Testing the truth, p.1
Testing the Truth, page 1
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Knudsen, Shannon, 1971– author.
Testing the truth / Shannon Knudsen.
pages cm — (Suspended)
ISBN 978-1-4677-5708-9 (lbg. : alk. paper)
ISBN 978-1-4677-8095-7 (pbk. : alk. paper)
ISBN 978-1-4677-8828-1 (eb pdf)
1. Cheating (Education)—Juvenile fiction. 2. Photography—Juvenile fiction. 3. High school teachers—Juvenile fiction. 4. Truthfulness and falsehood—Juvenile fiction. 5. Decision making—Moral and ethical aspects—Juvenile fiction. 6. High schools—Juvenile fiction. [1. Cheating—Fiction. 2. Examinations—Fiction. 3. Teachers—Fiction. 4. High schools—Fiction. 5. Schools—Fiction.] I. Title.
PZ7.K78355Te 2015
[Fic]—dc23
2014040368
Manufactured in the United States of America
1 – SB – 7/15/15
eISBN: 978-1-46778-828-1 (pdf)
eISBN: 978-1-46779-040-6 (ePub)
eISBN: 978-1-46779-039-0 (mobi)
CHAPTER ONE
Ever notice how the principal’s office is the ugliest part of the whole school? It’s like a shrine to administrative power. You’ve got the row of file cabinets, the uncomfortable guest chairs, the unreadable diplomas hanging on the walls. The lights that make everybody look like they haven’t slept for two weeks. The window with a parking-lot view. And don’t forget the monster desk with the fake wood surface, straight from Office Max.
I’d had plenty of time to study my surroundings while Principal Juarez listened to himself talk. He was gravely disappointed with my behavior. What had I been thinking, falsely accusing a member of his staff in such a public way?
I liked that “his,” as if I’d intended to personally insult Juarez himself.
“It’s not a false accusation,” I said for about the twelfth time.
“That’s not what Ms. Opal says.” His face was red from the temper tantrum he’d just thrown. “She’s been a respected teacher at this school for eight years. And everyone knows that photos can be altered—and that you’re an expert at photography.”
“Right. Photography,” I said. “Not digital manipulation. You do get that those are two totally different things?”
“Watch your tone, Kai Tamura,” Juarez said. “You’re in a lot of trouble here.” He flexed his knuckles, which were beefy like the rest of him, and stared me down.
I took a deep breath and reminded myself that Juarez had nothing on me. Nothing. The only evidence—the photos—backed up my story one hundred percent.
“All I wanted to do was tell the truth about Ms. Opal,” I said.
“No, you wanted to humiliate her, destroy her career, and turn the entire community against her,” Juarez said. “If you’d just wanted to tell the truth, you could have brought those photos straight to me instead of posting them online.”
He kind of had a point there.
“I didn’t want it to get swept under the rug,” I said. Probably not the best response, given the way Juarez’s expression hardened.
“Mr. Tamura, you’ve never gotten into any serious trouble at this school. But your conduct in this matter is too serious to take lightly. As of today, you are suspended for the next week.”
Suspended?
I tried to process what I’d heard. A suspension would go on my permanent record. I was about to start applying to colleges, and every single one of them would see this black mark against me. Not only that, but my parents would probably disown me. A son of theirs, shamed before the entire school?
No. This was not good.
“Principal Juarez,” I began. “I don’t think this is fair, considering—”
“It wasn’t fair of you to treat Ms. Opal the way you did. But you’ve made your choices, and now you’ll face the consequences. You have parking privileges, is that correct? Your car is here today?”
I nodded.
“Well then, get your things and go home. I’ll see you a week from today at one o’clock in this office. Ms. Opal will be here as well, and you’d better be prepared with a sincere, detailed apology for what you’ve put her through.”
I tried again to protest, but Juarez cut me off.
“This is the part where you say ‘Yes, sir’ and get out of my office. I’ll be phoning your parents this evening to inform them of your suspension. You might want to prepare them.”
I muttered something that sounded like “yissr” and got out of there, still stunned. I hadn’t done anything wrong. Well, actually, I had. That just wasn’t what I’d been suspended for.
CHAPTER TWO
Two days before my chat with the principal, I was somewhere I wasn’t supposed to be, doing something I wasn’t supposed to do. The place was a teacher’s classroom way after the final bell had rung. The something was stealing a test. Or trying to steal one, anyway. I wasn’t having much luck finding it.
Let me say right here that I’m not a cheater, generally speaking. I know it’s wrong and all that. But I was pulling a C in Ms. Opal’s trig class. If I ended up with a final grade like that, my parents would nail me to my desk chair for the entire spring. And I had a girlfriend, a driver’s license, and plenty of plans for my senior year that did not involve being grounded.
I’d studied my butt off, but I needed a boost. A big one. So I made an exception to my usual policy of honesty. I did feel bad about it. I truly did. Not only because it was wrong but because Ms. Opal happened to be my favorite teacher. She was one of the ones who got to know us as individuals. Like, she knew that I loved photography and hated French, and she knew about my friend Vince’s amazing singing voice. She was a nice person, in other words. So I wasn’t proud of what I was trying to do.
It takes some planning to steal a test. I started my research a few weeks ahead of time, just in case I decided I needed to go forward with the theft. My first idea was to hack Ms. Opal’s laptop, but like I told Principal Juarez, I’m into photography, not computers. Then I noticed that she kept papers locked in her desk at the back of the classroom. The night before a major exam, those papers would surely include the answer key, right?
After that, it was simple. I watched some lock-picking videos online. It’s pretty amazing what you can do with a couple of paper clips if you know how. I practiced on my dad’s desk at home until I could open it in less than three minutes. I figured I’d pick Ms. Opal’s lock after school, photograph the answer key, and put it back. She might notice the drawer wasn’t locked the next day, but I was betting she’d just unlock it without checking first. Even if she did notice, the worst thing that could happen was that she’d delay the test and change it. She’d never know I was the one who picked the lock.
So there I was, the day before the test, putting my plan into action. I sneaked into Ms. Opal’s classroom twenty minutes after the final bell. By then, she’d be gone for the day. I knew the janitor would be around eventually, but I’d studied his rounds. He always started in the cafeteria, so I had a good two hours before he got to this part of the school.
The lock turned out to have a different make than the one on my dad’s desk, but I kept my cool. A couple minutes later, it finally clicked open. Jackpot! Inside the drawer, I found a batch of homework papers, the standardized tests we’d taken that day, some memos from the principal, and a utility bill. But no test and definitely no answer key. All my planning was for nothing.
And that’s when the classroom door opened.
You know those moments where you have to act in a heartbeat, have to make a choice so fast that you can’t think first? And sometimes you end up doing something that seems to make sense at the time even though later on it doesn’t? That was me when I heard that door. Ten to one odds it was just Sully, the janitor, running early on his chores. He’s used to seeing me all over the place after school, taking pictures for the school newspaper. Probably wouldn’t bat an eye if he found me here. But I was standing at a teacher’s desk, looking through papers. And what if it wasn’t Sully? Deer in the headlights.
Before I even knew what I was doing, I’d shoved the papers back into the drawer, closed it, and ducked into the supply closet door in the back corner.
The supply closet didn’t get much use. All Ms. Opal needed to teach math was the whiteboard and the laptop she brought in every day to project slides. The closet collected junk, mostly—stacks of old textbooks and worn-out erasers. The place smelled like an attic. I willed myself not to sneeze and sat on the stepstool stashed inside the door. I didn’t have time to close the door all the way—I could still see through a little crack.
&
I held my breath, trying not to make a sound. Just as I’d hoped, she unlocked the drawer without trying it first. If she’d been paying attention, she might’ve realized that the key felt different in the lock. Wrong somehow. But she didn’t seem to notice a thing.
She pulled a folder out of the drawer and spread a bunch of papers in front of her. They looked familiar—green ink, rows and rows of circles and pencil marks. Of course—they were the Academic Readiness Assessment tests we’d been taking all week. What was Ms. Opal doing with them?
As I watched, she took a booklet out of the folder and opened it up. She seemed to be comparing the booklet to the test in front of her. Which was weird—teachers don’t grade those tests. They get sent to some state facility for scanning. At least that’s what I thought.
And then she started changing answers.
I thought my eyes were playing tricks on me at first, but I kept watching. She had an eraser, and she kept using it on parts of the tests, then filling in circles with a pencil.
Ms. Opal was cheating.
I’m not a reporter, but I guess taking so many pictures for the school newspaper and the yearbook has given me a certain mind-set. Once I was sure about what she was doing, I knew I had to document it. Had to record the proof.
I eased my camera out of my backpack, moving just a few inches at a time, keeping a careful grip. I’d had it for a little more than a year—I flipped burgers for an entire summer to buy it. The camera’s nothing a pro would use, but it’s a sweet little piece of equipment. With the right lens, I can snap a winning basket just as it swishes through the net. Switch up the settings, and I can capture landscapes that would make your jaw drop. Switch ’em up again and I can get spectacular close-ups, which is what I had in mind right then.
To pull that off, though, I’d have to get into the right position. Very slowly, I stood up from the stepstool and mounted it. First rung . . . second rung . . . and the top. The angle wasn’t easy to find, focusing on the desk while balancing on the stool. But I had just enough height to be able to zoom in on the test papers, keeping Ms. Opal and her hands in the frame. Lucky for me, the weather had just turned chilly, so the school’s ancient heating system was running full blast. It made enough racket that my target didn’t hear a thing as the camera clicked.
The toughest part was sitting tight in that closet once I’d gotten my shots. Ms. Opal spent almost an hour going over those tests. The entire time, I had to keep still in this ridiculously small space. One sneeze and I would’ve been busted. Then again, I probably had nothing to worry about. Ms. Opal was pretty focused on what she was doing. Wouldn’t you be?
CHAPTER THREE
It was dark when I finally made it out to my car. First things first: I texted my buddy Vince, who needed that answer key at least as much as I did. No joy, I typed. He responded with an impressive string of swear words.
As I drove home, I thought about what I’d seen in Ms. Opal’s classroom. Could I have misunderstood what she was doing?
I didn’t have a chance to review the evidence until after dinner, when I uploaded the photos to my laptop and enlarged them on the screen. The first couple didn’t show anything conclusive, just Opal hunched over the papers on her desk. Then came the ones where I’d used the zoom. The money I invested in the camera had been well spent. You could see everything: the stack of tests with dozens of penciled-in circles; the booklet with the test questions; and right in Opal’s hand, an eraser going over someone’s answer. The next shot showed her pencil, filling in a different bubble. And so on, over and over, a couple dozen crystal-clear shots.
As far as I could guess, Opal must’ve taken the test herself and made an answer key. Then she checked our work and fixed some of the wrong answers she found. Even seeing it right there in front of me again, it was hard to believe a teacher would cheat on the standardized tests. They’re more than just a way of grading the school. We have to pass them to graduate. Sure, we get multiple tries if we don’t pass the first time. But everybody has to pass eventually or no diploma. Plus the teachers get evaluated based on our scores, and that affects their raises and promotions and stuff.
So if Ms. Opal really did change answers on those tests, she was messing with people’s futures.
Then again, she’d have to be changing wrong answers to correct ones, right? Otherwise, she’d just be screwing herself, because it’d hurt her if her students failed. So she must have been giving us a boost on the test—kind of like the one I was hoping to give myself on tomorrow’s trig exam. Our scores go up, she gets a bigger raise, and we get to graduate. Win-win.
Besides, who was I to judge? I would’ve cheated on Ms. Opal’s exam if I’d found that answer key.
I almost deleted the photos right then and there. But something held me back. Maybe I just needed to stop thinking about it for a little while. After all, I had an awful lot of trigonometry to study.
CHAPTER FOUR
A couple of hours later, as I felt like I couldn’t cram one more formula into my tired brain, my cell phone rang out with the Natalie chime. That’s the sound my phone makes to ensure I don’t miss any of my girlfriend’s messages. She always texts me to say good night, and tonight was no exception.
Nat had been pretty busy herself that evening, cheering with the squad. That’s how we got together, actually—her cheerleading gig.
I love shooting sports because the challenge never gets old. The position, the angle, the timing, the light—all of them have to come together perfectly to get a decent action shot. But I have to admit, I kind of had a bias against cheerleaders. Still do. I just don’t get them. Everybody’s already there to watch the team, so why do we need girls in little skirts to get us to yell about it? The whole thing seems like a setup, an excuse for them to wear ridiculous outfits and date jocks.
I probably wouldn’t have even noticed Nat if she hadn’t fallen on me. I’d been shooting the year’s first home game, scrambling down the sideline to find a shot. I guess I ran behind the cheerleaders just as Nat took the top spot in the pyramid. She saw me zip by out of the corner of her eye and lost it. Yes, I was that freaking cute (her words). All I know is that one minute I was in motion. The next, I was on the ground, beneath a girl whose hair smelled like coconuts.
Honestly, after I scrambled to my feet, my first thought was for my camera. No damage. Then I took a look at the girl brushing herself off in front of me, and whoa. Curly hair, green eyes, and something clever in her expression.
“You know,” she said, “if this was a movie, I’d have to say something about falling hard for you.”
“Uh, right,” I said. “Good thing this is just real life, huh?”
I pride myself on knowing how to talk to girls, but all of a sudden I was out of words. So I smiled and asked if she was okay.
She smiled back. “Yeah. But maybe text me later to make sure I don’t, you know, have a concussion or anything?”
She gave me her number, just like that. And then she popped back in line with the other girls, shouting something about the superiority of our football players.
That’s how it began, with an accident. And in the weeks since, I’d wondered plenty of times if I could ever have a luckier one. Nat turned out to be the real deal, a girl I could laugh with, talk with, party with, even study with.
Anyway, the night after I took photos of Ms. Opal, my first instinct was to send Nat the pics after her text. But I hesitated. Opal wasn’t just the most popular teacher at our school. She was also the cheerleading coach.
From what Nat had told me, Ms. Opal was almost like a second mom to the girls on the squad. Helped them out with their personal problems, that kind of thing. Nat pretty much worshipped her. Something told me that my girlfriend would be upset about my discovery, even though I had no intention of being a narc.
It wasn’t often that I concealed things from Nat. In fact, this week had been the first time. I hadn’t told her I was going to try to steal the answer key to the trig test. But I guess there’s a second time for everything. I texted back good night and kept my secret to myself.
