Cheating Lessons: A Novel (5 page)

After Joe Terrell lost his job, Bernadette had transferred out of Catholic school. She started eighth grade at North Creighton Middle School not knowing a single person. She was well aware of what happened when you ate lunch alone for too long—you became a loser, someone with no friends. She didn’t know the precise amount of time involved before the “loser” label became permanent, but she gave herself one month.

She tried hard. She smiled whenever she caught someone’s eye. Laughed at any jokes she heard. Sometimes after she spoke up in class—she loved to speak up in class—she thought she heard snickers. Was there something ridiculous about her—her appearance? her voice? –that her friends and family had never mentioned? She couldn’t ask her parents—they felt guilty enough at making her switch schools. She would have asked her old friends but, as several of them told her on the phone, eighth grade was keeping them swamped. She heard this with an envy so violent, it scared her. It certainly kept her from admitting that she had to double-check her algebra and rewrite perfect drafts just to stay occupied until dinner.

She’d been in school three weeks when a chance came. At lunch Bernadette was pretending to be absorbed in a dog-eared copy of
The Fellowship of the Ring
when someone sat down across from her. Jillian something, from American History, a gleaming-haired girl always chatting and giggling with coed clusters of friends.

“Hi,” Bernadette said. No response. “My name’s Bernadette.”

The girl lifted her eyes just as high as the chocolate stain on Bernadette’s T-shirt, which Bernadette had decided that morning was so faint as to be unnoticeable. Jillian’s curled lip said clearly this was not the case. “Hi,” she finally said, as if it cost her money.

This must be God punishing her, Bernadette realized, though for what she didn’t know. She would try harder. In breathy tones she said, “Didn’t you just
love
the way Mrs. Pruitt talked about the Boston Massacre? It was like, wow, I could really imagine being there.”

Yes! Jillian was putting down her soda! Making eye contact! “There was a massacre in Boston? Like what—a sniper or something? And you
liked
it? You’re sick.” She picked up her tray and flounced away to squeeze in at the crowded center table where a seat had opened up.

Bernadette’s cheeks flamed as she scanned the room for lethal weapons. Her old school had featured heavy metal crucifixes with nice sharp edges—in a pinch she could have slit her wrists. But the most dangerous thing she could see in this godforsaken place was the plastic spoon-fork on her tray.
Could
you commit suicide with a spork?

Suppressed giggles exploded nearby. Two girls at the end of her table were holding their hands over their mouths.

The black-haired one said kindly, in a croaky voice, “You gotta understand—all the easy-readers on the Boston Massacre were checked out.”

“Wait’ll she looks for it on the news at eleven,” the other girl said, and stifled a shriek of laughter.

“My name’s Nadine,” said the frog-voiced girl. “Is that as good as
The Hobbit?”

“What?” Bernadette stared at the book on her tray. “Oh—it’s better.” She snapped it shut and slid it down the table like an offering. For the first time in weeks, she returned a smile meant for her. “Here. You read it and tell me what you think.”

The rest had been history—and English, and math, and sleepovers, and countless Saturdays of debate . . . .

Now Nadine was groaning in recollection. “Jillian! What a little twerp she was! Not to mention dumb as a stone.” She frowned across the table. “But Bet—Lori’s not like her. Lori’s good-looking, I know, and maybe no nuclear physicist. But Jillian was
mean.
” She glared at Bernadette as though she could implant this essential distinction into her friend’s head by force of will. “You can’t let ancient history screw up your logic. Lori is okay.”

Bernadette scrutinized her plate, pretending deafness. Nadine was right, of course. Why was that so hard to admit? “All right. I’ll behave myself, I promise.” People with only one friend to eat lunch with should be careful. She thought of her mother’s advice—was
this
what Martha meant about being too critical?

“All right, then.” Nadine twirled a French fry in blueberry yogurt before eating it. “
Prometheus Bound!”
She shook her head. “Gimme a break.”

“It was on the test. I wrote down all the questions I remembered.”

That caught Nadine’s interest. Bernadette thought it would. “I can’t remember any of them. What else was on there?”

“King Lear. Kafka’s Metamorphosis. Euripides.”

“I knew
King Lear.”
The absorbed voice belonged to the bookish, competitive Nadine again. “I guessed on Kafka.”

“Me too.”

Nadine ate another blue fry. “It
was
a hard test.” She peered through her bangs at Bernadette.

“Very.”

“Of course when Malory teaches you a book, you remember it.”

“When he
teaches
it, yes. You do.”

“He’s a great teacher.”

Bernadette remained silent.

“And slim-hipped,” Nadine added.

“What do his hips have to do with anything?”

“I’m just changing the subject. I’m tired of obsessing about the test questions, if you really want to know.”

“I’m not obsessing!” Bernadette said. Nadine raised an eyebrow. “All right, maybe I am. But Nadine—tell me you really think David Minor got a ninety-two percent. There were books about
girls
on that test. Fully clothed.”

“What’s your point? Are you saying somebody cheated?”

“No!” Bernadette hesitated. But wasn’t she?

“Three teachers proctored it. Mr. Malory opened the test right there in the classroom, sealed and everything.”

The NCS tests were delivered registered mail and not opened until the test date. Wickham had paid $250 in entry fees to compete. Mr. Malory had hoped this information would make them seriously try on a test that did not, after all, affect their GPA. “He handed the tests to Ms. Kestenberg when the time was up,” Nadine added in a “so there” voice.

Bernadette would trust their debate coach with her darkest secrets, if she had any, so she felt ridiculous as she muttered, “She took them down to the office. Alone
.
”

“So?”

“The school that wins the Classics Bowl gets laptop computers for the coach and team members,” Bernadette said. “And each kid gets a ten thousand dollar scholarship to whatever college they’re going to.”

Nadine stopped stirring her drink. “Ten thousand dollars?
And
a laptop? That’s terrific. Are they made of money? Ms. K. was saying on Saturday she was saving for a laptop. Are you sure about that?”

“It’s their Tenth Anniversary Bowl. That’s why it’s so much. It was in the brochure at the office.” Bernadette grabbed the news article. “Here it is at the bottom.”

Nadine pushed the article away. “Ms. Kestenberg is a
teacher.
And she’s not even the coach. Oh, wait—maybe you think Mr.
Malory’s
in on it. Maybe he promised to hand his computer over after we win.” Her taunting voice lashed Bernadette. “If anyone cheated, then we’re not the real winners and we’ll go on TV against Pinehurst and look like dopes.” She got up. “You think too much. What you’re saying is libel.”

“Slander.”

“Whatever. It stinks.” Nadine picked up her tray. “And you have crumbs all over your face.” She marched to the conveyor belt and slid her tray down the line so hard, it banged into another tray and broke a glass. An angry “Hey!” came from behind the kitchen wall.

Bernadette’s lips pursed into a modified trout face. With dignity she brushed off her cheeks. With her fork she made precise crisscross tracks in the puce-colored glop on her plate.

You shouldn’t let emotion screw up your logic. If Nadine had stuck around, it would have been Bernadette’s turn to point that out.

CHAPTER FIVE

The spirits that I summoned up / I now can’t rid myself of.

—Goethe,
The Sorcerer’s Apprentice

I
t took all of fifth period for Bernadette to reach the conclusion that possibly Nadine had a point. Again. Possibly she, Bernadette, was the one being the jerk. During change of class she navigated the flow of bodies coursing through the main hall until she surfaced in the media center doorway. She had to think.

Mr. Malory could explain the scoring.

Her breathing grew faster at the idea of a private interview. What if he thought she just wanted to be alone with him?

“Oh, for Pete’s sake. He’s above that,” she said out loud.

“Above what?” The hand that clapped her shoulder sparkled with multiple rings setting off shiny pink nails.

Bernadette turned, already smiling. If they had beauty pageants for plump people, Lucy Kestenberg could be Miss Michigan. Even Wickham’s cheerleaders, no slouches at cosmetic enhancement, admired the way Ms. K.’s flawless grooming and vividly colored, ultra-stylish suits made a size 16 seem like something to shoot for.

Ms. Kestenberg was Wickham’s librarian. Besides stocking required books, she always kept Sarah Sloan mysteries on her “Too Good to Miss” shelf. Sarah Sloan’s heroines were usually librarians, or else the crime was committed in a library, or maybe the murderer had endowed the library. It was an enormous source of satisfaction to both Ms. Kestenberg and Bernadette that someone had finally realized how exciting a library could be. They had a running bet to see who could read the latest one first. Ms. K. had won on
Death Overdue,
but Bernadette had triumphed by ordering
Subscription Expired
over the Internet.

This year Ms. K. had taken over as coach of the debate team. She was coming along nicely, in spite of a tendency to harp too much on sportsmanship. “You must
persuade.
Arrogance is not persuasive,” she’d say.

Each time she heard this, Bernadette would exclaim, “Tell me about it,” and wish someone would give such counsel to Pinehurst, who needed it.

“I’ve been keeping an eye out for you,” the librarian said now. Her fuchsia suit blazed against denim-clad students like a burning bush in the desert. Loud noises might be prohibited in the library, but Ms. Kestenberg’s clothes were a visual yell. “Winning the Classics Contest! Your class must be wild. I hope this makes up for some of those debate losses.”

Bernadette grinned. “It helps, I’ll tell you that.” She stepped into the library. The hall noise dropped to a distant roar among the tall shelves and carpeted floor. “In fact, I meant to ask you—didn’t you proctor that test?”

“I certainly did. The rules say you need three faculty members present. Mrs. Standish was there, too.” Back at her desk, Ms. K. eased into her swivel chair and started clicking away at her keyboard.

Bernadette moved closer. “Ms. K., we got a
ninety-two percent
on that test.”

“Frank Malory told me. It’s wonderful.”

“Yeah. It would be, except—we couldn’t have. None of us knew all those books.” She thought of Lori. “Some of us couldn’t spell them.”

Ms. K. looked up. A flicker of unease showed deep in her mascara-fringed eyes. Just a micro-tightening of facial muscles that was hard to detect, but Bernadette could have sworn it was there. “Well, now, I wouldn’t know about that. They graded the tests at NCS.”

“Mr. Malory didn’t grade them first?”

“Oh, no.” Ms. Kestenberg patted her lacquered hair. “NCS is as security-mad as the CIA, to hear Frank. He knows all about it. They grade the answer sheets by hand and then again by machine. Just in case.”

“In case of—?”

“Mistakes, of course.” Her look dared Bernadette to suggest something else. “Anyone can make mistakes.”

“Ms. K., I can’t help thinking there’s
been
a mistake.” Bernadette glanced around the library, but no one was paying attention. “Maybe our answer sheets got mixed up with St. John’s Gifted, or Detroit Country Day. I’d know better if I could see the test.”

Ms. K. hit the return key. “The instructions say distinctly that the test is not to be copied. They make you send it right back that day, along with the answer sheets.”

“Oh.” Bernadette wondered if she’d imagined that eye flash of alarm. “Well, I’ll see you at the debate tournament Saturday,” she said. The typing never slowed.

She had almost reached the door when Ms. Kestenberg called, “Bernadette.”

“Yes?”

Ms. K. motioned her closer. “There
is
a copy of the test.”

“But you said—”

“Mr. Malory has it. He left me in charge toward the end of the period while he used the copier in the teacher’s lounge.” On Ms. K.’s monitor, the HELP screen flashed over and over. “Frank—Mr. Malory—wanted a copy to prepare your class for the AP exam. Teachers are always using old state tests to get kids ready for the MEAPs. I didn’t see any harm.”

MEAPs were Michigan tests for checking that students learned at least some basic skills. “Me neither,” Bernadette said.

It was as though she’d given the librarian absolution. Ms. K. exhaled noisily and smiled at her. “I bet every school who took it has a copy of the stupid thing if we only knew.” She stabbed Cntrl/Break savagely. “Oh, hell’s
bells.
Sorry, Bernadette. I wondered at the time whether I should have objected, but it was—awkward.” She twisted one of her rings around her finger several times. “Without being a complete Goody Two-Shoes. Frank Malory is very persuasive. People don’t realize.”

Bernadette’s face mirrored the arch of Ms. K’s well-shaped eyebrows. There passed between them a woman-to-woman look exactly like one Bernadette might exchange with Nadine. “People realize, Ms. K. I think the hamsters in the science room realize.”

That look again.

“The
girl
hamsters,” she added, a beat ahead of the librarian. They laughed in rueful, unspoken acknowledgement of the power of sex.

Why isn’t Ms. K. married? Bernadette wondered suddenly. Some man was missing out on a good thing.

Ms. K. was saying what did you want to bet that the whole thing was graded on a curve. This seemed to reassure her. “And now,” she said, “I’ve got something for you. A little reward, you might say.” She rooted around under her desk and produced a shopping bag.