My first reaction was an emotional one. Another human being cared enough to want to keep me at the Academy! Most of my classmates were so wrapped up in their own skills and talents that they barely noticed anybody else existed. Yet someone had noticed me, and this person was going to great lengths, and risking big trouble, to bail me out.
For a second there, my eyes actually filled with tears, and I almost missed my remote angel answering question 3. I would have bet money that I had no friends in this place. But somewhere in this building—or even outside of it—hunched over a laptop, was the greatest friend I never knew I had. Would the Daniels do something like this for me? Okay, the Daniels couldn’t pass this test if an alien microcomputer crash-landed inside their skulls. But even if they could, would they go out on a limb for me? I sincerely doubted it.
Who was doing it? They were all smart enough, but it took more than smarts. It took guts, and that was in short supply at the Academy. It could even be a teacher—Oz or Bevelaqua, trying to prove that the gifted program didn’t make mistakes.
I noticed the librarian looking at me curiously, so I took hold of the mouse, and pretended to be busy at work. By that time, “I” was on question 11, and cruising. My bewilderment was beginning to morph into relief. My date with Dr. Schultz, and the consequences of the Atlas incident, had been put on hold. I was dogpaddling again. This time it took a little help—okay, a lot of help. But I was still afloat, just like James Donovan.
The librarian shot me an encouraging smile. What she saw was a student who had all the answers.
And I did. Except one.
Who was doing this for me?
UNFORGIVABLE
MS. BEVELAQUA
IQ: 140
It makes perfect sense that a class with a teacher named Oz would call their robot Tin Man. The parallel to The Wizard of Oz doesn’t stop there. In the famous story, the Tin Man lacks a brain; what he gets instead is a diploma.
I’m beginning to suspect that’s what happened with Donovan Curtis.
He passed the test with flying colors. It was wonderful. We were all really happy for him. Except that it meant exactly as much as the words printed on the Tin Man’s parchment. He was still failing my class quite spectacularly. In science, his average was below 50 percent and below 40 in the chemistry and physics portions. He was passing English, but just barely. His C-minus in social studies was the jewel in his crown, except for robotics. He was running a B average there, but only because he was handy with a joystick—a mark of someone who has taken on a life of solemn worship at the altar of Xbox or PlayStation.
Does this sound like Academy material to you?
“He passed the test, Maria,” Brian Del Rio, our principal, reminded me. “What more can we ask of him?”
“A decent grade would be nice,” I retorted. “Or some faint trace that might indicate mastery of a subject.”
“We cut Noah Youkilis a lot of slack,” Brian challenged her. “Why shouldn’t Donovan deserve the same consideration?”
I sighed. “You’re comparing apples and oranges. Come to think of it, pumpkins and raisins.” A more appropriate contrast might be Betelgeuse and the nucleus of a carbon atom. “Noah is the kind of mind that comes along once in a teaching career, if you’re lucky.”
“But the test—” the principal insisted.
“If I buy a dog, but when I open the carrier I find a hamster inside, is it a dog because that’s what it says on the bill of sale? My powers of observation and reasoning trump words on a piece of paper. I don’t know how he passed the test. I only know that he couldn’t have.”
Brian was adamant. He ran this place by the book. Donovan had passed and he was in. Everybody was covered—especially the principal. If there was blame to be assigned somewhere down the line, none of it was going to fall on him.
And it had to be in Brian’s mind that Donovan had solved the Human Growth and Development problem by providing his pregnant sister as a lab rat. Now, there was an oversight that would have resounded with the parents. I couldn’t fault him for being grateful for a solution. Parents can get ugly; parents of the gifted can be positively militant. What I did fault him for was allowing that gratitude to blind him to the truth about Donovan. Perhaps he thought it was harmless to harbor a mediocre student in the Academy. But that student was diluting the standards of the gifted program for everybody. Not to mention that Donovan was learning absolutely nothing here. He was entitled to a real education at his own level.
My colleagues seemed to be taking their lead from Brian. If the principal wasn’t worried, what concern was it of theirs? Of course they knew that Donovan wasn’t exactly acing their classes. But, hey, he’d passed the test. The test! It was as if they believed the test was an infallible superbeing that had descended to earth on a great space ark surrounded by thunderbolts of perfection.
Oz was the last bastion of sanity left in the building. He’d known from the beginning that something wasn’t right about Donovan. He was the one who’d asked for the retest. Surely he wasn’t complacent enough to put aside his teacher’s instinct just because of a test score.
When I barged into the robotics lab, at first I thought it was deserted because the lights were out, and I couldn’t see any people.
Then I looked down. There they all were—including Oz—lying flat on the floor with Katie Patterson, their pregnant lab rat. Loud, gasping, wheezing breaths issued from every throat.
“What’s going on here?” I exclaimed, shocked, scanning the room for a chemical leak.
“We’re breathing,” Oz panted.
“I can hear that. Why can’t you do it standing up with the lights on?”
“It’s a new variation on Lamaze,” Chloe explained. “Noah developed it. It’s much better than the original.”
And would you believe that my colleague made me wait until the end of the class before he managed to find time for me? I stood in the hall, fuming, listening to the scuba-respiration sounds coming from inside the lab. It took a while to resuscitate Noah, who had passed out from his own breathing technique. They were all red-faced and panting as they filed past me, but they looked vaguely pleased with themselves, as if they were accomplishing something. Maybe they were. Very little was beyond Noah’s capabilities when he wasn’t mounting a concerted effort to flunk.
I noted that they were grateful to their lab rat—but most of that gratitude was heaped on Donovan himself. And it wasn’t only gratitude. It was genuine affection. Noah regarded him with nothing less than worship. Chloe cast him soulful glances that might have indicated a crush. Even Abigail seemed to have softened her attitude toward him.
Oz was practically glowing with triumph, mopping at his face with a paper towel. “I have to admit I had my doubts about this project,” he said after his students had moved on. “But we’ve taken a course that was ninety percent giggling at the names of body parts and made it meaningful, and beautiful, and rooted in the real world! I’m going to write an article for American Teacher.”
That would be a must-read—all about how every class should adopt its own pregnant woman. “We need to talk about Donovan.”
He nodded. “Where would we be without him?”
“I’m not talking about Baby 101, Oz. I’m talking about Donovan as an Academy student. Have you noticed any improvement in his performance?”
“Oh, sure, he …” His voice trailed off.
“I didn’t think so,” I said crisply. “He’s bailed you out on Human Growth and Development and he’s the Mario Andretti of the robot-driving circuit. But his academics are no better than they ever were.”
“Well then, how did he pass the test?” Oz demanded with growing defiance.
“Maybe he didn’t,” I mused, voicing for the first time a thought that had been nagging at me over the past few days.
“Are you saying he cheated?” he sputtered. “Impossible! He took that test over a secure internet connection directly from the state department of education. He wa
s alone in the library with a staff member’s eye on him every second.”
“It’s impossible for Donovan,” I agreed. “But what about the others?”
His incredulous expression slowly settled into one of alarm. Of course the others were capable of hacking into a secure connection, some of them without breaking a sweat.
“Why would they do it?” he managed at last. “Why help him pass?”
“Open your eyes, Oz. They love him. And it isn’t just because of his sister and the way he drives the robot. He’s normal, he’s casual, he’s capable of having a good time. He’s everything they can’t seem to master, despite all their brains.”
He looked melancholy. “I like him, Maria. Maybe he doesn’t belong, but he’s good for these kids. He completes them.”
“He turned one of them into a cheater,” I reminded him.
“Hey, we have no evidence of that.”
And that was the whole problem. If one of Oz’s superachievers had found an undetectable way to take control of a secure computer and do the test for Donovan, who would ever be smart enough to prove it?
CHEATING INVESTIGATION
INTERVIEW WITH DONOVAN CURTIS
MS. BEVELAQUA: Your score on the retest was remarkable, Donovan.
DONOVAN: Thanks.
MS. BEVELAQUA: It far outstrips any work that you’ve done in class. How do you explain that?
DONOVAN: I studied really hard.
MS. BEVELAQUA: Come, now. You know this isn’t the kind of test you can study for.
DONOVAN: Maybe I got lucky. Some people are just good test takers.
MS. BEVELAQUA: Or maybe someone helped you.
DONOVAN: I was all alone. Ask the librarian.
MS. BEVELAQUA: It’s possible to take control of a computer remotely. In that case, someone would be able to do the test for you.
DONOVAN: I wouldn’t have a clue how to do that.
MS. BEVELAQUA: I believe you. In fact, you’ve just proved my point. You could never accomplish such a thing. But the person who achieved that score could.
DONOVAN: I don’t know what you’re talking about.
MS. BEVELAQUA: Yes, you do. I want the name, and I want it now.
DONOVAN: I’m late for robotics.
MS. BEVELAQUA: You realize that we’re talking about cheating here.
DONOVAN: You know the kind of kids in my class. Who’d risk that kind of trouble to help someone like me?
MS. BEVELAQUA: Perhaps nobody. But to help the brother of a living, breathing Human Growth and Development credit …
UNREAL
KATIE PATTERSON
IQ: 107
Well, it was official, confirmed by the vet. Beatrice wasn’t dying. She wasn’t even some evil demon dog dumped into the world for the purpose of ruining my life. She had a reason for her nasty behavior. The chow chow was as pregnant as I was. I never thought I’d say this, but she had my sympathy.
And that was pretty pregnant. Dr. Orsini said Beatrice might even whelp before I did. That came out wrong. Beatrice was the one who would be whelping. I would be giving birth. And while I knew exactly who the father was, the jury was still out on Beatrice. Odds were, we were about to welcome a litter of serious mongrels. And if you’ve ever seen a chow chow, you’ll know they don’t mix well with any other breed. So the Westminster Kennel Club was out.
I still hadn’t worked up the nerve to tell Brad—even though the whole fiasco was his mother’s fault, not mine. To be honest, I didn’t like to distract him with the kind of problems that would seem silly to someone fighting a war. Plus, he’d been emailing me about how relaxed and happy I seemed lately, and I didn’t want to spoil it by dumping this big matzoh ball in his lap.
From: First Lieutenant H. Bradley Patterson, United States Marine Corps
Honey, you’re the best! I know this has been a stressful time with me away and the baby coming. What’s your secret? …
My secret?
Reality check—I felt like I’d swallowed an anvil and it was lodged behind my belly button. I’d gained thirty-two pounds. A stiff wind was enough to knock me off balance. I had to sit so far back from the dinner table, I needed a telescope to see my food. My legs were covered with varicose veins. My back ached. My skin had broken out, thanks to my raging hormones. I couldn’t allow myself to be more than sixty feet from a bathroom. Yeah, I felt wonderful.
Was it the news that the dog wasn’t dying? Ha! Just because Beatrice was okay didn’t mean she wasn’t driving me nuts. For the past month she’d had no appetite at all; now she was eating us out of house and home. She had no bladder control, so the carpet was a minefield. She was antisocial to everyone except Donovan. And her new hobby was disappearing. The last time she vanished it took an hour to find her curled up inside a bale of pink insulation in the furnace room, and longer than that to pick the fiberglass fragments out of her coat.
I’d moved back in with my parents and kid brother, a world away from my husband, who was fighting in a war zone. My life stunk, no doubt about it.
But Brad was right. He had read between the lines of my emails. I was relaxed, even happy. Positively serene.
Why?
It had to be Human Growth and Development. For some reason it was like therapy. Only instead of telling my innermost secrets to some high-priced shrink, I was spilling my guts to Donnie’s geek patrol. For free!
Trust me, I could have killed my brother when he blackmailed me into serving as their class pet like a lizard in a glass terrarium. It would have been uncomfortable enough in front of normal kids. But to be stared at by these geniuses with their Coke-bottle glasses and analytical frowns—it was like being dissected and having your vital organs spread out on slides. At first, I had to pretend I was floating above my body, and that was somebody else down there being studied.
But then there was this one morning when I got out of bed and stepped right into one of Beatrice’s puddles. By the time I got that sopped up, my spine felt like the disc spaces were filled with lava, but my mother only wanted to talk about the wonky pilot light in the furnace. So I wrote an email to Brad that was so full of whining and complaining, you could have set it to music. I deleted it without sending. Reality check—the poor man was risking his life every day. He didn’t need to hear my problems.
That was when I glanced at my watch and realized that I was counting the minutes until I could go to the Academy and lay out my complaints to the only people who seemed to be interested. Chloe, Abigail, Latrell, Jacey, Kevin, even Noah—they’d understand because they understood everything. They knew more about me than my husband; they knew more about my pregnancy than my doctor—and they were a lot easier to reach than either of them.
When friends took me out to dinner, and I was unsure whether or not it was safe to eat oysters, I texted Chloe. I had the answer I needed—cooked, okay; raw, never—within thirty seconds. When I noticed an odd chemical on the ingredient list of my shampoo, I emailed Abigail, who was able to tell me it was just a harmless preservative. When I became alarmed by a strange rash on my belly, I had the perfect resource to turn to. I watched Noah’s YouTube video “Stomach of Champions,” which proved that the skin had been like that for weeks.
How had I survived without those guys?
Until Human Growth and Development I hadn’t realized how alone I was, even among my own family. Going to those medical appointments was like walking the Tour de France route, up steep hills and over broken roads, all by myself. But when I saw the minibus parked outside the clinic, my spirits soared because I knew I had a team with me—even if it was a robotics team. One day, the bus broke down on the way to the office. Dr. Manolo wouldn’t start the appointment until the kids had arrived. He forwarded Oz Listserv emails from the American Congress of Obstetricians and Gynecologists. This class wasn’t just going to pass Human Growth and Development. They were going to be qualified to teach it. All except Donnie. If there was one of them who didn’t have a clue, it was my lunkhead brother.
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What was he doing with these brilliant, motivated students? That was the biggest reality check of them all. Was it that, as his sister, I couldn’t see how gifted he really was? Or did he just not care about this course because he already had the credit?
We were replaying the results of my fetal echocardiogram, watching the image of my baby’s tiny heart beating on the Smart Board. It was entrancing. Chloe was almost in tears at the beauty of it. Abigail scribbled pages of notes, all without looking away from the screen. Noah had the flip cam trained on the monitor, so I knew this would be on YouTube in Kandahar before I got home that day to warn Brad that it was coming. The whole class, including the teacher, was fascinated.
All but Donnie. He was bored out of his mind, struggling to keep his butt in his chair. And he lost the struggle, jumping up and mumbling, “Going to the bathroom.” He practically galloped out of the room.
A few minutes later, a couple of visitors walked into the lab, and Oz paused the video. I knew one was the principal, Mr. Del Rio. The other looked like a congressman, or some other kind of big shot, an older guy in a very snazzy suit.
He walked right up to me, smiled warmly, and held out his hand. “I’m Dr. Schultz, superintendent of the Hardcastle schools. I came specifically to meet you, Mrs. Patterson, and thank you for what you’re doing for this class.”
That’s why he looked familiar. He used to be the principal at North High when I was a cheerleader at Hardcastle. He’s the jerk who lodged a complaint that our uniforms were too “minimalist.” He’d been a stuffed shirt back then, and it didn’t seem as if that had changed now that he had the top job.
But all that was in the past, especially my cheerleading career. I was a mature adult, almost a mother. I shook his hand. “I’m happy to do it. They’re great kids.”
Dr. Schultz went on for a while—how selfless I was, people should follow my example, my brother was so grateful, blah, blah, blah. He seemed to think that a) Donnie needed the credit I was providing, and b) Donnie was actually here, and not in the bathroom. Neither Oz nor Mr. Del Rio corrected him, though. I guess you don’t interrupt a superintendent, even when he hasn’t got his facts straight.
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