druggies, Jock Brutes, Politicos, Science Nerds, and Outcasts- and Karl would have placed each of the cheaters in a different one of these slots (Vijay has been programming computers since he got out of diapers, Tim giggles inexplicably at random moments, Ian wears khaki twenty-four hours a day, and Noah owns so many ideological T-shirts that Karl has never seen the same one twice), but they’ve all fooled him. Like undercover CIA agents, they have used their various styles as camouflage for their true identities.

The seven blue trays don’t quite fit on the two small tables, so the first moments of Karl’s membership in the Confederacy are taken up with rearranging the chicken strips, Beef-Ka-Bob, meatball marinara sub, egg drop soup, Double-Decker Taco Supreme, and Mango Smoothie.

Is it his imagination, or is there an unfriendly tension in the air? None of them, except Blaine and Cara, will look him in the eye, and there isn’t a heck of a lot of chitchat, either.

“Karl, are you a spy for Klimchock?” Blaine asks casually.

He doesn’t get the point. “Uh. No.”

“I’m convinced,” Ian says, meaning the opposite.

Now Karl understands the averted gazes. They’re like Mafiosi hiding their faces behind newspapers as they climb the courthouse steps.

“Are you kidding?” Karl begins. “You think-“

Cara cuts him off. “You people don’t understand Karl. You’re such feeble judges of character! Just because he’s smart, that doesn’t mean he’s on the other side. Karl has a deep inner longing to defy authority and prove he’s more than a brain. Am I right, Karl?”

That she understands him so well-that she has noticed him- makes Karl’s heart flutter. It’s one of the great moments in his life so far, right up there with winning the backstroke race at Camp Wakanaki.

“You’re right,” he says.

“Let’s stop wasting time,” Blaine tells his band of cheaters, “and show our new comrade what’s what.”

While the P.A. system thumps a song no one can identify over the many voices and clattering trays, and Tim hums the Mission: Impossible theme, Vijay reveals the secret tools of the Confederacy: (1) the graphing calculator programmed so that a swift series of keystrokes brings up handy formulas, such as: A’S ATOMIC NUMBER x A’S ION CHARGE = B’S ATOMIC NUMBER x B’S ION CHARGE; (2) the CD Walk-man that plays not 50 Cent, as the disk’s label advertises, but Vijay’s voice reciting key dates and events leading up to the Civil War; (3) the small wireless camera taped to his wrist under his shirt cuff, which transmits the fine print on Noah’s Giant Roast Beef sandwich wrapper to Cara’s laptop monitor (the blue letters on the crinkled foil are clearly legible, as is the cowboy hat logo); and (4) the iPod loaded with songs whose titles, conveniently, are French vocabulary words with their English translations.

“Technology,” Tim intones. “Better tools for better living.”

“Don’t forget my cell phone,” Blaine adds. “Before the chemistry test, I sent myself a few helpful text messages.”

“Personally, I don’t completely trust computers,” Cara says. “They tend to crash right when you need them most. I like to back myself up with a hard copy.”

She flips up the hem of her short skirt to reveal typed notes taped to the inside.

“She’s just an old-fashioned girl,” Vijay says.

“The best part is, they can’t demand to see my notes.”

Though there’s some nausea mingled with his amazement, Karl covers that up and asks, “Do you guys buy term papers online?”

“Not anymore,” replies Blaine. “The teachers have a search service that scans for plagiarism. That’s one of the reasons why we want your help.”

Wouldn’t it be easier , Karl wonders, to just study?

Uncharacteristically bold, he asks the question out loud.

Mount Noah erupts. “Skipping the work isn’t the point!” (Cara gives Karl a flicker of a smile, Just humor him .) “School is a machine serving a warped society. Its purpose isn’t to teach, it’s to sort us out-who gets to go to Harvard and who gets to clean toilets. If it was really about learning, grades wouldn’t matter. The Machine doesn’t care about us. Why should we care about the Machine? Sabotage it! Rebel! Cheating is freedom! Cheating is integrity!”

A bit of Noah’s cinnamon bun comes flying out and lands on Karl’s plate. “Is that what the rest of you think?” he asks.

“I think he needs medication,” Tim says.

“Then why do you cheat?”

“Uhhhh-for fun?”

“School is so tedious otherwise,” Ian says.

“Everyone is doing it,” Blaine adds. “If I don’t, I’m at a disadvantage.”

Cara comments, “This is how America works, Karl. People cheat whenever they can-on taxes, on the golf course, in elections. You know who lives by Boy Scout ethics? Nobody.”

“You’re putting me to sleep,” Ian complains. Making his own fun, he flings a nugget of sesame chicken over his shoulder. The breaded missile lands on a blind lady’s table; her dog leaps to its feet, claws scratching the stone tile floor.

“To me, it’s a sport, a technical challenge,” Vijay explains. “We invent a system-they catch on-we refine the system. Mr. Imperiale makes everyone erase the memory in our calculators-so I program mine to look like the memory’s erased, but really everything’s still there, in cache.”

“I hope you’re impressed, Karl,” says Cara. “I know I am.”

He doesn’t know what to say. He’s not sure what he thinks or which way is up.

“There’s one other thing to teach you,” Blaine says. “The Code.”

“You mean for communicating in secret?”

“No, Code as in Code of Behavior. What is The Code, rebels?”

“Do not share our methods with outsiders,” Noah warns, pointing at Karl, Uncle Sam style. “One of our former members did that, and he got caught the next day. Coincidence? I think not.”

“Even if they see you cheat, deny everything,” Tim says, smirking.

“And most important of all”-a steely gaze from Blaine- “if you get caught, you go down alone. Never reveal the names of your comrades.”

A hunk of meatball has gotten stuck halfway down Karl’s throat, or at least it feels that way: a large, distressing mass, close to his heart, that doesn’t belong there. He focuses on his plate, wishing he could make the world go back to normal.

“Come take a walk with me, Karl.”

Cara puts her hand on his-that softness again!-and keeps it there until he stands. She leads the way out of the food court, over to the square fountain where the spokes of the mall converge.

Small children lean on the low marble ledge and harass their mothers for pennies. “I want a wish!” one girl insists. Cara sits down on the ledge, and Karl sits near her.

“Second thoughts?”

She has on a fuzzy white short-sleeved sweater with a low, scooped neck. The fuzz blurs her edges.

“I’m just-uncomfortable.”

“Makes sense to me. Getting used to a new universe takes time.”

She’s doing it again, melting his brain. You don’t expect someone who looks like Cara and dresses like Cara to see into your soul.