Early morning fog. Damp chill in the air. Quiet out, except for a blue jay shrieking and the loose fan belt slapping as Mom lets the engine idle.
Karl’s heavy exhaustion helps subdue his anxiety. Ironic: for once, he’s nervous before a test like everyone else, though for very different reasons.
“You’re sure you’re up to this?” his mother asks. “You don’t have to go in. You can take it the next time instead.”
In his altered state, he notices every crumpled scrap of paper in the cup holder, and the coffee stain on the emergency-brake handle. “I’m totally fine,” he claims. A little burp brings up the taste of the hard-boiled eggs she served him an hour before.
“Quick: antelope is to deer as cantaloupe is to what?”
“Mom, they don’t give analogies anymore.”
His head is light as he steps out of the car, though his body seems to have put on an extra hundred pounds. He moves slowly so he won’t lose his balance and fall over.
“I’ll pick you up at twelve-thirty,” his mother calls through the open window. “Hopefully the car’ll be fixed by then. If not, we’ll have a nice walk home. Don’t forget to eat those nuts in the break! I love you.”
He blows her a kiss-their old habit, an involuntary reflex-and the white Accord heads down the street.
He walks along the ragged line outside the school door. Antonio Feferman sips casually from a Starbucks cup; Ivan Fretz turns the pages of a thick review book, skimming with rapid head movements. The sleeves of Karl’s jacket rub his arm hairs uncomfortably; that’s how he knows he’s still sick.
“Who let the cadaver out of the lab?”
Lizette pulls Karl into the line.
“Hey, Karl, you don’t look your usual bubbly self.”
That’s Matt, nervously nodding. Jonah’s there, too. Subdued, he shakes Karl’s hand.
“So,” Karl says softly, “you’re taking the test even though…”
“I’m hoping they’ll let me back into school. Somehow.”
He smiles, trying to be brave. There’s something different about him. He looks more grown up, less awkward.
“Braces off. Last week.”
“You’ve been out of touch, big guy.”
“Yeah, you missed my three home-run game,” Lizette says.
She seems tense-which is understandable on SAT day, especially since she’s involved in a conspiracy, and also doesn’t know exactly where she stands with Karl and whether they’ll soon be a couple or will stay-sigh-just friends.
“So, old chum,” says Matt, “would you be open to sending us the right answers, telepathically?”
“Look at him,” Lizette comments, a quick change of subject. “He’s a wreck. You better hope the essay topic is Why I Feel Like Dog Doo Today.”
“You wouldn’t be nervous, would you, Karl?” Matt pokes him in the chest. “That would not be logical.”
He deserves the taunts, he supposes. After all, he did heartlessly abandon the three of them. The funny thing is, he enjoys the teasing. It’s good to be back.
Farther back on the line, a slender patch of blue moves metronome-fashion in the air. This is Blaine’s sweater sleeve, waving. Behind him stand Vijay, Ian, Tim, and Noah. Vijay sends Karl a discreet thumbs-up.
Karl turns his head away, as if dodging a blinding flash.
Up at the head of the line, Phillip Upchurch stands apart in his khaki slacks and blazer. (If a Harvard scout puts in a surprise appearance, at least Phillip won’t have to worry about being underdressed.) Mr. Sweddy, the gym teacher, checks his watch repeatedly. With him stand four unfamiliar men in dark suits and sunglasses. Each has a square white badge on his jacket, but they’re too far away to read the little words. “Who do you think they are?” Karl asks.
Lizette: “FBI?”
“They look more like an a cappella group,” says Matt.
Eight o’clock. The line begins to move. Karl pats his pockets: three number two pencils in his windbreaker’s inside pocket (all wooden, none electronic); admission ticket in his windbreaker’s outer pocket, left side; student ID in left pants pocket; Baggie full of salted nuts in windbreaker’s outer pocket, right side; iPod Nano loaded with incriminating recordings in left shirt pocket, covered by flap; and digital transmitter in right shirt pocket, likewise hidden by flap.
“Into the mouth of the monster marched the innocent multitudes,” Matt moans.
Passing through the entranceway, Karl reads the badges of the men in dark suits. They all say the same thing: ETS, PRINCETON.
Educational Testing Service. The makers of the test.
What’s that thumping in the distance? Oh-his heart.
The students file through the dim hallway, past the band room, the office, the nurse’s office, the auditorium, the art studio-around many corners, like obedient mice in a maze. The school looks different this Saturday morning, with all the doors closed and the room lights out. Bleak. Deserted.
In the gym, four teachers-Watney, Singh, Franklin, and Verp-huddle together by the bleachers.
Karl and his friends mill around like everyone else, waiting for whatever comes next. “Now I know how cattle feel when they’re herded into the slaughterhouse,” Jonah says.
“Son, you’ve got to work on that attitude,” Lizette replies.
Karl’s laugh dies fast when he notices the entire Confederacy hovering just behind him-including Phillip Upchurch.
“Hey, amigo,” says Blaine. “Good to go?”
Though Karl has engineered a massive deception, a simple lie is harder to pull off. “Rmff,” he says, nodding.
Blaine pats him on the back. “Good luck-to all of us.” He adds a private murmur: “Visualize success.”
“Attention, students,” Miss Verp announces, in a voice like a drawer full of silverware landing on the floor. “You will now divide yourselves into four equal groups.”
The teachers spread out along the bottom row of the bleachers and wait for the students to line up in front of them. Karl wanders over to Herr Franklin, who seems the least likely of the four to notice anything. His friends come with him, and so does the Confederacy.
The mass migration arouses suspicion. Here comes Miss Verp, whispering in Herr Franklin’s ear-and there he goes, taking over her group. Alarmingly, Miss Verp gives Karl a malicious smile as she says, “Follow me, students.”
Something pink hurries into the gym. It’s Samantha, wearing a satin jacket with padded shoulders, searching urgently among the students as they file out the opposite way.
Karl turns to hide, but it’s too late, she’s spotted him. “We got stuck in the car, waiting for the Healthy Hearts Walkathon to cross Jefferson Avenue. You never saw a bunch of people move so slowly.”
“Ssh!” Miss Verp hisses, and points wrathfully at Samantha.
Each of the four teachers leads his or her group a different way. By the time the Verp group arrives at room 211, one of the ETS men is already there, standing guard with crossed arms over two plastic bags on the teacher’s desk. The students fan out and take seats-Samantha and Lizette flank Karl, eyeing each other with suspicion and hostility, respectively-but Miss Verp corrects them. “Don’t sit directly behind or next to anyone else. Leave at least one empty seat in front, back, left, and right. No one should be within four feet of anyone else.”
After some comical shuffling about (if only he could laugh!), Karl ends up in the middle of the room, with Samantha in front of him to the left and Lizette behind him to the right. Miss Verp hands a test booklet to each student individually-she tosses Karl’s on his desk, slap-and then repeats the process with the answer sheets.
“Before we begin filling in the forms and reading the instructions, let me introduce Mr. O’Malley.”
The man in the suit, who has stationed himself at the back of the room, salutes with three fingers and a microscopic smile as the students turn and gaze at him. He has a pasty, blotchy complexion, a sturdy physique, and very small ears.
“Mr. O’Malley is here on official business from the ETS in Princeton. I can’t say more, but I’d advise you to follow all of the directions to the letter, and keep your eyes on your own work.”
“I called them,” Samantha whispers to Karl. “They have a hotline for tips.”
“Ssh!”
While Miss Verp writes the school’s address and code number on the blackboard, the members of the Confederacy trade glances that express defiance, smug confidence, boredom, and amusement. Vijay and Blaine check in with Karl silently: Vijay with a No sweat wink, and Blaine with a questioning look, You okay?
Not only is Karl not okay, he has begun (despite Vijay’s wink) to sweat profusely. If Mr. O’Malley sees him activate the iPod and transmitter, his plans will come flying apart like pieces of a giant turbine hit by a grenade, with lethal results.
Miss Verp reads the detailed instructions in a loud, buzzing monotone, pausing every minute or so to look up and ask, “Does everyone understand?” but not waiting for a reply. Acidic fluids have been sloshing in Karl’s stomach all morning. Imagining Mr. O’Malley leading him out of the room in handcuffs, he yearns to glance back at Lizette for moral support; he can’t afford to attract the ETS man’s attention, though.
Woozy, dizzy, fuzzy-brained, he remembers his adversaries, Klimchock and Upchurch, and pictures them playing soccer with his head. Frankly, he can’t visualize success.
Despite what Karl might think, Mr. Klimchock is not laughing nefariously at this moment, or rubbing his hands together in an archvillainous manner. He’s standing in his office with a helmetlike headset on: a device he read about in High School Administration Quarterly. Developed for precisely this purpose by a physics teacher in Bowbells, North Dakota, the headset makes radio waves visible. Mr. Klimchock tunes his clock-radio to the local oldies station, turns around, and sees his office filled with rippling curtains of sound. In bliss, he floats through this aurora borealis of luminous, ghostly filaments, and anticipates victory.
He turns to the clock-radio again and sees a glowing, throbbing circle that indicates the speaker. The vibrating diaphragm in each cheater’s earphone will show up this same way, minutes from now, when he leaves his office and visits the four classrooms.
His quest has succeeded, at last.
Across the street from the school, a single car is parked, a silver Mercedes in the shade of a locust tree. Inside, Randall Upchurch has his radio tuned to quiet static on 98.5 FM as he reviews the talking points for his speech at the Chamber of Commerce lunch, later today. This is a pleasant time for him: his campaign manager has drafted some excellent material (he especially likes the bit about better schools with smarter-i.e., less-spending), and he’s enjoying the knowledge that he has gone the extra mile for his son, taking time from his impossibly busy schedule to make sure the Petrofsky kid keeps his word, because this day will be crucial in shaping Phillip’s future. (Too bad his son has grown up to be such a-well, never mind that, he’s still young, he may grow out of it.)
The clock in room 211 reads 8:44. Miss Verp finished reading the instructions five minutes ago and has let the students savor the moments before the test in pure, nerve-racking silence.
Ivan Fretz-that dismal, crushed creature-whispers over his shoulder, “Good luck, Karl.”
“Thanks. You too.”
Ivan rolls his eyes and sighs grimly, as if to say, It doesn’t matter how I do, I’m doomed no matter what.
Miss Verp goes to the door and closes it quietly. “Begin section one!” she screeches.
Mr. O’Malley moves up and down the aisles, inspecting. The Confederates pretend to read their test booklets while waiting for the answers to reach their earphones. Samantha searches the room like a hungry raptor, paying special attention to Blaine.
Karl sees his chance: a moment will come, and it may come only once, when Mr. O’Malley will have his back to Karl as he approaches the front of the room, and his body will obstruct Miss Verp’s line of sight. Karl will have less than a second. He must not fumble.
Unexpectedly calm, he awaits the Verpal eclipse. When it comes, he pushes on each shirt pocket once, barely perceptibly, activating first the transmitter, then the iPod.
That’s all it takes. As he starts work on the first section of the test, the two devices deliver the following message to all who happen to be tuned to 98.5 megahertz:
“This is Karl Petrofsky. Certain students asked me to help them cheat on the SAT. Mr. Klimchock found out and tried to get me to go ahead and cheat, so he could track the signal and see which students were listening. (If you can hear this, you may want to take out your earphones and hide them, fast.) Phillip Upchurch’s father also wanted me to cheat, for different reasons. Can I prove any of this? Yes.”
Next, the listeners hear Mr. Klimchock say, “You have to take the SAT, Karl. You have to cheat again, so I can catch the rest of them. You don’t have a choice. I’ve already offered to keep your cheating out of your school records and to lie to colleges that you’re a top-notch fencer. You can’t say no.”
A plasticky snap (the sound of Lizette’s tape recorder button) separates Klimchock’s voice from Upchurch’s.
“No time for chitchat now. You’re going to take the SAT Saturday. You’ll transmit the answers to Phillip and the others. He told me about the scheme with the pencil-it’s brilliant. I’ll make it worth your while. Let’s say, five thousand dollars cash, in two installments, one after the test and one after the scores come back.”
Karl’s voice returns now. “Only a few people know about this. I could have sent the tapes to all the newspapers, but I decided to give you both a chance. Leave me alone. Stop tyrannizing the school, Mr. Klimchock-and take that note off my student record. Mr. Upchurch, stop threatening me, and leave Swivel Brook Park alone. Because I can still mail the tapes. And don’t try to steal them, because I’ve left copies in secret locations, addressed to the New York Times, the Star Ledger, and New Jersey Magazine. If anything happens to me, they go straight in the mailbox. This concludes the audio portion of our broadcast.”
Although Karl managed to read his prepared speech with quiet bravado, he’s in a different state of mind now. Keeping his head down, he struggles to concentrate on sentence completion questions as Mr. O’Malley moves slowly up and down the aisles. And Mr. O’Malley is just one of his fears. What if the angry Confederates stab him with their pencils? Or maybe Mr. Klimchock will run into the room and skewer him with a sword. Or, Randall Upchurch may bash him in the skull with a solid gold brick.
Of course, there’s also a chance that the technology failed, and the recording didn’t reach any of them-in which case, as soon as the test is over, Blaine and the others will tear him limb from limb.
No-that’s one worry he can cross out, because up in the front row, Blaine is taking off his sweater. Mr. Cool has suddenly gotten hot; sweaty gray patches have formed on the armpits of his polo shirt. The sweater removal has mussed his hair, a first.
Over by the windows, Ian is breathing hard and fast.
Back to the test Karl goes, hunching over the desk, shutting out everything and everyone-and therefore not noticing Samantha, who’s staring back at the little red light in his shirt pocket, which is visible because the pocket flap has popped up the way those flaps so often do. The short antenna is standing up, diagonally, just enough to make its function clear.
Samantha can’t figure out what this means-until she does. Her eyes open wide; the mascaraed lashes look like hair standing on end. This could go a few different ways-hurt, horror, disillusionment. She draws a colossal breath-her chest inflates to twice its normal size. With the cumulative rage of a woman long deceived but not any more, she prepares to blast her trumpet to the world, Karl Petrofsky is cheating!
A pasty hand in a dark sleeve grips her padded pink shoulder. “Young lady, come with me, please.”
Mr. O’Malley has levitated her from her seat. “Take your things,” he tells her, and confiscates her test book and answer sheet.
“I saw someone cheating,” she blares.
“Must have been your own reflection,” he replies. “You’ve been looking everywhere but at your own test the whole time.”
“I’m a reporter! I’ve been investigating them for months! I’m the one who tipped you guys off!”
“Ma’am,” Mr. O’Malley tells Miss Verp, “please destroy this test book and answer sheet. She’s done for today.”
“You can’t do this! I’m not leaving.”
“You’re interfering with all of these people’s test taking. If you don’t walk out that door right now, I’ll have to invalidate the test for everyone here. And you’ll have to answer to them for their wasted time and mental anguish.”
“Look in his shirt pocket! Just look!”
Her frenzied insistence perplexes Mr. O’Malley-but not Miss Verp, who strides eagerly down the aisle and sends her cold, stubby fingertips into Karl’s shirt pockets, right and left. Good thing he slipped the iPod and transmitter into his pants pocket as soon as Samantha opened her mouth.
“I’m not the one who cheated!” Samantha bellows as the door closes behind her.
“Hm!” Miss Verp comments: you may have hidden the evidence, Petrofsky, but I know you’re in this up to your skinny neck.
She returns to her desk without further probing, however, leaving Karl and the other students to puzzle their way through the long test-separately and honestly.
12. Ms. Newcastle disliked Arnold’s ____________________ manner; she much preferred his brother’s ____________________.
a. felonious…belligerence
b. gullible…decrepitude
c. naïve…ostentation
d. devious…simplicity
e. loquacious… tenacity
While Karl and the other students were acting out this drama in room 211, a very different scene unfolded nearby.
Giddy with anticipation, unable to sit still, Mr. Klimchock roamed the halls for many minutes, floating in a substance-less web of radio waves. At 8:45, test time, he climbed the stairs to the second floor. His headphones picked up the first signal, a crackly snap, just as he entered room 223. “This is Karl Petrofsky,” said a familiar voice.
He stopped in the doorway. This wasn’t what they agreed-
No need to dwell on his rage and panic. Let’s fast-forward to the end of the recording, which finds him still in the doorway, watched curiously by Mr. Watney, a pudgy ETS man, and a room full of students.
Choosing a course of action comes easily, instinctively. He flees.
Face on fire, exposed, he stops at his office to gather his theater posters, personal files, and Les Miz mug. Then he heads for the teachers’ parking lot, where the boxlike black Scion awaits him in the space labeled ASS ANT P IN PAL.
After shoving his belongings into the rear, he backs out and zips away-but brakes as he leaves the lot, because there, across the street from the school, is Randall Upchurch, swinging a tennis racquet with two hands, furiously clanging it against a streetlight like a psychotic lumberjack. To Mr. Klimchock, this odd scene represents a faint ray of light amid the darkness of disgrace. He lowers his window as he drives by and laughs at his old enemy-or, shouts, really, “HA!”
The morning passes quickly for Karl; his concentration carries him through the hours until Miss Verp collects the answer sheets and test books. She counts them under Mr. O’Malley’s watchful eye, checks each book to make sure the test taker’s name is on it, and then the students are free to go.
Lizette taps Karl lightly on the head. “Success?”
He surveys the room cautiously. Blaine, Vijay, Noah, Ian, and Tim are filing out with the others. Not one of them glances back at Karl.
“I think so.”
Matt has stuck two pencils in his nostrils, eraser-end up, and they bounce against his lips as he speaks: “That was fun, let’s do it again.”
“Was Lois the victim of calumny or obfuscation?” asks Jonah.
“I don’t even remember that one,” Karl says.
Like blood returning to a sleeping foot, optimism seeps back into his spirit. Maybe his plan actually worked. Maybe he can live a normal life again.
“So, how’dja do?” Lizette asks as they exit the classroom.
“Okay, I think. How about you?”
“Same as you. Minus a few hundred points.”
The hallway has already emptied out. No one lies in wait for him. No rifles point at his head.
“I just want to go to sleep for three days,” Karl mumbles.
“Nobody’s stopping you.”
Lizette’s teasing is ambiguous: testy or fond? He remembers that she cares about him so much. The test is over; time to deal with that Other Thing.
The walk down the stairs lasts a long time, because he’s anxiously wondering whether Lizette wants him to hold her hand. No matter what she wants, he can’t do it-not in front of Jonah and Matt.
“Talk to you a minute, Karl?”
They’re at the school’s front door, about to exit. Blaine is standing off to the side. He’s got his blue sweater on again, and he’s not smiling. “In private, if you don’t mind.”
Lizette whispers, “I’ll wait right outside.”
The Slightly Irregular Three leave the building.
“That was an interesting surprise,” Blaine says.
Unsure what form the assault will take-words or blows- Karl leans backward, away from the reach of Blaine’s fists.
“You don’t mess around. Envelopes in secret locations. That’s heavy-duty.”
Karl has a strong impulse to confess that he exaggerated, that there’s really only one envelope, at his aunt’s house in Teaneck.
“I just want to say one thing,” Blaine begins.
“Look-I was in an impossible position.”
“Just one thing,” Blaine insists. “Thank you. For keeping us out of Klimchock’s trap.”
He offers Karl his hand. As they shake, he sighs. “Looks like I’ll be going to Princeton-Review, that is.”
He pats Karl on the back and pushes the heavy door open. “Adios, amigo. I’ll talk to you in a few years, with an investment opportunity.”
The door closes between them. Karl slumps against the handrail, exhausted.
Someone thumps on the door, wham wham wham wham wham.
“Karl? You okay in there?”
He pushes the lock bar to let Lizette in, but she pulls the door open so fast that he stumbles out into the bright sunlight.
He sees the near future with perfect clarity: he will tumble down the concrete steps, all dignity gone, and Lizette will lose her respect for him. He may lose a tooth or two as well.
That’s not how the scene plays out, though. She grabs his arm before he takes the tumble, and hoists him up almost vertical.
“Elegant move,” she comments.
Regaining his balance, with Lizette’s hand in his, he blinks in the sunlight. A peaceful breeze stirs the new leaves on the trees. There are no teachers or students around, just him and Lizette.
“Looks like you climbed out of that hole you were in,” she says. “Congratulations.”
You couldn’t choreograph a better lead-in to a first kiss if you planned for months. In fact, Karl knows, if he doesn’t kiss her, he’ll be a fool, a coward, a jerk.
Nevertheless…
“What is it, Karl?”
Nothing he can put into words. Just that he’s scared out of his wits.
Honk!
“Anybody need a ride?” his mother calls from the car.