Cheater
On Faithfully Recounting the Lowest Point in My Academic Career
When I was seven years old, I made the mistake of asking my dad where babies come from. His explanation, which included drawings of tiny serpents with balloon heads, was horrifying. I didn’t want to touch a girl’s elbow, much less her… talk about cooties. Another revelation that came from our discussion was even more disturbing.
My dad informed me that when I became a teenager, I would hate my parents’ guts and masturbate into a sock. My dad’s talk freaked me out. I was clearly going to become a monster. How could this be? I liked my parents. They were nice. They gave me rides, they fed me. They didn’t have to do those things. The day I learned about human fertilization and puberty, I made two solemn promises to myself. One, I would never have sex. And two, I would always be good. I broke the second promise first – as a fourteen-year-old.
From age seven to fourteen, I had been an angel. My parents were truly blessed. I was amazing. You would have been so lucky to have me as your son. I flossed my teeth, made my bed, and got straight A’s. I was the smartest student in school. If you had gone to my school, I would have been smarter than you. But then, one fateful morning in Mrs. Korte’s eighth grade homeroom class, my friend Vince Granada rushed in, secretly announcing he had obtained the test many of us were about to take in Mrs. Rayner’s first period history class.
I didn’t need to see the test; I didn’t need to cheat. Every week, I would always finish Mrs. Rayner’s history test first – and I would ace it. After reviewing my perfect test, Mrs. Rayner would have me collect all the others, correct them, and record everyone’s grades in the grade book. That’s how brilliant I was. And that’s how lazy Mrs. Rayner was.
When Vince offered me the stolen test, I responded the same way I would have responded had he offered me a beer. “No thank you. I’m not going to Hell.” But Vince insisted I take a look at the test. In a moment of weakness, I thought, “I work hard. I deserve a break.” And so, I looked at the test.
As usual, it consisted of ten questions with multiple-choice answers, A-D. The answers were provided on this contraband test. They spelled out: cababaadac. I memorized the answers in a matter of seconds. That’s how brilliant I was. A short while later, Mrs. Rayner handed me the official test.
I nervously wrote out the cababaadac answers without looking at the questions. After waiting what I thought was the appropriate amount of time it would have taken to complete the test had I actually read it, I stood up and turned it in -- first, as always.
With a broad smile, Mrs. Rayner held my test up high and facetiously asked the class, “See how hard this is?” Then she reviewed my answers. Her face contorted into shapes I had never seen. Confused, dismayed, she began repeatedly marking my test in red ink – the ink of failure and shame.
“Carlos?” she wondered with uncertainty, holding my test up again – this time not as gloriously. I had answered only two of the ten questions correctly. The test was not the same test as the one Vince passed around in homeroom. The answers were not the same answers. I did not notice this because I didn’t bother to read the questions. That’s how brilliant I was. Mrs. Rayner continued staring at me, wanting an explanation.
The best I could come up with was, “I guess I wrote out the answers so fast, my hand to eye coordination was completely off.” She kept her gaze upon me. Despite my poor performance, Mrs. Rayner still had me collect everyone else’s tests and record their grades.
As I reviewed the tests, I discovered some would-be cheaters were smart enough not to use cababaadac, but not all. Besides myself, five other students had the same wrong answers. Our cheating conspiracy was obvious. We were going to get caught, no doubt about it. I wanted to cry. Mrs. Rayner was at her desk in the opposite corner of the room. She was flipping through a magazine. I considered turning myself in. But that would mean five other students would go down with me. Lives would be destroyed.
As stealthily as possible, I took a pen and began changing my fellow conspirators’ answers on their tests. My heart was racing. My hand trembled as I deviously transformed the letter D into a B, C’s became D’s, so on and so forth. I made sure to change all the answers in different ways on each compromised test, all the while looking over my shoulder to make sure Mrs. Rayner didn’t catch me red-handed. It was very complicated work. It was like heart surgery.
When I finished, I walked over to Mrs. Rayner and gave her the stack of tests, feeling as if I might faint. Once my dirty work was complete, I was the only one in class who had failed the test. Just like that, I had gone from academic superstar to member of a biker gang.
The rest of the day was a blur. I mostly spent it waiting for Mrs. Rayner to walk into one of my classes with the principal and haul me off. The pressure was unbearable. By the time I got home, I felt the Rock of Gibraltar squarely on my chest. I lied down on the living room couch, paralyzed, wracked with guilt, waiting for my parents to get home. My parents! What would they do? Hopefully they would never find out. They must never find out!
About an hour after I got home, my father arrived. I was still on the couch, a shell of my former self. I was flushed, sweating, exhausted. It was as if I were going through menopause. My dad took one look at me and asked, “What happened to you?” I stared back… and busted myself. I told him everything.
I told him how Vince Granada stole a test, about the wrong answers, how I changed those answers. I crumbled. Let’s hope, for the country’s sake, I am never captured behind enemy lines. When I finished confessing, my dad studied me, considering his options. After what seemed like an eternity, he said, “There’s nothing I can do to punish you any more than you’ve already obviously punished yourself. When your mother gets home, we’ll take you out to dinner and celebrate the fact that you’ve done something terrible.”
My mom got home soon after. I was still on the couch, still having hot flashes. My dad briefed her, saying, “Good news. Our son was bad.” She was thrilled. She thought a celebratory dinner was a great idea, and even suggested they buy me some cd’s afterward. We had a delicious meal at a local Mexican restaurant.
After dinner, we went to Target and my parents bought me two cd’s of my choosing: Dire Straits’ Brothers In Arms and Tears For Fears' Songs From the Big Chair. Getting busted was a pretty good deal. They told me not to worry about the cheating fiasco, advising never to do it again – especially the part where I change everyone else’s grades.
About a month later, after having aced four more of Mrs. Rayner’s weekly Friday tests, she called me to her desk during a quiet reading session and slipped me a paper. It was a blank test. The test I had previously failed. “Take it again,” she instructed with a knowing look in her eyes. I aced it. And so ended the darkest chapter of my academic career. I learned a valuable lesson from it. If you’re going to cheat, read the questions.
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CARLOS KOTKIN READS AT POWELL'S ON BURNSIDE, WEDNESDAY MAY 23, 2012 AT 7:30pm. DETAILS HERE.