“Sure!” He grinned, enjoying himself. “I’m all caught up with homework.” He caught himself. “‘Cept in history.”
Over a jumbo fries and a shared blueberry shake, he described the mini-scandal in Harville’s classroom. “And I think about three of the guys on the team are doing it,” he sighed. “Litton and that guy who plays third – Estrada – for sure I know they’re both in on it.”
“So basically they have an advance copy of every test?”
He munched on a fry, thinking. “Well, it’s more of a glorified quiz. It’s every single Thursday, kind of a page-and-a-half, thirty points. But they’re really hard, and I spend a lot of time studying up for it. So it’s a total shortcut, what they’re doing.”
“Well, you stay away from that stuff,” Lisa asserted. “I mean, well, you already know that. Being a Christian and all.”
A nice tingle went through him at her observation. “Yeah. I just feel bad about those guys, though. Once you get started cheating, it’s a cycle you can’t get out of. I think guys like Litton – they’ve just plain forgotten how to work hard on something. After a while, you honestly think there’s no other way.”
The pretty girl reflected on this, her dark blue eyes serious. “He’s good at ball. That must take some discipline and work and . . .”
“That’s true,” Bucky realized. “You know what? It’s just a blind spot. He doesn’t see it as wrong. The test is there, the teacher’s a clunk for leaving the door open that way, and these guys don’t see anything inappropriate about helping themselves to the freebie.”
It was a pleasant Wednesday as he made his way from class to class. Lingering evidence of Tuesday’s celebration was evident in the halls. The huge posters still hung on the walls, predicting the second-round win. On one display a student had scrawled a hasty postscript: “Bucky Stone for president!” Despite Lisa’s romantic avowals, several pretty girls in his Spanish class eyed him with frank interest, breaking into grins when they saw him noticing.
Again and again, grinning students came up to him in the hallway with high fives, fist bumps, and words of congratulations. “Way to come through, baby!” one freshman player on frosh praised, giving him a comradely punch on the arm. Bucky nodded politely.
As he twirled his locked combination just before heading home, the Panthers’ catcher called out, “Hey, Stone, great shot! You saved our butts, dude.”
“Yeah, thanks,” Bucky acknowledged.
The catcher continued, with lowered voice: “Where’d you make off to anyway?”
“Aah, my lady friend took me out for some food. I couldn’t miss that.”
The stocky catcher grinned knowingly. “Well, you missed a great party.” He made a subtle sniffing noise and laughed.
Bucky turned on his heel and walked away from him, ignoring the veiled hint about drugs.
Even Miss Cochran made reference to the big play, as she led into English class. “That was truly thrilling, Mr. Stone,” she told him with her very proper style, a droll expression on her face. “I’d give you some extra credit for that base hit if school policy permitted.”
“Thanks,” he said, flushing and enjoying the moment.
Calm had returned to the campus by Thursday, however, and Bucky walked into history class with a sense of simmering resentment. The chapter on Civil War dates and key battles was a long and tedious mental exercise, and it had taken him until almost ten the night before to really get the timeline straight in his mind.
“All right, folks, books and papers away. You know the drill: no cell phones, no iPods, no anything. Just you and your own gray matter.”
A collection of good-natured sighs filled the classroom as students dropped textbooks and notes on the floor beneath their desks. “Lay it on us easy, boss,” pleaded a big football player sitting in the first row.
Mr. Harville, wearing the blue sport jacket that seemed to be his regular Thursday selection, moved quickly from row to row, counting out the right number of photocopied tests. “We have just twenty minutes left today, so move right along,” he announced. “I don’t think you’ll find this one too bad at all – if you did your studying.”
Bucky glanced across the room and two rows behind him at Dan, the ballplayer who was casually engrossed in teasing one of the cheerleaders.
“Thanks,” the chunky athlete murmured nonchalantly, accepting a paper handed to him from the girl sitting in front of him. Without even glancing at the questions, he jotted down the first three answers.
Looking up suddenly, he noticed Bucky’s look. He reddened slightly, then shrugged as if to say, “You could have ridden this train for free too, bud. I offered . . .”
Bucky turned back to his own paper, wondering who else in the classroom was taking the easy way out. His late-night session with his notes and textbook paid off, and he finished the quiz paper fairly easily himself. Still, it rankled to have other students collecting free grades without doing any work . . . especially guys on the Panther squad.
“Maybe it is no big deal,” he muttered to himself. “Who’s going to ever use this stuff anyway? Memorize it, put it down, and then forget it.” Taking a deep breath, he scolded his own heretical thoughts as he headed toward his locker.
Coming out of the restroom a few minutes later, he almost ran into Dan. The two teammates looked at each other warily.
Finally, Dan spoke. “No hard feelings, I hope. You wanted to stay out of it.”
“That’s right,” Bucky asserted.
“Like I said, just keep it to yourself. This doesn’t have to concern you. Do things your own way and that’s cool.”
“You got it.” Bucky turned curtly and walked away.
Trying to bring things back around to a more comfortable playing field, Dan tried to catch up. “Been meaning to tell you, Stone – that was a game winner, dude. Great shot and all that.”
Forcing himself, Bucky stopped and faced his adversary. For a moment, a snarky retort trembled on his lips, but he choked back his resentment. “Thanks,” he managed. “Just luck. You know. Sometimes they just drop in.”
“Yeah.” Dan seemed a bit distracted, and was clearly uncomfortable. After an awkward pause, he peeled away, fishing in the pocket of his jeans for a set of keys.
• • • • •
The next weekend at church Bucky sat quietly next to Rachel Marie, wondering absent-mindedly where Sam could be. A familiar voice whispered in his ear. “Is that your new girlfriend, or can I sit here by you?”
He turned quickly to see Lisa’s blue eyes twinkling down at him. “I hope you don’t mind the company,” she said softly, sliding into the pew beside him.
“Oh, I don’t,” he assured her, startled and pleased. “But I thought your parents . . .”
She laid a finger across her lips. “I didn’t tell them where I was going.”
After the praise music and the sermon, Bucky guided Lisa toward the back of the sanctuary.
“Can you give me a ride home?” Lisa asked. “Linda dropped me off here, but said I would have to find my own way home.”
“Well, I could,” Bucky consented, “but I’d rather do it after dinner. If you don’t mind coming over.”
She pretended to think about it. “I don’t know,” she considered, wrinkling up her forehead. “There might be a whole bunch of reporters hanging around your house. Camera crews from ESPN and all. Plus shoe endorsement salespeople. I’d hate to get in the middle of that.”
“Oh, gimme a break,” he laughed, enjoying the envious stares of other worshipers as they crowded toward the exits.
Pastor Jensen spotted the young couple and broke into a wide grin. “There you are!” the silver-haired minister smiled. “I wanted to meet that pretty girl you were sitting next to. Who is this young lady? A visiting cousin from Peoria, maybe? Or something better?” He winked at Lisa.
Bucky grinned awkwardly as he made introductions. “This is Lisa Nichols. We have a lot of classes together, and . . . well, you kn
ow.”
“I think I get the picture,” Pastor Jensen teased. “Miss Nichols, I must warn you. Mr. Stone is . . .” He pretended to shake his head worriedly, then laughed. “Actually, he’s kind of an awesome guy. In case you haven’t figured that out.”
“Oh, I got his number,” she giggled. “In fact, I pretty much picked him out during registration last September.”
“That’s right! I forgot about that,” Bucky allowed.
“Well, we have room for you right here at Christ Our Redeemer,” the pastor said cheerfully. “Does your family have a home church already, though?”
She shook her head. “Huh uh. My folks never. . .”
He held up a hand and nodded gently. “Sure. Well, like I say, we’re right here, fifty-two weeks a year, and we’d be honored to have this be your spiritual home. I imagine Bucky could go for that too.”
“Boy, I sure could.” The tall athlete grinned.
The flow of parishioners had slowed by now, and Bucky took a moment to describe the dramatic home run. Pastor Jensen grinned approvingly. “Man, I wish I’d known,” he said. “Tuesdays are busy, but I’d have loved to see that big hit, sir.” He pulled out his cell phone and made a big show of entering the final game into his calendar. “I can’t promise,” he said, “but if I can slip away, maybe I’ll at least see a couple innings. Man, we’re proud of you, Buck.”
The tall ballplayer hesitated, wondering if he should share with his pastor about the situation in history class. But Rachel Marie, fretfully waiting, tugged at his hand. “Come on, Bucky. I’m way hungry.”
“I think you’re being paged by a small but very bossy lady,” Pastor Jensen observed drolly, giving Lisa a warm embrace. “See you again soon!”
Chapter Twelve: Honor Code
Tuesday arrived with a soggy outpouring of rain that swamped the entire Bay Area. The wet stuff was coming down in sheets, and Dad spent twenty extra minutes driving both Rachel Marie and Bucky to their respective schools.
“There’s no way you guys are going to get that game in,” the older man observed laconically as he poked a hand out the car window. “I think you brought your gear for nothing, sport.”
“Yeah.” Bucky was feeling a mix of both frustration and relief. Playing in a JV final was an exciting prospect, but as the hero of Game Two, there was a lot of pressure.
“You figure they’ll postpone, right?”
“I have no idea.” He tried to gather up his school books. “But who knows, if things dry out by noon, they might still get the game in.”
Dad twisted around in his seat. “Well, if they decide to play, give me a call at the office. I’ll try to come by if I can.”
“Sure.” Bucky glanced at his watch. “So if I don’t call, that means there’s no game.”
“Check.”
He shoved his athletic duffel bag into his locker and turned to face Dan Litton. “You heard the game got pushed back?” The stocky outfielder wasted no time.
“I figured as much.” Outside the glass double-doors that led to the hallway lined with student lockers, it was a veritable monsoon outside. “When’s the makeup game?”
“Somebody said Friday. Three o’clock.” The older boy grinned. “If this wet stuff eases up by then. Right now looks like it could rain for a whole month.”
“You ready for that big history midterm Thursday?” Bucky asked the question without thinking, then realized his mistake. But it was too late to choke off the words.
Dan didn’t seem to notice the awkward situation. “Nothing to worry about,” he said breezily. Catching himself suddenly, he fumbled momentarily for words. Finally he admitted, “Old Harville did it again. Put the whole test up on the computer screen right in front of everyone. Five pages long, man. Sixty questions.”
“And your friend got it again?”
“Yep.” Litton paused. “Listen, I know what you said before, but it isn’t too late for you to get in on it. Five bucks this time. Hey, for a full test like this one, that’s a steal.”
Bucky shook his head, trying not to let his anger show. “No thanks.”
Dan glanced around to make sure they were alone. “I don’t get you, Stone,” he said evenly. “I mean, I know that in some classes it’s important to master the stuff. We’ve got careers to aim for and all that, blah blah blah. But history? Jeez. It’s a total joke, and the lame way Harville teaches makes it even more so. Admit it. You’re going to memorize all this trivia, put it down on the paper, and by the Fourth of July you and I both . . . we’ll have totally forgotten it. So why spend extra time now packin’ it all in? I mean, really.”
Bucky drew a breath. “I admit it’s a pile of lame busywork,” he conceded. “No question. But to steal material is wrong. Cheating is cheating. I don’t get to pick and choose and decide that anytime a class is less than crucial, I can take that kind of shortcut. Plus, I just think that getting into a shortcut mode – where we’re always shaving the rules – is a bad idea. I mean, look. In baseball we get to where we are by going through the drills. We don’t stand out there on the field and say, ‘I don’t need the laps,’ or ‘I don’t need to practice rundowns.’ We prep ourselves for everything ‘cause the coach tells us to.”
Dan absorbed this, then sighed. “You . . . got a point,” he said at last. “But I’m still looking at the fact that unless I take a freebie like this, I’m going to end up with a D in the class. I could work and sweat and study and prop up my eyelids with toothpicks until four in the morning, and I wouldn’t be able to memorize all the junk Harville lays on us. My brain just don’t work that way. You know?”
“So you cover up your D with . . . this?” Bucky was trying hard not to keep using the word cheating, but he was running out of patience with his short-sighted teammate. “Look. Do your thing. I’m leaving you alone, Litton. Just leave me out of it.
“Suit yourself.” Peeling off, Dan glanced at his watch and broke into a trot.
That evening Bucky sat with Dad in the family room watching one of the few sitcoms he still had time to work into his busy study schedule.
“Homework all done?” Dad wanted to know.
Bucky nodded.
“Was it tough having the final game postponed?”
“Yeah. A bit. You know, you’re all ready to play and then it gets put off.” He grinned. “So the butterflies get to flutter in my stomach for another three whole days.”
“I hear you.” Dad grinned, reaching out and giving his son a comradely little punch on the bicep. “But it’s just a game.”
After the program ended, Bucky flipped off the set. “Boy, there’s one thing about school that sure makes me mad,” he commented with an uncharacteristic scowl.
“What’s that?”
He explained briefly about the computer scam at school and the upcoming history test. “And because the teacher’s such a clunk, these guys are getting a free ride. Well, a five-dollar ride, anyway. And this test is going to take me a bunch of nasty hours tomorrow night to get ready for!”
Dad sat there, saying nothing.
“There’s no way I’m going to be the one to rat on this whole deal,” Bucky added glumly. “I have to play ball with a bunch of these guys. If I ever said anything to Harville, that would hugely blow things for me. But it just isn’t fair.”
“What did you say this teacher’s name is?” Dad wanted to know.
“Harville. He teaches three sections of the same history class, and he just doesn’t seem to know how easy it is for someone to rip off his whole test right out of the computer. This kid’s probably going to make $150 selling copies of the midterm.”
“Well, son,” Dad observed, “you’re in school to learn. Grades aren’t nearly as important as learning the things that will help you to be successful in life.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Bucky muttered. “I might feel better if I was ever going to use this stuff myself. But I’m not, and I’m going to be up till eleven learning it while these kids are off at the mall or g
oing to the movies!”
“Nobody said life was perfect,” Dad pointed out with an easy smile. “But I will argue with one thing you just said. You just never know how your life may turn out, or what things you learned in high school might be useful after all. So don’t rule anything out.”
“You’re right, I guess,” Bucky admitted at last.
“Plus,” Dad added, “the main thing isn’t the history. Sure, that’s probably a bunch of fluff. But one of the biggest points of school is simply to put together or shape a character where you learn to do things the right way. You learn discipline. You get into a pattern of doing what it takes to succeed. And it’s a truism in life that the night before a test, a real man doesn’t goof off. He studies. Right now you’re learning that, and this Litton character isn’t. It’s as simple as that.”
Bucky blinked in surprise at Dad’s last observation. “I – well, sure. I guess.” He shrugged. “You’re right, Dad.”
“You bet I am,” Dad grinned. “Come on, slugger, let’s grab a snack before bedtime. Just don’t tell your mama.”
Thursday morning Bucky slipped into his seat in history class just as the final bell rang. His thick textbook bulged with notes and papers that had been a part of the previous evening’s long cram session.
Glancing a final time at a list of dates, Bucky looked up as Litton and two other ballplayers strode into the room, late. With an easy air, Dan slid into his chair and propped his feet up on the desk ahead of him.
“All set,” he announced loudly.
“I’ll bet you are,” Bucky muttered to himself, angry despite his best intentions.
“Here you are, ladies and gents,” Mr. Harville announced without fanfare, picking up a huge sheaf of papers. He squinted through his thick glasses at the students. “I’m sure you all studied hard. If so, you’ll do OK.” Thumbing through the stack, he passed five thick copies to the first row of anxious students.
Getting his copy, Bucky leafed quickly through the five pages. Matching questions . . . T and F . . . multiple choice . . . essay . . . but most of it looked somewhat familiar at least. With a sigh, he began marking answers on the first sheet.
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