Cheating Lessons: A Novel (11 page)

At Farmer Jack’s seafood case a sign said,
FISH IS BRAIN FOOD – ASK A WICKHAM WIZARD
, with an arrow pointing to the
Courier
clipping. Bernadette felt like royalty until she found out the deli supervisor was David’s aunt.

The Creighton public library filled its glass display case with a history of the NCS Classics Bowl. Martha gave them a freshman year photo in which Bernadette still wore glasses and bangs and could pass for twelve. Ms. K. denied influencing the librarians, though the display quoted her calling all the Wizards “remarkably passionate readers.”

Still, support rolled in from so many places, it couldn’t all be a setup. Mr. Tony’s 10-Minute Oil Change on Grand River sent them coupons for free oil changes, and Mr. Tony wasn’t related to any of them. The hospital’s audiology clinic offered them free hearing tests (“the better to hear the questions”); The Book Nook sent ten-dollar gift certificates; a local cable station asked to interview them. After we win, Mr. Malory told them; his Wizards were busy.

Maybe parents wanted to prove that tax dollars could educate kids as well as any pricey private school. Bernadette couldn’t say. Her European History teacher claimed there was nothing like a common enemy to bring people together. Of course, Mr. Carlson had been speaking of the Allied Powers. But he could have been talking about Creighton.

Meanwhile, English class meant practice and more practice.

“What does the Ancient Mariner wear around his neck?” LaShonda asked.

Bernadette pressed one of the buzzers Mr. Malory had gotten the Technology Club to build. “An albatross.”

Two desks away, Mitchell quizzed Nadine. “What god was forced to bear the heavens on his shoulders for all eternity?”

“Atlas,” Nadine said as Bernadette’s lips shaped the answer.

Across the room the other Wizards paired off with their non-Bowl classmates. Uncorrected term papers and ungraded quizzes piled up on the front desk. Under Mr. Malory’s watchful eye, murmured answers to murmured questions floated in the air, punctuated by buzzes.

“Name the trilogy—”

“Who wrote the first—”

“From what country did the—”

“What miracle did Jesus—”

“Complete this stanza—”

After-school practices meant Scored Bowls. These were mock Classic Bowls with teams of two each, with the fifth person acting as scorekeeper. Mr. Malory made flip cards in ten-point increments just like in the Bowl tapes. From the red binder that grew fatter each week came questions and more questions. Within days they all had a thorough understanding of the scoring, when it paid to guess and when it was better to pass. Mr. Malory favored the guess. “We’ll not win this by playing it safe,” he said. “Don’t miss points to preserve the opinion of
Pinehurst.”

Bernadette loved how he said it—as if to be concerned with Pinehurst was way, way beneath them.

During the second week of contest preparation, Bernadette opened
The Red Badge of Courage
at home—she was backup to Lori on Children’s Classics—and a paper fell out of Chapter One. It was a cell phone bill, in Lori’s own name. Bernadette paused an instant to envy Lori such luxury—catch Bernadette’s mother giving her daughter a phone Martha couldn’t listen in on—before beginning to read. Two pages later she stopped and unfolded the bill again. Three calls were to a phone number she recognized.

Mr. Malory’s.

Odd. She got out the phone book and double-checked his number, but it was the same. Curiosity ate at her. Each call had lasted more than ten minutes—one had been twenty-two minutes long. What could be so urgent Lori had to call their teacher at home and talk for twenty-two minutes? Bernadette’s imagination ran through scenarios that ranged from Lori being a secret stalker to Lori only
returning
calls Mr. Malory had made to
her
(this she dismissed as absurd—Lori was not his type), to the calls being made by someone else—Mrs. Besh, perhaps.

The likeliest answer was that Lori had questions about her Bowl assignments she was embarrassed to ask in class—yet even that seemed peculiar. Bernadette could think of no way to find out, short of asking her. (She did not even consider asking Mr. Malory.) For one thing, she’d have to admit she’d read the phone bill and recognized the number. But the real reason was, she was afraid to presume. Lori always treated her pleasantly and would probably tell her whatever she wanted to know, but that didn’t mean Bernadette had a right to ask. She and Lori Besh were teammates. Not friends.

After practice one day (Nadine left so quickly, Bernadette missed her chance for a ride home), Bernadette waited in the media center for her mother to finish work and come get her. Ms. Kestenberg casually mentioned that she would soon be helping Mr. Malory with the Wizard practices.

Bernadette cocked her head at that. “Help?” she asked. “How come?”

Ms. K. was sorting through old magazines. “Evidently a close friend of his has cancer. Frank will have to be out a lot these next few weeks, and he knows I’m familiar with the books you’ll be reading, so—”

“Out
a lot? Out a
lot?
What about—”

“Just after school. He has to be in Ann Arbor in time for visiting hours, a few times a week.”

“Oh.” That must mean the U of M hospital. There certainly was a lot going on in Ann Arbor these days. Bernadette had lived seventeen years in Creighton and hardly noticed the place, yet suddenly the college town was popping up everywhere. “What friend?”

“Gene someone.”

“Gene like a man, or Jean like a girl?”

“Gene like a man, and that’s all I know, not that it’s any of our business,” Ms. K. said firmly.

Hmmm. “That’s a lot of extra work for you, isn’t it? What with debate, too?”

From a stack of back issues of
Causal Link—The Debater’s Bible,
Ms. K. regarded Bernadette with misty surprise. Bernadette waved a hand in front of her face.

“Aren’t you sweet to think of that! You know, Bernadette Terrell, you’re a much nicer girl than you pretend to be. But I’m on to you.” Ms. K. beamed at her fondly. “All that aggression on Saturdays during the rounds—that’s just for show, isn’t it?”

Bernice wrinkled her nose in embarrassment. No, it wasn’t.

Ms. K. laughed and bustled away toward the ladder leaning against the Reference shelf. Rungs dipped beneath her weight as she climbed. “But don’t you worry about me. Quizzing students on classics will do me more good than water aerobics. Usually what they want are the shortest books with the biggest print, or
worse,
” she said with a disdainful sniff, “Cliff’s Notes.”

Bernadette trailed after her with guilty steps, an image of the study guides, cassette tapes, and children’s books on her bedroom desk taunting her. She held the ladder steady while Ms. K. shuffled books on the top shelf, and when the librarian thanked her for her help she mumbled something about having to meet her mother outside, and beat a rapid retreat. Their shortcuts were perfectly legal, of course. But for a moment there she’d felt like a fraud.

The next day she stopped at Mr. Malory’s desk after class. “Ms. Kestenberg told me about your sick friend, Mr. Malory. I wanted to tell you, I’m really sorry.”

His lips tightened. “Thank you, Ms. Terrell. I hadn’t realized Ms. Kestenberg would discuss my private matters with the students.”

He was angry! “Ms. K. is a friend of mine. I don’t think she knew it was a secret.”

“It isn’t, especially. But I dislike being the object of speculation. No matter how well-meaning.”

He smiled then, but for once it failed to charm her. Bernadette stammered out an apology and fled to the cafeteria. The object of speculation! She slapped her silverware down on the tray. As if every girl who passed him in the halls didn’t speculate about being trapped in an elevator with the divine Mr. Malory. What he’d say, what she’d wear, how his kisses would taste . . .

Oh. Maybe that’s what he meant.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

He is an Englishman!

For he himself has said it,

And it’s greatly to his credit,

That he is an Englishman!

—Sir W. S. Gilbert,
HMS Pinafore

T
hat week and the next, Bernadette read. When she wasn’t reading she walked around with headphones on, listening to books on tape. She stuffed towels under her door so her parents wouldn’t see her light, and read so late that her eyes felt grainy and tight in the mornings.

During this period Martha Terrell championed any Bowl-related activity. She couldn’t do enough for her daughter, even though, Bernadette thought guiltily, no one was asking her to do anything. Meals which had previously been hit-or-miss became ruthlessly nourishing. Meat loaf appeared, made with oatmeal and wheat germ and something rubbery which neither Joe nor Bernadette, exchanging baffled glances while chewing, had the nerve to ask about; spaghetti from whole-wheat pasta with spinach sneaked in the sauce; homemade waffles on a plate instead of Pop Tarts in the car on the way to school. Martha bought horse-sized vitamins and waited while Bernadette choked one down each morning. If Bernadette Terrell blew the educational opportunity of a lifetime, it wouldn’t be from poor nutrition. Nor did Martha’s consideration stop at the kitchen. Whereas in former days Bernadette’s ability to lose herself in a book so that she didn’t hear ringing stove timers, doorbells, or parental summonses had driven Martha wild, now she tut-tutted and made Joe do chores instead. She kept the TV volume low so as not to disturb Bernadette’s reading. She filled the gas tank, paid off all outstanding library fines (which had been riding for months, though Bernadette did not tell her), and on the Saturday Bernadette was supposed to clean out the garage but slept late instead, Martha did it herself.

Even stuffed with stories and questioning her own sanity in attempting what she saw every day as an impossible task, Bernadette noticed. She was touched. And a little unnerved. This red-carpet treatment couldn’t last forever, and then what? Would Martha’s kindness vanish if Wickham lost the Bowl? Bernadette knew better than to ask. Her mother’s motives were like her meat loaf—best swallowed whole.