Cheater (19 page)

A short, stocky man follows her in, wearing a bright blue T-shirt, baggy red shorts, and white socks up to his knees. This can’t possibly be her father (first, how could this little guy have produced such a tall daughter, not to mention her two titanic brothers? and second, he looks ridiculous!) but that’s exactly who he is. Lizette introduces him to Karl and his parents, and the first words out of Mr. Frenais’s mouth, directed at Mr. and Mrs. Petrofsky as he shakes their hands, are, “Sorry to hear about all this trouble of yours.”

Funny, isn’t it, how a lightning bolt can strike from a cloudless sky, when you’re worried about a completely different catastrophe, and leave you charred, with a jagged mouth and only one crooked wisp of hair remaining?

“What do you mean?” Karl’s father asks.

Karl had been recovering nicely from his illness, but now he breaks into a drenching sweat.

Honest, sincere Lizette invents the quickest cover-up Karl has ever seen. “Daddy, you’re confusing Karl with my other friend, the one who got hit by that ice-cream truck. Karl’s fine, he’s just getting over pneumonia. Please don’t scare his parents.”

“Oh. Ohhhhh. Sorry about that. Well—glad to meet you.”

“You had me scared for a minute.” Karl’s father laughs. “Whew!”

Exit the chuckling parents. On with the intrigue.

Mr. Frenais knows all about Karl’s situation. He has come with Lizette to help set up the hidden microphone, the one she bought online yesterday, paying an extra fifteen dollars for overnight delivery. (The mike is a tiny black box with a switch, not much bigger than the nine-volt battery that fits inside it.) Though Mr. Frenais agreed to help, Karl keeps expecting him to deliver a lecture about honesty; the lecture never comes, however.

The mike works best when the mesh screen points directly at the speaker’s mouth. Mounting it on Karl’s nose would be ideal, but since that might not be the best location, secrecy-wise, they experiment with other options.

Placing the mike inside Karl’s hospital gown doesn’t work. “All I could hear was fabric rubbing on it,” Mr. Frenais says. “And stomach-gurgling.” He suggests gluing the mike to Karl’s scalp and concealing it inside Karl’s floppy mop of hair. Sounds a bit silly, but they give it a go. After fluffing Karl’s hair to hide the mike, Mr. Frenais goes out in the hall and listens on his earphone as Lizette says, “So, Karl, I hope you’ve learned your lesson.”

He’s still fumbling for an answer when Mr. Frenais comes back into the room with two thumbs up, announcing, “Loud and clear.”

A difficult question remains, though: how to attach the mike to Karl’s scalp? “We’ve got a hot glue gun at home,” Lizette offers.

“I’m thinking this looks like a job for rubber cement,” says Mr. Frenais, and off he goes to the nearest Staples, one town over, leaving his daughter and Karl to . . . um . . . er. . . .

The last time we saw them together, Cara had bluntly announced that Lizette
cared about Karl so much.
Lizette’s electrifying grip on his toe lasted a long time; neither of them could think of what to say next, and Lizette never moved her hand. If the loud guy in blue scrubs hadn’t appeared to collect the garbage, they might still be there, toe in fist; but as soon as he popped his head in and blared, “How’s everybody today?” Lizette dashed out the door.

And now they’re together again, just the two of them, and he knows he has to say something,
do
something, make his feelings known, or else she’ll think he wants to be
just friends
.

He summons his courage. He speaks.

“Um, I’ll pay you back for the mike.”

“You definitely will.”

“Thanks for getting it. And for bringing your father.”

“No problem. Glad to help.”

He’s run out of words. She pops a piece of Orbit gum into her mouth and turns her back to him. He’s not sure what that means, but it can’t be good.

Except that it helps: not having to look her in the eye makes it possible to speak again. “I’ve been wanting to say to you—ever since the first day when you showed up at school—I like you so much. But I kind of thought—I think a lot of people thought—that you . . .”

She keeps her back turned but cocks her ear to make sure she hears the end of the sentence.

“. . . were gay,” he mumbles, fearfully.

She whirls around. Her face has turned Red Lobster red.

“What?!
Why? Because I like sports? Because I don’t wear quarts of makeup, or dress like Cara?”

“No, none of that. I don’t know . . .“

She stalks over to the door. “I don’t
want
to act like that, or dress like that. It’s never gonna happen. What’s that got to do with anything, anyway? Does a person
have
to be like her to be accepted? And
you—
how could—“

She’s too upset to limit herself to one thought at a time— too upset to speak. It looks to Karl as if she might just run away. Panicking—not because he needs her help with the hidden mike, but because she
can’t
leave this way, before she even knows how he feels—he blurts out, “I kept wishing you
weren’t
gay. I’m not even sure anymore why I thought it. I was stupid.”

“That’s an understatement.”

An old man in a wheelchair goes past the doorway, peeking in. When he’s out of sight, Lizette kicks the doorframe with her sneaker and says a quiet, “Ow.”

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah. I think.”

She’s far away from him, and still angry. Maybe she’s too angry to ever forgive him; otherwise, wouldn’t she come back to him?

The disappointment silences him, until he remembers what Cara said:
That’s because you care about him so much.

Powered by the last grain of hope left inside him, he asks, “Was Cara right? About you liking me?”

“Yeah. Uh-huh.” She’s focusing on the little opening in the doorframe where the latch fits in. “I like being around you. I never know what’s going to come out of your mouth— some comment that I have to think about and figure out a half hour later. When you’re not saying something that sends me into a raging fit, that is.”

“That’s the best thing anybody ever said to me.”

Lizette smiles, a long line with a little hook at the end, but she still avoids looking at him.

It would be reasonable to assume that they’ll finally let go of their doubts and insecurities and lunge at each other now. But it’s not that simple, not for these two. When you’re really shy—really,
really
shy—even this much reassurance isn’t quite enough.
¹

“Tell you what,” Lizette says. “Can we just pretend we didn’t say any of this stuff, till after the test?”

“Okay, but why?”

“Because we need our heads on straight for the next few days.”

Karl agrees.
She’s so wise and mature
, he thinks.

While they wait for Mr. Frenais to come back with the rubber cement, Lizette wanders back to the hospital bed. Discreetly, she walks two fingers onto the sheet until they reach his hand. There, on his palm, the two fingers do a little Rockettes-style dance. Neither of them knows what to do next—so they’re both relieved when Mr. Frenais walks in with the Staples bag and says, “That was easy.”

A good dad, he pretends he sees nothing as Lizette rockets backward, away from Karl. Then it’s back to business: brushing the viscous rubber cement onto the bottom of the microphone, parting Karl’s hair to clear a narrow runway of scalp, pressing the mike firmly into place, and artfully arranging Karl’s hair around it. While pressing down on the mike and waiting for the cement to dry, Mr. Frenais says, “I’m curious about one thing, Karl.”

“What’s that?”

“I’m wondering, can you tell me, in fifty words or less, why you don’t want to go through life cheating?”

Mr. Frenais has short gray hair that stands straight up. He looks like a retired astronaut, or a little general, and has a rough, hoarse voice—you can easily imagine him yelling orders at his football team—but he asks this question in a kindly way, almost like a minister. That’s good, because Karl knows this is a test, which will either win him Mr. Frenais’s support or provoke his eternal disapproval. As calmly as he can, he thinks and speaks.

“I guess, more than anything else, it’s about what kind of person you want to be,” he says.

“You’re sure that’s the reason?”

With sinking hopes, Karl replies, “I think so, uh-huh.”

“Pretty good answer,” Mr. Frenais says, and takes a break from holding the mike in place so he can shake Karl’s hand. “I was thinking more along the lines of, if you cheat, you have to always worry about someone catching you, and that’s not the best way to live—but I like what you said, too.”

Mr. Frenais’s hand is rough and calloused, but Karl is so relieved, he’d gladly keep shaking it all day.

Mr. Frenais, however, goes back to pressing on the mike, and adds a P.S.: “’Course, all this sneakin’ around wouldn’t be necessary if you’d done the right thing in the first place. But nobody’s perfect. Except my little girl here.”

After a long fifteen minutes, Karl can nod and even shake his head without dislodging the microphone. Both Lizette and her father swear they can’t see a trace of it through his hair. The two Frenaises say good-bye for now; Lizette waggles two fingers, reminding him of her little dance on his hand.

As soon as he’s alone, Karl’s innards swish like dirty laundry around an agitator. What if he can’t get Klimchock and Upchurch to say what he needs them to say? What if he tries too hard and they get suspicious, or if he sweats so much that his hair gets soaked and flat, exposing the microphone? If they see it, they’ll reach in and tear Karl’s liver out. An infinite number of things could go wrong—but worse than any
What if
is the one thing that’s certain. No college will accept a convicted cheater.

Maybe he’d better start paying attention to those commercials for technical schools, the ones where, each time you learn how to use a tool, it goes in your toolbox.

Lizette calls Mr. Klimchock at the school and Phillip Upchurch at his house, and delivers the message that Karl is still in the hospital, and he thinks he’s too sick to take the test.

They wait together for the first visitor to show up. Each time they hear the elevator bell go
dong,
they look at each other with a grim sort of gaze,
This is it, the moment of truth.
Frankly, it gets pretty absurd after a while. A dozen strangers wander past the doorway—a dozen grim gazes—but then, just as Karl lets out a little snort at the comedy of it all, their first visitor shows up.

It’s an Upchurch, but not Phillip.

Randall Upchurch, Realtor and candidate for mayor, could pass for a male model, thirty years later (except, perhaps, for the shape of his head, which reminds Karl of a paramecium). His creamy white suit shows off the depth of his tan—which, to tell the truth, has sort of an orange tint, unless that’s a reflection from his peach-colored shirt. He wears his thinning hair combed straight back, and his teeth are as white as a new ream of paper.

“Karl Petrofsky?” he asks.

Karl nods.

“Randy Upchurch, glad to meet you.”

He shakes Karl’s hand firmly but cordially. Lizette is about to slip out of the room when the other elevator
dong
s, and they hear a familiar urgent rhythm: Mr. Klimchock’s heavy-footed approach.

Karl and Lizette exchange a panicked glance
(Both at once?!)
and then Klimchock is there in the doorway in his standard gray suit, frowning impatiently.

Karl’s stomach slides a bit to the side as Mr. Upchurch’s cologne surrounds him.

While Karl’s soul thrashes in a helpless panic, Mr. Klimchock’s frown evolves into a fit of confused consternation. His shining, smooth scalp turns deep pink. He can’t speak.

“Klimmy!” Mr. Upchurch laughs. “How’s the education biz? Still molding America’s future, one pimple at a time?”

Mr. Klimchock’s mouth opens, but no words come out. His cheek twitches.

Another
dong—
and Samantha Abrabarba enters the room, carrying a small turquoise gift bag. She’s wearing lavender slacks today, and a yellow blouse with a big foofy front. It seems to Karl that she must go through lipstick and eye makeup by the vat.

“I thought I’d have you to myself, cutie-pie,” she says, taking in the crowd. “Mind if I cut in front?” she asks Mr. Upchurch, and hands Karl the gift bag. Inside, a Beanie Babies stegosaurus peeks out, with plaid fur. She leans over and kisses Karl on the cheek while he sends Lizette a scrunch-browed grimace—
She’s crazy, I don’t even like her
—but Lizette misses the signal because she’s glaring at the floor.

“You’re a popular young man,” Mr. Upchurch says.

No need to reply, because Samantha takes over. “This is peculiar,” she says, eyeing the two older men. “What are you two doing here?”

The assistant principal and Mr. Upchurch dart evasive glances around the room.

“What does Phillip Upchurch have to do with Karl?” Samantha wonders out loud. “And why would Mr. Klimchock come visit you in the hospital?”

Lizette moves to the foot of Karl’s bed and addresses them all crankily. “Listen, y’all—Karl is still sick, in case you didn’t notice. You can’t come in here all together, you’ll wear him out and then he’ll have a relapse. Could we get some cooperation here?”

Samantha gives Lizette a suspicious sidelong gaze. “Karl, why is she bossing everybody around? Do you want to whisper anything in my ear?”

“No, everything’s fine.”

“I smell something fishy. Why would they all be here together?”

Mr. Upchurch lets out an extremely fake guffaw. Mr. Klimchock follows his lead with a strained
Hmp hmp hmp.

“You’re not fooling me,” Samantha says dryly.

“Will you please just
—be quiet
!” blurts Lizette.

“No, and you can’t make me.”