The Wonder Test

by Michelle Richmond

  I weigh my words before suggesting, “You might want to give Caroline some space.”

  Rory wrinkles his brow, bewildered. “Why?”

  “Girls need space.”

  “Not Caroline. She says it’s different in France. She says when you go out with someone, you’re exclusive.”

  “So she really is your girlfriend?”

  “Mom, yes, she’s my girlfriend, okay? Can we stop talking about it?”

  “Okay, no more questions, I promise.” I mime zipping my lips. “Want to make chocolate chip cookies?”

  “Sure,” he says, glancing at his phone one more time before sliding it into his pocket.

  The cookies were Fred’s specialty. He made them almost every week, tweaking the recipe, experimenting with different brands and ingredients, different temperatures and cooking times, different pans. It was an obsession for him, a kind of Zen meditation. In the weeks after his death, the mere smell of chocolate chip cookies brought me to tears. For more than a month, I didn’t dare bake.

  Then, one weekend when the kitchen was empty, save for Fred’s cabinet filled with high-priced vanilla powder and muscovado, Rory suggested we try to re-create the recipe. As the first batch came out of the oven, I felt a blip of joy. It felt almost as if Fred were there cheering us on. Since then, we’ve made the cookies once a week. We don’t go to church, and we don’t go to therapy. At my insistence, Rory did try therapy after Fred died, but it made him uncomfortable. It felt false, he said, a violation rather than a consolation. He didn’t want to dwell on the sadness. So we make cookies. It works for us. It’s a way to honor Fred, to keep him with us.

  Between cracking eggs and measuring and stirring, Rory keeps checking his phone.

  “Did you argue?” I ask.

  “No, we talked on Snapchat this morning before she left home. She was in a great mood. She told me she’s been really happy lately.” He blushes. “She said I make her happy.”

  That does sound serious.

  “Maybe she lost her phone.”

  “Caroline doesn’t lose things. She doesn’t need space. She doesn’t play games. She’s not like that.”

  The first batch of cookies comes out. While I’m transferring them to the cooling rack, Rory polishes off three warm cookies and a glass of milk. I put the second batch in.

  “Does Caroline have a group of friends she hangs out with?”

  “No, just me.”

  “Where does she go when you’re not together and she’s not at school?”

  “She takes walks around town, sometimes she goes for a run at Crocker Lake. She always texts me, like, a dozen times while she’s out walking, and she posts tons of pictures on Instagram. She also tells me if she’s going to the lake, just so someone will know where she is.”

  “She tells you instead of her parents?”

  “They never have a clue where she is. They’re totally absentee.” He swipes the screen of his phone again and looks at me, helpless.

  “Want me to drive you by her place?”

  28

  Is it better to do the right thing for the wrong reason or the wrong thing for the right reason? Using diacritical logic, chart your answer.

  “How are you feeling about the test?” I ask as we pull out of the driveway.

  “Good. I finally figured it out this week. Every question has two answers, the correct answer and the answer the test wants. Sometimes, the two are the same, but not always. You have to fight the urge to give the answer that’s technically more correct than the answer they want.”

  “That sounds like a nightmare.”

  “Not if you think of it like a game. They use AI to grade it. AI, at its heart, is just an algorithm, so if you can figure out the algorithm, you can beat the test. Every answer doesn’t have to be correct. It just needs to sound correct and be organized logically. And there are tricks.”

  “Such as?”

  “Using the word ‘thing,’ for example, gets you docked 1.4 points, but using the word ‘preponderance’ adds 2.2 points. The basic rules of essay writing apply: work from general to specific, use examples, insert quotes whenever you can. But in the case of the Wonder Test, more obscure quotes are better. So you’ll get more points for a Mozi quote than a Confucius quote. Montaigne is better than Mother Teresa but worse than Heraclitus, that sort of thing.”

  “Who’s Mozi?”

  “His main idea was that disorder in society is the result of the absence of mutual love. So if we could love groups of people who are unlike ourselves, order would be restored.”

  “I like this Mozi fellow. What class is that from?”

  “No class. I learned it on YouTube. Anyway, there are more tricks. Like compound-complex sentences are good, but sometimes the data conflicts. So, for example, you can override the automatic deduction for too many simple sentences if you use repetition correctly.”

  “If they teach you all that, why doesn’t everyone ace it?”

  “Not everyone has the patience, but also, they don’t teach us all that. I got a little obsessed, so I did research. Any student can log into the portal to see the anonymous results of every practice test for your district. I spent hours reading the answers and analyzing how they’re scored. I wanted to figure out how to think like the AI. Of course, the AI is always evolving. The right answer this month won’t be the right answer next month.”

  “Impressive. So why aren’t you tutoring Caroline?”

  “I tried, but mandatory test prep takes up most of her time. Anyway, she’s French. We get about five minutes in and then she protests the injustice of it all. She threatened to show up on testing day in a yellow vest.”

  “You’ve gone and gotten a revolutionary for a girlfriend. Dad would be proud.”

  “Unfortunately, school isn’t designed for revolutionaries.” Rory rolls down his window. “Sometimes I think the goal of school is to take a bunch of kids and herd them into the middle. Catch the stragglers, slow down the leaders, get everyone in line. Make sure everyone writes the same, talks the same, and thinks the same.”

  “That’s harsh.”

  “But it’s true! Tell me one real thing you learned in school. Not how to diagram a sentence. Something useful.”

  I slow down for a tiny gray-haired lady in tennis whites and copious gold jewelry walking three giant poodles down Barroilhet.

  “Never sit in the front row if you want other kids to like you,” I say. “Never sit in the back row if you want the teacher to like you. Raise your hand often enough to show you’re listening but not so often that you look like a know-it-all. Smile but not too big. Laugh but not too loud. Make allies in every social group. Identify the mean kids, and don’t be their friend but don’t be their enemy either. Be open, don’t be a cynic, let the readings and lectures wash over you. The important knowledge will take root and the detritus will drift away.”

  I glance over to see Rory staring at me. “You’re smarter than you look, Mom.”

  “I hope you were taking notes. That was some of my best material.”

  We wind through lower Greenfield. On Ralston, a family of four is loading suitcases into a Range Rover. Rory cranes his neck to look. “That’s strange. Why are Marc Rekowski and his family packing to leave the night before the Wonder Test?”

  “Maybe they don’t care about the test.”

  “They definitely care. Marc has had a tutor since the beginning of the school year. He takes the mandatory study class with Caroline.”

  “Maybe they arranged for him to make the test up.”

  “Nobody makes it up. You’re either there or not there.”

  When we pull up to Caroline’s estate, Rory jumps out of the car and punches a code into the keypad. The gate opens and he runs ahead of the car down the driveway. As I approach the house, I see a lone light burning in a corner room on the third f
loor, the same light that was on the first time we dropped her off.

  My mind flashes to the first arrest and search warrant I ever went out on. It was an estate in Westchester, New York, similar to this one. I remember a long hallway flanked by half a dozen doors. The house was huge, and our arrest team was small. Standing before the first door in the hallway, I kept yelling, “Need one!” But the team had already dispersed, and no one came. I took a deep breath and burst into the room. It was a teenager’s bedroom. There were clothes on the floor and a single book on the shelf, The Worst-Case Scenario Handbook. For some reason, the presence of that particular book on an otherwise empty shelf struck me as terribly sad. I had the strange sensation I would experience dozens of times over the ensuing years: the sense of having walked into the middle of someone else’s life, at once exposed and secret.

  By the time I park and get out of the car, Rory is already ringing the doorbell. It chimes through the house, orchestral and grand. When no one answers, he grasps the giant iron knocker and bangs on the door—once, twice, three times.

  “Rory,” I say. “Manners.”

  He waits a minute before pounding on the doorbell again.

  The light from the third-floor bedroom begins to spread, window to window, across the third floor, then down to the second, to the foyer. The exterior sconces illuminate, and the heavy door opens to reveal a trim, middle-aged woman in a navy uniform, slightly out of breath. Caroline said her name is Blandine. The house, her uniform, the way her chestnut hair is wound tightly upon her head give the impression we’ve stepped back in time.

  She glances at Rory, registers recognition, and addresses me. “Bonsoir, Madame.”

  “Bonsoir, Madame,” I reply. “Excusez-moi de vous déranger.”

  “Puis-je vous aider?”

  “Oui, merci. Vous êtes la directrice de la maison?”

  She nods, suspicious.

  “Je suis la mère de Rory,” I say, gesturing at my son. “On cherche Caroline. Est-elle ici?”

  “Non,” she says, pursing her lips.

  I ask if Caroline came home after the practice test today.

  She glances at her watch, as if I’ve already taken too much of her time. “Peut-être, non.”

  I ask if Blandine knows where we might find her.

  “Je ne sais pas.”

  I ask if I may speak to Monsieur et Madame Donadieu.

  “Ils sont absents.”

  I ask how I might reach them.

  “Je ne sais pas.”

  Finally, realizing I’ll get nowhere with Blandine, I thrust a business card into her hand with my personal cell number written on the back. “S’il vous plait, telephonez moi quand Caroline retourne.”

  Usually, the FBI calling card makes an impression. Not so with Blandine. “Bien sûr, Madame.” With that, she closes the door. I can hear her heels echoing on marble floors. The lights go off, one by one, in the same order they went on minutes ago.

  Rory stares at me, dumbfounded. “What was that, Mom? Since when do you speak French?”

  “Remember when you were five and I worked in Tunisia for a couple of months?”

  “No.”

  “Well, I did. They gave me some Berlitz tapes before I left. I used to listen to them in the car on the way to work. Traffic on the West Side Highway is no joke. I spent a lot of time with those tapes.”

  “So what did she say?”

  As soon as we’re in the car, doors closed, I translate. “Caroline never came home after the practice test today. Her parents are away. Do you know if they’re still in Vienna?”

  “No, Caroline says they go on work trips a lot.” The massive gate opens as we approach. “Back to France, but other places too, somewhere in North Africa. Always out of the country. Sometimes she doesn’t even know where they are and has no way to reach them.”

  The gate closes behinds us. “I thought you said he was the consul general.”

  “Maybe the first consul?”

  “There’s a big difference between consul general and first consul, especially a first consul and wife who go on lengthy, ill-defined trips.”

  He frowns. “Could Caroline be in some sort of international trouble or something?”

  “No. My point is that an unexplained absence isn’t surprising, considering her father’s position.”

  “Okay, but if she had to leave, she’d tell me. She wouldn’t just disappear.”

  Of course, it’s possible Caroline just found a new friend to hang out with and didn’t want to hurt Rory’s feelings. Or maybe her parents called and told her to go to the airport and meet them in Paris or somewhere else. But if that were the case, wouldn’t Blandine have seen the driver pick her up? If Caroline is constantly texting Rory, wouldn’t she have texted to let him know she was leaving?

  It doesn’t feel right. Something else is nagging at me: the timing of the Rekowskis’ getaway. We drive back by their house. They’re just about to pull out of the driveway. I stop the Jeep, blocking their way. Mr. Rekowski honks the horn.

  “Mom, what the hell?” Rory hisses, ducking down in the seat.

  “Just sit tight.”

  I get out of the Jeep and approach the driver’s side of the Range Rover. Mr. Rekowski rolls down the window, clearly annoyed. Mrs. Rekowski leans over the middle console. “Can we help you?” Her tone is polite, not entirely friendly.

  Two kids are in the back seat. The younger one, a girl of about twelve, is on her iPad. The boy from Rory’s grade, Marc, is scrolling through his phone.

  “Sorry to bother you. I’m Lina Connerly. My son, Rory, is in tenth grade at the school.”

  The mother manages a smile. “Nice to meet you. Actually, it’s not a great time. We’re just on our way out, going to spend a week in Dubai.”

  “Sorry, it’s just, we’re looking for a friend of Rory’s, Caroline.” I speak directly to Marc. “She was in the practice test with you today, right?”

  Marc glances up from his phone. “Yes.”

  “Has something happened to Caroline?” Mrs. Rekowski asks, a note of genuine concern in her voice.

  “Rory can’t find her, and he’s worried. He thought Marc might have seen where she went after school. Her parents are out of the country.”

  Mr. Rekowski addresses his son in the rearview mirror. “Did you see Caroline at the practice test?”

  “Yeah. When I left school she was in the breezeway, arguing with some lady. She seemed upset.”

  “Could you tell what she was upset about?” I ask.

  “The lady told Caroline not to come to school tomorrow, to skip the whole week.”

  Mrs. Rekowski turns around to look at Marc. “They were trying to prevent her from taking the test?”

  “Looked that way.”

  “How did Caroline respond?” I ask.

  “She was pissed. She said she’d been working really hard and she was going to take the test, no matter what. The lady said that wasn’t a great idea. That’s all I heard. I just wanted to get home and pack.”

  “Did you recognize the woman?” I ask.

  “I couldn’t tell. Blonde, tall.”

  His little sister speaks without glancing up from her iPad. “That describes half of the moms at the school.”

  “Are they going to let you to make up the test?” I ask.

  “No makeups. They’re super strict about that. I only took the practice test today to get an extra excused absence.”

  Mr. Rekowski adjusts the rearview mirror, eager to get on his way.

  “Just one more question. Did Kobayashi give you a hard time about being absent for test week?”

  It’s Mrs. Rekowski who answers. “Actually, I was pleasantly surprised. When this opportunity came up for a family trip, they were completely understanding. I’m sure Caroline is fine. She’s probably just being
a teenager.” She glances at the dashboard clock. “Sorry, but we really do need to catch our flight.”

  I thank them for their time, wish them a great trip, and move the Jeep out of the way.

  “I can’t believe you did that!” Rory says, still trying to cover his face. “That’s so embarrassing.”

  I sit with my hands on the steering wheel, frowning. “Marc claims he saw a woman trying to convince Caroline not to take the test.”

  “What do you mean? Who?”

  “Could it have been Caroline’s mom?” I wonder out loud.

  “I’m telling you, her parents have been gone for weeks.” Rory cranes his head to watch the Rekowskis pull out of the driveway. “All this work, all this preparation, and now they don’t want her to take the test? Why?”

  29

  From the perspective of Adam Smith, construct an argument for restoring the gold standard. Restrict you answer to 114 words or fewer.

  We drive back to the school and search the campus. Rounding a corner, we nearly bump into Kobayashi. “It’s our very own Wonder Test whisperer!” he exclaims, resting a hand on Rory’s shoulder. “I don’t know if your son has told you, but his scores on the practice tests have been off the charts. We’re lucky to have this young man.”

  “We’re looking for Caroline Donadieu,” Rory blurts. “I was supposed to see her after the practice test today.”

  Kobayashi lets his hand fall from Rory’s shoulder. “She’s probably home resting up for tomorrow, as you should be.”

  “Did you see her on campus today?” I ask.

  “I was in the city all day. I just stopped by to make sure all systems are go for tomorrow.” Kobayashi reaches up to scratch his left temple. Is he nervous? Hard to tell. Sometimes touching one’s face is a sign of deception, but just as often it’s the natural response to an itch.

  “Speaking of tomorrow, I notice you haven’t been opening my emails, Lina. Rory needs a minimum of ten hours of sleep to be ready for the test. Complex carbs tonight, we recommend sweet potatoes, and equal ratios of fat and protein in the morning, along with a half cup of oatmeal. Don’t forget the cinnamon! And a cup of coffee each morning. We’ll have a Philz cart on campus to provide the students with free coffee at lunch.”