Post 11: Going For Gold, Smartasses and Cheaters

What a bitch. I realize I’m surprised I can say that here. I feel a smile, but my mouth remains inert. And then comes an overwhelming gratitude for Daddy and the way he stood up for his child. For me. Where is Daddy? Where is everyone? John, this is the first time I’ve felt away. From where everyone else is. It’s really lonely here, where ever “here” is. The other side? Paradise? If this is heaven, you can have it.                                            *                  

First grade gave way to second with kindly Mrs. Naff and our “Actor’s Emporium,” which put on no fewer than eight performances that year. We began with the Fall Harvest Revue (I was a pumpkin) and culminated in a spring tribute to Mother Goose. Mama created a magnificent spider costume for me,  complete with six long, cardboard legs covered in black felt. A wooly black stocking cap concealed my blond peach-fuzz cut and rounded out my spider head. Blonde, blue-eyed Patty Lange was Miss Muffet, gowned in a pinafore and blue gingham. She mounted her tuffet, I ran up, she screamed. Together, we were a hit.

                                                         *

 Ok. This is better. That was such a fun day. Do you hear that, Heaven? You should send more of these happy memories. And in color. That’s a nice touch, really. If you’re gonna make us lonely, a least send us memories of friends.

                                                            *

Third grade brought Mrs. Sheldon and her love for all things scientific. We studied frogs, created terrariums, churned cream into butter, caught Monarch butterflies for study and released them, and grew bacteria of all sorts in petri dishes. Third grade was also my introduction to something else new and unfamiliar: cheating.

Because we were the advanced learners, we enjoyed the trust of our teacher and were given a certain independence when it came to study pace and grading.

Like the rest of the third grade, we were immersed in a reading tool called the SRA Reading Laboratory. In essence, it was a series of standardized and graduated reading materials, each level more difficult than the next, and color-coded from the lowest level, Purple, to the coveted Gold for readers performing on the esteemed fifth-grade level.

            Progress was largely self-determined. As the year commenced, we began reading stories at our assigned levels. We continued on that level until we reached proficiency as determined by a series of self-scored reading and comprehension tests. We turned in our scored work to Mrs. Sheldon, who summarily promoted us to the next color level and posted results on the class bulletin board. The competitive ones among us jockeyed for position and advancement.

            Three students emerged as the accelerated readers. I was, thanks to Mama’s superb pre-K tutoring, one of the three. The second was Sue Montana. She had a kind of Scandinavian blonde beauty. Tall, thin, shy and brilliant, she became my friend in second grade. We shared classes and the friendship through high school where, in physics class, I marveled at the grasp of her intellect. She was the kid who worked complicated equations in real time. In front of the class. In chalk.

The third star reader was Donald Morse.

Years after my elementary school experience, my cousin Denton explained to me what a smart-ass was, and I immediately thought of Donald. Donald was the student who seemed to perpetually wear a “Who, me?” expression, and he skated perilously close to the edge of trouble most of the time. He was what GranMag would call “slick,” and what Mama advised me to steer clear of.

Throughout the fall of that year, Sue, Donald, and I ascended through the various reading levels and the rainbow of achievement: Purple, Grey, Rust, Ochre, Melon, and Sunflower were assigned to advanced third-grade and early fourth-grade reading. As Christmas loomed, we each eyed the other’s rise through Lime, Violet, Khaki, Cobalt, and Steel. The chart on the bulletin board chronicled our progress. Our competition was unspoken, but did not go unnoticed.

The week before Christmas break produced a predicted snowfall of eight inches, not enough to keep us home, but too much to allow for outdoor recess. Instead, we were given indoor free time. Most played board games or worked on Christmas decorations for the upcoming pageant. Sue, Donald, and I pushed through Crimson, Mustard, and Charcoal. With only days left before the break, the upper echelons seemed just within reach. Then, one morning just before lunch, without his usual fanfare, Donald posted his latest color jump—over Celadon and Ruby—to the elusive Gold.

As we lined up for the journey to the school cafeteria, it was impossible to miss Donald’s posting. It stood out, ahead of the pack, begging for the attention its significance deserved. One by one, we filed by the chart, and the murmurs started. “He got there first,” and “Wow, Gold. That’s really smart, right?” Sue and I looked at each other in amazement, saying nothing.

The time after lunch was typically set aside for special science project work, but given the season, Mrs. Sheldon let us choose a holiday activity like making a Christmas tree ornament or a wreath. This particular afternoon, Mrs. Sheldon, dressed in her festive red plaid skirt and knitted red tam, called the class to attention. “Everyone, we have a talented reader in our midst. This young man has reached the highest level of SRA reading in our program: Gold. It’s a great achievement, and I want you to join me in congratulating Donald Morse.” Mrs. Sheldon beamed and led the class in applause. Several students patted Donald on the back. Donald assumed an “Aw, shucks” stance that was highly out of character. Sue and I fumed.

On the school bus home that afternoon, Sue was still livid. “He must have cheated. The last I saw he was checking out the Crimson workbooks. I know, because I had gone to get them and he got there ahead of me. So, how do you get from Crimson, all the way through Mustard and Charcoal in one afternoon, to Gold? You don’t, is how. This isn’t right.”

As Sue continued her rant, I could hear my parents’ voices in my head: Don’t criticize those who do better than you. It will sound like sour grapes. Accept it, and wish them well. And yet, part of me agreed with Sue. How could Donald have gotten through three levels in one afternoon?

The bus stopped, and Sue descended the steps. She turned and, with a sad and frustrated look, said, “I’m telling.” And then she stepped down into a slushy puddle of partially melted snow, submerging her right foot up to the ankle.

That night at dinner, I recounted the day to Mama and Daddy. True to form, they reminded me there was no proof. Yes, it sounded like Donald had, indeed, cheated. “It’s going to happen in life,” Daddy said over a piece of Mama’s seasonal pecan pie. “But I better not ever hear of either you or Kit ever cheating. It’s a sure way to lose the respect of those around you.” Daddy sipped his coffee. He looked over the rim of his cup and added, “And respect for yourself.” Kit and I nodded, having heard these words before. I, however, had never had an actual event to connect with the concept.

I thought, So, this is what cheaters do. And I am supposed to just sit by? Without proof, apparently so.

“My folks say I can’t do it,” said Sue solemnly, as she plopped down beside me on the bus the following morning. “No proof. But I know he did it. I just don’t know how. Anyhow, it’s done. And he’ll rub Gold in our faces; just watch. It isn’t fair. Nothing about this is fair.” There wasn’t much I could do but nod in helpless agreement. This would be one we’d have to take. But we didn’t have to like it.

Our bus hit a frozen spot that morning on the road around Medford Lake and slid gently off the pavement just far enough to require a tow truck, making Sue and me an hour late. We walked into a tense classroom, full of somber faces and a weary-looking Mrs. Sheldon. She had on her “This is going to be a learning moment” face as she began.

            “Now that Drew and Sue are here, I’d like to begin. A terrible thing has happened. A trust has been breached. An implied agreement has been broken. One of your fellow students has cheated and, in doing so, has damaged the trust we have between each other. There are two students in this room who know what happened, and I’d like for them to come forward now.”

            Sue and I instantly looked at each other and froze. How did she know? How did she know that we knew or, at least suspected? What are we supposed to say? Before either of us could move, Mark Simms stood.

Mark was the kind of good-natured guy who would happily trade your carrot sticks for his Mars bar, knowing he’d gotten the worse deal but never worried about it. Mark was also the guy who took up for Gary Coles, the smallest and most timid guy in the class. Mark told me at our Harvest Lunch, “Gary was born small and never grew much. His mama works ’cause his daddy is sick. He doesn’t always have a lunch, so I bring extra sometimes. It’s not fair. Gary is a good guy. You just gotta get to know him.” After that, I asked Mama for a little extra in my lunch. Gary was always quietly grateful.

            Before us, Mark stood, nervous but sure-voiced, explaining how he had seen Donald taking SRA workbooks home, and using SRA answer sheets to fill in his responses. Donald sat, ironically, crimson red, stone-faced, and silent.             Mrs. Sheldon held her solemn look. “Thank you, Mark. And now, there is one other person in this room who knows what happened. I invite you to speak now.”

            To his credit, Donald rose to address the class. “I did it. I did what Mark said. I did not actually complete the final four levels. I used the answer sheets to get to Gold.” He paused to look around the room. Catching Mrs. Sheldon’s stony stare, he looked down at his shoes and added, “I’m sorry.”

Donald sat, head hanging. The room held its collective breath.

           Mrs. Sheldon resumed. “As a consequence of your actions, Donald, you will receive an incomplete in Reading this grading period. You will start at the beginning of the SRA series and complete each level again. You will turn in your tests for each level to me, and I will grade each test, up to and including the Gold level. As for the class, first, I want to thank Mark for his honesty. Second, the rest of the class will continue to read and score your SRA materials just as before. One thing will change, however. I will randomly draw two of your names out of a hat each week and ask that you sit with me while we score the level you’re currently testing for. I’ll continue this until I’ve had the opportunity to sit with each of you.” She surveyed the faces before here. Satisfied, she concluded. “So, now, let’s all move on.”

           And we did. Or so we thought.