Cheater

by Michael Laser

  “No, it’s just something I made. Excuse me, I have to do something.”

  He bends over the kiddy pool and searches for air bubbles. There shouldn’t be any. Please, let there not be any, he prays.

  No bubbles surface. Yay!

  “What does it do?” the stranger asks.

  “Um-nothing. It’s an art project.”

  “Oh. I see.”

  The visitor’s wrinkled forehead shows that he doubts Karl’s words. He seems concerned, as if the Turtle might be a weapon of mass destruction.

  “I was just testing to see if it’s watertight.”

  “Ah.”

  Karl leads his guest out of the garage and closes the door behind them. “Are you looking for my parents?”

  “No. Don’t you know who I am?”

  “Should I?”

  “Perhaps not. My name is Francis Hightower.”

  The principal! That’s where Karl has seen him-leaving the school at the end of the day. Quietly. Anonymously.

  Terror catches up with him like a bullet. He took the SAT a week ago; he thought he’d escaped without a scratch. It’s never that easy, though, is it?

  “Is something wrong?” he asks weakly.

  “Wrong? No, I just came to thank you.”

  They’re standing in the driveway. Mr. Hightower’s shoe is practically touching the dirty red Frisbee that has sat under the forsythia hedge for the past six years.

  “Um-thank me for what?”

  Before Mr. Hightower can reply, Ivan Fretz waves to Karl from the sidewalk. He’s walking his shaggy black dog. “How’s it going, neighbor?”

  For the first time since childhood, Ivan comes down the driveway. “Sorry to interrupt. I just wanted to run something by you. What would you think about making some extra money over the summer, tutoring me for the SAT?”

  The dog sniffs his way up Karl’s thigh.

  “You’re going to take it again?”

  “I hardly even studied! It didn’t seem to matter. But now it does, so-think it over, Karl. This could be good for both of us. Come on, Bibsy.”

  Ivan gives the leash a tug, and the dog growls as they go back the way they came.

  “He seems cheerful,” Mr. Hightower says.

  “He had something really bad in his records, and it got taken off.”

  “I know that, Karl. I’m the one who took it off.”

  “Oh.”

  “As I said, I wanted to thank you. You accomplished what I wanted to do and couldn’t for many years.”

  The sun of understanding begins to peek over the hills now, shedding its light on what was dark and mysterious.

  “I’m not a public sort of person. I used to teach biology, and I enjoyed my work-but my wife felt that I should keep moving ahead, and so forth. The point is, I shouldn’t have become a principal. When Mr. Klimchock offered to take over some of my more public duties, I gladly accepted. But that turned out to be unwise, as you know. I’ve been searching for a way to get rid of him for years. I don’t know how to thank you.”

  Cautiously, in case this is some sort of trap, Karl asks, “Why do you think I had anything to do with him leaving?”

  The principal looks down at the red Frisbee, away from Karl. “When the technician was installing those hidden cameras, I had him put one in Mr. Klimchock’s office, too. I saw and heard what he said to you. If I’d had the power to fire him, I would have-but those cameras don’t record, so I didn’t have a strong enough case against him.”

  Hidden cameras! Of course! That Karl never guessed Klimchock’s method only proves what a dolt a supposedly smart person can be.

  But wait. The principal knew what Mr. Klimchock was doing to Karl and never helped? He just hid in his office the whole time and let Karl fend for himself?

  “You have every right to be angry at me-but I didn’t want to ruin your future. If I’d gone to the superintendent, that would have left you with a terrible stain on your record. In the end, whatever you did had a much better outcome. What did you do, exactly? I still don’t know.”

  Karl hesitates, still not sure he should trust Mr. Hightower.

  “That’s all right, Karl. Whatever it was, I salute you- because now I can go back to teaching biology until I retire, and I won’t have to worry that the school will fall into a maniac’s hands.”

  Shyly, the principal shakes Karl’s hand. He smells very clean, in an old-fashioned way, like a bar of soap from a bygone era.

  “You have my admiration, and my sincere apologies. I wish I could have helped you more.”

  “So do I. But I’m okay now.”

  The principal takes his leave. The brown suit passes the Fretz house, the Santangelos, the Carneys, and turns the corner. There’s something extremely unusual about this man, but Karl can’t put his finger on it.

  Or-yes, he can. Mr. Hightower came here on foot.

  An odd person. But probably a good biology teacher. Karl hopes so, anyway.

  When he calls to invite Lizette to Swivel Brook Park, she answers, “Why?”

  The tone is key here. Why? can be a straightforward question, but more often it’s a challenge: what you just said doesn’t make sense, so you’d better give me a good reason (and I don’t think you can).

  Lizette’s Why has more teasing than insult in it. This is how it’s been between them since that stumble at the school’s front door. She has given up on him ever kissing her, it seems. Instead of waiting and hoping, or doing the kissing herself, she makes fun of him.

  “There’s something I want to show you,” he replies.

  “In the park, in the dark? Doesn’t sound like something my daddy would approve of.”

  “Will you please just come with me?”

  “I guess. I can’t say no to you.”

  She picks him up after dinner, in her father’s station wagon. She’s wearing a Rutgers football jersey and her old Devil Rays cap, and the car has a chaotic pile of sporting goods in the back. Karl makes another of his resolutions on the way to the park: if the Turtle works, and she appreciates it-if she says something like, Karl, this is amazing-then he’ll kiss her right then and there. No more fear and hesitation. Just a kiss, period.

  On the other hand, the likelihood of her praising him is about equal to the chance that green kangaroos will rain down from the sky.

  He takes her through the wooden playground fortress where he once found a plastic space shuttle, his first memory. The sky is a pale, post-sunset blue; the trees are silhouettes. “You’re a mysterious person, Karl,” Lizette says.

  “Mmph,” he replies.

  The gravel path leads them to the stream. Karl takes a seat on a bench under a lamppost, and she joins him. Some old guys with bats and mitts laugh as they leave the dark softball field.

  Karl gazes at the flowing water, trying to influence Lizette to do the same. He’s waiting for her to notice what he brought her here to see, but she’s too preoccupied. Staring at her lap, she shakes her head and snorts unhappily.

  “What did you want to show me?” she asks finally.

  “You have to look at the water.”

  She sees nothing unusual at first, just some ducks, tall grass, cattails, a couple of boulders. Farther downstream, the little waterfall makes a peaceful rushing sound.

  Hold on, though.

  One of the boulders in front of them isn’t gray-black but shiny blue, a reflection of the sky. There are small holes, regularly spaced, drilled into the smooth surface. A nubby black thing pops up on top.

  “Is that the thing you were building in your garage?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  He reaches into his jacket and takes out a universal remote, the kind that can operate a TV, DVD player, and audio system. The buttons and their labels have all been painted black, except four: the Power button and three others, marked with little white symbols that Lizette interprets as a music note, a drop of water, and a complicated fishhook, upside down. (Or maybe it’s a very sparse tree, a sapling with droop
y branches.)

  “Go ahead,” Karl says, holding out the remote to her. “Turn it on.”

  “It’s not gonna blow up the park, is it?”

  “Probably not.”

  She hesitates. “You should do it yourself. Since it’s the first time.”

  “I’d like you to.”

  She bends her head, and the visor of her cap covers her face-or, it would if Karl were in front of her. Even in the dim light, he can see that her cheek has turned red.

  Accepting the remote, she says, “Here goes I don’t know what,” and presses Power.

  Nothing happens.

  “How do you know when it starts working?”

  “You have to push the next button.”

  “Oh. I thought it was a dud.”

  She presses the button with the music note above it. A queer noise joins the quiet burble of the stream: a tremulous, flutelike hum. A moment later, the pulsating note deepens to a lower pitch-and then jumps to a higher one. The notes seem to change at random, but they all sound good.

  “It’s the scale Debussy used in La Mer,” Karl explains. “The notes are all a whole tone apart.”

  “You’re so bizarre, Karl.”

  These are not the words he was hoping to hear.

  “Press the next button.”

  Expecting something water related-the little symbol is a droplet, after all-Lizette literally jumps off the bench when twenty thumb-size flames shoot from the metallic dome- bursting up and then shutting off, in the same rhythm as the musical notes.

  “This is supposed to be a flame? It looks like a drop of water.”

  They watch the jets of fire and listen to the music. Karl worries intensely that Lizette thinks his creation is stupid.

  “Should I press the last button?”

  “Go ahead.”

  Expecting mechanical fish to leap from the water-why else the fishhook symbol?-she’s taken by surprise when several fine streams of water spray from the dome. Each arc begins below the flames and travels away from the dome, so the falling drops won’t put out the fire.

  The symbol is a fountain, Lizette sees now-not an upside-down hook.

  The yellow flames lend their color to the falling drops, turning them into moving necklaces of gold.

  “So, is this what’s supposed to happen?”

  “Pretty much.”

  She watches the Turtle perform, torturing him by saying nothing. It was a mistake to bring her here, he decides. If she mocks his work, he won’t even be able to talk to her anymore, let alone kiss her.

  “Are you allowed to tell me how it does all that? Or is it like a magic trick?”

  “Most of the power comes from the current of the stream. And I used the basic mechanism of a vibraphone to give it that trembly sound. It’s hard to explain the machinery in words-but I can show you my sketches later if you want.”

  She nods, taking in the sound and light. He dares to hope.

  “If only,” she says, “you would use your genius for good and not evil.”

  It’s a joke, not an insult-but you can’t call it admiration, either. He’s confused. Does she respect him, or does she think he’s a dork?

  The Turtle plays a haunting, random melody. The little flames bend in the breeze. A mallard paddles up to watch the fountain drops patter on the brook, and returns to report to his friends and family. Karl almost comments on this- That must be where they got the name “Peeking Duck”-but decides not to break the silence.

  Lizette lets the air out of her lungs, an extended sigh.

  How long can two teenagers writhe in their separate turmoil before one of them explodes-or lets fly a tension-breaking comment like that duck pun? Pretty long, I’d say- but we’re not going to find out tonight, because an outside force intervenes, and that force’s name is Cara.

  She has cut her hair to finger-length and thinned her bangs into parallel lines with her forehead showing through. “Wow,” she says, watching the Turtle perform. “So I guess it’s not a spy submarine after all.”

  There’s room for her to sit next to Karl, but she stays on her feet.

  “Is this how you spend your free time?” Lizette asks. “Wandering around here after dark?”

  “Karl asked me to come.”

  The hurt and confusion on Lizette’s face (glimpsed briefly, before she covers up) make Karl yearn to reassure her.

  “I invited a few friends,” he explains. “It’s like a premiere.”

  “So, I’ll be back at school next week,” Cara says.

  “Really? That’s great! Did the principal call you?”

  “No, his secretary.”

  The Turtle toots, sonorously.

  “Anyway, I can’t stay-but it’s good to see you two together. How’s that going?”

  No answer from the Tortured Twosome, except some strangled proto-noises.

  “Okayyyyyy. Well, good luck. Excellent science project, Karl.”

  Her boots crunch away on the gravel. A car door opens and closes. Engine on, then fading into the distance.

  You’d think the Turtle were the most fascinating object on earth: they can’t take their eyes off it.

  In the end, it’s Lizette, not our hero, who takes the leap. “What’s the matter? Scared?”

  The tone is familiar to Karl; he knows how to speak this language. “Maybe if you’d take that hat off. For once.”

  “Oh. So now it’s about my hat. A lame excuse if ever I heard one.”

  “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 whispe
rs in his ear, “What a guy.”

  In Case You Were Wondering…

  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?

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  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.