Cheating Lessons: A Novel

by Nan Willard Cappo

  “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

  It 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.

  “Murder by the Book!” Bernadette opened it with care. Hardback. Shiny dust jacket, not even entered into the computer yet. She sniffed the crisp pages. If they could turn this smell into perfume she’d bathe in it. “Thanks, Ms. K. I can’t wait to read it.”

  She was late for study hall, but the teacher in charge didn’t bother asking to see her pass. Students like Bernadette Terrell didn’t cause trouble no matter where they’d been.

  In her room after dinner Bernadette struggled against the lure of an unread Sarah Sloan. Stubbornly she finished her trigonometry, a French essay, and a synopsis of the first three cantos of Dante’s Inferno. This she typed. She didn’t have to, but appearances counted, as Martha always said. When it came to her English homework Bernadette allowed the possibility that her mother, in this rare instance, might be right.

  It was after eleven before she crawled into bed clutching Murder by the Book like a dieter with a pilfered éclair. She would never confess such common taste to Mr. Malory, but she found great comfort in mysteries, where you knew for sure who the villains were, and who were the heroes. None of that Fitzgerald ambiguity to make you unsure who to root for. With Sarah Sloan you knew where you were. Bernadette liked that in a book.

  But tonight trusty Sarah let her down. To be fair, it wasn’t the book’s fault. The story began with a bang as always. The clever heroine—a grad student in library science—stayed one step ahead of her readers.

  But Bernadette’s mind kept returning to test scores. Could someone have smuggled a massive cheat sheet into the test? It would have had to be on a microchip to escape Mr. Malory. Nor would one cheat sheet have sufficed. Five of them were Wizards. That called for fraud on a grander scale.

  Sherlock Holmes said that once you ruled out the impossible, the improbable was left. Which meant . . . .

  Mr. Malory? Bernadette lay in bed and laughed out loud. Ridiculous. Yes, he’d copied the test, but for a good reason. That was a far cry from altering their scores. If he’d wanted to cheat he’d have used proctors a lot dimmer than Ms. K. and eagle-eyed Spic ‘n’ Span.

  Besides, he was death on cheating. A senior debater had told her of an incident from Honors English the year before, Mr. Malory’s first year at Wickham. He’d caught a boy copying from another student’s paper. He’d torn the boy’s test in half and called the parents in for a conference.

  Bernadette had shivered at the tale. She would never cheat, naturally, but if she had cheated, and been caught, she’d have gone straight to the hardware store for rope to hang herself.

  What about Ms. K.? She craved a laptop computer. And she had been alarmed about something today, Bernadette would swear to it.

  She creased the bedsheet into a thick wad of pleats. To suspect Ms. Kestenberg of rigging a test was just as asinine as Nadine said. They knew Ms. K. She was too conscientious, too likable, too sporting. What was it she always said when she checked their evidence cards to make sure they said what was claimed for them? “Truth is the safest lie.” That flash of conscience had been remorse over the copied test, no doubt. Or maybe she’d left the water running in the teachers’ lounge. Ms. K. could have nothing to hide.

  Bernadette went back to her book. The heroine was driving a car the wrong way down a one-way street while a former library volunteer shot at her from a helicopter.

  What about Mrs. Standish?

  Ah. Now there was a suspect. Telling them how proud the superintendent would be of them, as though she’d had anything to do with it! Perhaps she had. And the Lifetime Achievement Award as an incentive—something shifty there. And the tests had sat in the main office until Federal Express picked them up. Opportunities galore.

  Bernadette nodded with decision and finished the chapter. Deep down she knew the odds that foul play really had occurred were as likely as her mother winning the Julia Child Cooking Award. But the sheer unlikeliness of the whole thing would not let her alone. She meant to investigate. The way she saw it, one of three things had happened:

  1. The fates had conspired, and Wickham really had won;

  2. Someone had cheated;

  3. NCS had screwed up.

  If it was (2) or (3), people were in for a very rude shock. If it was (1)—she was leaning toward Ms. K.’s curve theory—she and Nadine could set about humiliating Pinehurst with easy minds.

  Bernadette fell asleep trying to decide what a Sarah Sloan detective would wear to question a key witness with very green eyes.

  CHAPTER SIX

  I am giddy, expectation whirls me round.

  The imaginary relish is so sweet

  That it enchants my sense.

  —Shakespeare, Troilus and Cressida

  On Wednesday Bernadette missed her first book bee question of the year. And Mr. Mallory wore a collarless shirt to school.

  Lori Besh pretended to pant. “I saw chest hair!” she whispered to the girl beside her.

  Who was Nadine. Who giggled.

  Honestly. Mr. Malory’s linen shirt was hardly in the thong category. Even by tilting her head to float her contacts into prime viewing position, Bernadette saw only a discreet expanse of smooth, male neck.

  Which was quite enough.

  “Now that you’ve finished Gulliver’s Travels—you have finished it, haven’t you?—name something the Yahoos do that the Houyhnhnms never do.” He’d lined them up into book bee teams. Three a week, he’d ruled, until the Bowl.

  Maybe it was the shirt. But when David muttered, “I forget,” Bernadette’s own mind went blank. The rest of her team—Nadine, Lori, and LaShonda—looked to her as usual.

  Um, um . . . Houyhnhnms were horses. Yahoos were barbaric people. “They can . . . juggle?” For once her tentative act was real.

  Mr. Malory drew a finger across his throat. Hoots of glee came from the Blues. Anthony Cirillo smirked and said, “Yahoos lie.”

  “Big deal. It’s only one,” LaShonda whispered to
her.

  Bernadette appreciated LaShonda’s support. She just wished it had come from Nadine, who usually stood in that spot. Apparently the suggestion that Wickham might not be a winner still rankled. Showing up a “real” Korean like Glenn Kim must mean more to her partner than Bernadette had realized.

  Students vanished at the bell like bungee jumpers on faulty cord. Bernadette dawdled at her desk. “Mr. Malory?”

  He looked up. “Ms. Terrell. What can I do for you?”

  “I wanted to ask you—about the Classics Contest?”

  He raised his eyebrows attentively. Bernadette clutched her notes and approached his desk. Unconsciously she slipped into her best argument-summarizing manner as she outlined her concerns: the unread books, her own estimated score, the possibility of an answer sheet mix-up. “I can’t figure out how we could have averaged ninety-two percent,” she finished in apology.

  The tiny tic under Mr. Malory’s eye jumped.

  Panic hit her. Oh dear God I’m right. Someone did cheat, and he’s trying to figure out who.

  He reached out his hand for her paper. “May I?” He scanned the many calculated score combinations with which she had estimated her classmates’ literary knowledge. His guarded expression gave way to a laugh.

  “I see you’ve spent some time on this. Good heavens.” He smiled, and her stomach went into its airborne routine. “The fact is, the scores were normalized.”

  “Ah.” Bernadette nodded sagely. “Normalized.”

  “ ‘Percentaged,’ if you will. Based on the total results.” He started pulling out drawers from his desk. “Each school received a raw score and a calculated one. I have the scoring formula here somewhere. You can read it for yourself.” He flicked through hanging files. “Well, I can’t put my hands on it at the moment, but I will get it to you.”

  “I knew we hadn’t gotten all those questions right.” Bernadette was delighted to be right and a winner, too. “Could you give me an example of how normalizing works?”