Cheater (24 page)

“Pretty much.”

She watches the Turtle perform, torturing him by saying nothing. It was a mistake to bring her here, he decides. If she mocks his work, he won’t even be able to talk to her anymore, let alone kiss her.

“Are you allowed to tell me how it does all that? Or is it like a magic trick?”

“Most of the power comes from the current of the stream. And I used the basic mechanism of a vibraphone to give it that trembly sound. It’s hard to explain the machinery in words—but I can show you my sketches later if you want.”

She nods, taking in the sound and light. He dares to hope.

“If only,” she says, “you would use your genius for good and not evil.”

It’s a joke, not an insult—but you can’t call it admiration, either. He’s confused. Does she respect him, or does she think he’s a dork?

The Turtle plays a haunting, random melody. The little flames bend in the breeze. A mallard paddles up to watch the fountain drops patter on the brook, and returns to report to his friends and family. Karl almost comments on this—
That must be where they got the name “Peeking Duck”—
but decides not to break the silence.

Lizette lets the air out of her lungs, an extended sigh.

How long can two teenagers writhe in their separate turmoil before one of them explodes—or lets fly a tension-breaking comment like that duck pun? Pretty long, I’d say— but we’re not going to find out tonight, because an outside force intervenes, and that force’s name is Cara.

She has cut her hair to finger-length and thinned her bangs into parallel lines with her forehead showing through. “Wow,” she says, watching the Turtle perform. “So I guess it’s not a spy submarine after all.”

There’s room for her to sit next to Karl, but she stays on her feet.

“Is this how you spend your free time?” Lizette asks. “Wandering around here after dark?”

“Karl asked me to come.”

The hurt and confusion on Lizette’s face (glimpsed briefly, before she covers up) make Karl yearn to reassure her.

“I invited a few friends,” he explains. “It’s like a premiere.”

“So, I’ll be back at school next week,” Cara says.

“Really? That’s great! Did the principal call you?”

“No, his secretary.”

The Turtle toots, sonorously.

“Anyway, I can’t stay—but it’s good to see you two together. How’s that going?”

No answer from the Tortured Twosome, except some strangled proto-noises.

“Okayyyyyy. Well, good luck. Excellent science project, Karl.”

Her boots crunch away on the gravel. A car door opens and closes. Engine on, then fading into the distance.

You’d think the Turtle were the most fascinating object on earth: they can’t take their eyes off it.

In the end, it’s Lizette, not our hero, who takes the leap. “What’s the matter? Scared?”

The tone is familiar to Karl; he knows how to speak this language. “Maybe if you’d take that hat off. For once.”

“Oh. So now it’s about my hat. A lame excuse if ever I heard one.”

“I can’t even see your face.”

“You’re not missing much.”

“You’re wrong. As usual.”

She takes off the Devil Rays cap and faces him, or tries to. Her eyes drop from his to her lap, and then bounce back up, again and again, like a pair of Super Balls.

The next time she speaks, it’s without jokes. “I don’t think I can stand this much longer, Karl.”

Footsteps approach from far away, on gravel. Voices talking: more than one.

Now or never, Karl.

He puts his hand on her shoulder—lightly, in case she swats it away. (She doesn’t.) He leans across the gulf . . .

When Jonah and Matt arrive, they find two people under a lamppost, kissing on the bench where Karl said to meet him. So where’s Karl?

Unless—no, it can’t be—

The kissing couple soon realizes they’re not alone. Karl flushes red, Lizette thinks she may die, Jonah doesn’t know where to look. Matt says, “Well, well, well, what have we here?”

Karl and Lizette are still fumbling with their Ums and Ers when Blaine, Vijay, and Tim arrive: a head-on collision of Karl’s parallel universes.

No massive explosion results, however, because there in the middle of Swivel Brook is a stainless steel turtle shooting out flames, jets of water, and hypnotic music.

“Karl, you’re one weird puppy.”

“If it’s supposed to scare the ducks away, it’s not working.”

“My grandmother had one of those in her basement.”

“I think it’s cool. Strange, but cool.”

“Flaming Flutes and Fountains! Kooky Creation in Creek! Boy Genius Strikes Again!”

Karl doesn’t mind the teasing. In fact, he sort of enjoys it. He has worked on the Turtle for almost a year; his friends’ jokes are a warped sort of recognition.

After one last taunt about polluting the public waterways, the gathered teens settle into quiet contemplation. Vijay takes a picture of the Turtle with his cell phone as it plays a dreamy bit of melody. Jonah, smiling serenely, pats Karl on the shoulder.

Stillness falls around them. Lizette, her leg still pressed against Karl’s, rubs his ribs with a knuckle and looks left and right, signaling him to check out his audience.

The teasers have turned into gawkers. Mesmerized, they forget to make wisecracks—which is the best response Karl could have wished for.

His world is perfect.

Or, almost perfect. True perfection comes a moment later, when Lizette squeezes his hand and whispers in his ear, “What a guy.”

In Case You Were Wondering...

Randall Upchurch withdrew from the mayoral race after the town newspaper published photos of him maniacally clobbering a streetlight with a tennis racquet. The photos, taken by a youngster from a nearby porch, quickly sprouted on computer desktops around town and beyond.

No news of Mr. Klimchock ever reached Abraham Lincoln High School again. A search of his name brought up nothing on Google except an ad for an elderly optometrist in Indianapolis. The handful of students who heard the recording during the SAT assume that he changed his name and moved far away. (They’re right.)

The faculty adviser censored Samantha Abrabarba’s story about Karl and the SAT. She went on to investigate the finances of the Garden Club (also censored), and unsanitary conditions in the cafeteria—an exposé that she submitted to the
New York Times.
She’s still waiting to hear back.

Phillip Upchurch was accepted at Harvard. He plans to join the Parliamentary Debate Society there, attend Harvard Law School, run for Congress, and then—who knows?

• ACKNOWLEDGMENTS •

MANY THANKS to the teenage students who helped me figure out the facts of high school life and language: Arielle Walter, Sarah Pearlstein-Levy, Louise Webster, and Danny Knitzer. (Note: they didn’t tell me anything about cheating. Really!)

Editor Stephanie Lurie proposed the idea for this book to me in five words: “High-tech cheating in high school.” I said, “Nah, doesn’t sound like my kind of book.” Fortunately, when I changed my mind and called her back, she said, “Okay,” and went on to offer smart, on-target suggestions at every point. Thanks, too, to: Scott White, supercounselor at Montclair High School, for the basic realities of junior year—transformed here into unrealities. Dr. Elliot Barnathan, for always answering questions that begin “What sort of medical problem could I give a character that would . . . ?” Joe Bleshman, for legal counsel. Mara Daniel, for relaying my German questions to the proper authorities. Steve Albin, for explaining what it means to spoof an address. David Wright, for “the astonishing grace of your lunges.” Ira Tyler, for the Czar-dine joke, circa 1970. And, of course, my wife, Jennifer Prost, for answering oddball questions all day long (e.g., “What sort of outfit would a teenager’s mother put together for him for a date, using just what’s in his closet, if he’s not that cool?”)—or, let me qualify that: thanks, Jen, for the answers you gave when you didn’t say, “How should I know?” Finally, thanks to my tireless research assistant, Google, which answered questions that would have left me stumped ten years ago, usually in 0.003 seconds or less. Thanks, Ya Big Goog.