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𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝟏
" 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐩𝐚𝐭𝐫𝐨𝐧 𝐬𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐝𝐬 "
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          At 8:30 sharp, Dr. Goldman looks at his wristwatch and utters the word, "Begin." It's followed by a flurry of pages flipping and pencils scratching against the test sheets.

I'm too eager; I almost rip the cover off the questionnaire when I flip to page one. Unfazed, my eyes land on the first item. How many stories are included in Geoffrey Chaucer's The Canterbury Tales?

Easy. That's one of the first things we learned this term. The answer is in my AP English notebook, second page, bottom left corner, highlighted in blue to signify an important number. Twenty-four stories. Next question.

Test taking has never been easier.

At 8:52, I finish my exam. No time to waste, really. I still have another task to accomplish. An extracurricular activity, if you will. I rip a tiny piece of paper from the questionnaire, and begin the work.

At 8:55, I finish writing the cheat sheet – a carbon copy of my answers written in Morse code. At first glance, it just looks like a mess of dots and lines. But my classmates know how to decode it. Those secret briefings we conduct before every exam made sure of that.

As you can tell, we take cheating very seriously in this classroom.

After a quick double check, I fold the scrap of paper into a tiny rectangle. And here it is, the saving grace of St. Madeleine Academy's star section, sitting on my fingertip.

A soft yawn deliberately escapes my mouth. It's subtle, but it sets the plan in motion.

Anya Havertz, student body president and it-girl poster child, takes the cue and raises her hand. Dr. Goldman immediately goes to her aid.

With our proctor distracted, I slip the paper behind me. Erica Dean takes it from my hand. And so it goes. The struggle for high ratings has begun.

Passing notes isn't the most innovative way of cheating, I admit, but it works for us. It's time-tested and well-rehearsed; it never fails. This is why we're always on top of the game. Always at the receiving end of the academy's Best Class award, three years running.

The whole class is in on it, too. We've been doing it since freshmen year. And not because we need to cheat. Most of us are already A-grade students. We do it for the glory, for the extra plus sign next to that A. Besides, we've got a reputation to uphold being the crème de la crème and all.

I'd feel bad, but according to Simmons (2018), 95% of students cheat anyway. And it's not like we're the only students in campus doing it.

Everyone cheats.

We just do it better.

I cast a furtive glance over my shoulder. Erica has finished copying my answers. She then passes the cheat sheet onto the next person, Malik Porter, my best friend. Mack for short.

Mack catches me looking. I cock my eyebrow at him in challenge. He checks to see if Dr. Goldman is near, and when he's sure that we're in the clear, he makes a show of raising the paper and passing it on without even looking at the answers.

My mouth forms a silent but unmistakably sarcastic oooh. I throw in a superpraising clap as well. 

He winks before hunching back down on his armrest. Then his eyes shift into laser focus, and... it's smoldering in a way. Look at him being all serious about his grades.

A strand of his long, L'oreal-commercial-worthy hair falls over his face. A slender hand tucks it away. I allow myself to gawk for another second or two. Don't get me wrong, our relationship is strictly platonic. We've been friends since diapers. But that hair... those eyes... that jawline... Even rocks would gawk!

When I finally tear my gaze away from Mack, I look down at my armrest. My answer sheet is fully filled out. I have absolutely nothing else to do. 

At 9:35, I'm doodling on my questionnaire.

Mindlessly, I begin filling the page with my quotes. Seems fitting enough. It is AP English, after all. I scribble Dickinson quotes on the bottom part. Wilde ones on the top. I throw around some Whitman, a bit of Plath, some more of Wilde.

Dr. Goldman passes by just when I am writing Wilde's infamous "True friends stab you in the front" quote.

"Too easy, Mr. Gray-Gomez?" he asks. His bespectacled blue eyes look down at my vandalized paper.

It's a rhetorical question. He's fond of those. I only answer with a shrug accompanied by a sheepish smile as to not make it seem like I'm being overconfident.

He nods curtly. "I'll try to make it more challenging for you next time."

"Looking forward to it, Doc."

He pushes his glasses up and turns. I get the feeling that he doesn't like me. Always so standoffish. So stiff. He resumes his trip around the classroom with his arms clasped behind his back, chin raised, always dignified. He leaves just in time for the cheat sheet to make its way back to me.

Quentin Jacoby is holding the folded piece of paper behind him. I reach out to take it. My fingers are mere centimeters away, when--

"Achoo!"

I recoil as if I'd just heard thunder. How can such a loud sound come from such a button nose? When I gaze back at Quentin, he's casting me an apologetic look as he wipes his runny nose. The cheat sheet is nowhere in sight. This is not part of the plan.

I glare at Quentin's back, but he doesn't notice my contempt. Or if he does, he's ignoring it. I'll make sure to tell him off during our debriefing.

Finally, I spot the paper next to the foot of his chair. I turn back, and see Dr. Goldman still going about his round.

I can do this. Just one quick lean and swoop. Easy peasy. Then I can stuff the cheat sheet down my pants, and that's that. Another 100% for the star section.

I exhale, and lean down – except it isn't easy-peasy.

I lean too far, too fast that I drag my chair with me. Its metal legs screech against the tiled floor. The sound is like nails on a chalkboard, disrupting the complete silence in the room. The only thing louder might be the beating of my own heart. Be still, you stupid sac of muscles. 

Fuck this. Forget the cheat sheet. Quickly, I straighten up, but I forget one crucial thing: the armrest.

My head slams hard against it. So hard, I'm surprised I doesn't break it.

I sit up with one hand on my throbbing head. Through the sudden headache, I notice a change in the air. I look around. My classmates are all staring at me. Wide-eyed and shocked.

I see Anya across the room. She looks like she's seen a ghost. She cocks her head behind me.

Dr. Goldman is there when I turn. His eyes catch on something on the floor, and I swear the entire thing plays out in slow motion.

He bends down to the foot of sneezy Quentin's chair. His hand reaches out to a tiny, folded piece of paper. He stands back up, unfolds the paper, and that's it. My life is over.

I hold my breath for the crackdown, the reproach. But to my surprise, Dr. Goldman laughs.

A tidal wave of relief washes over me. Maybe he doesn't realize it's a cheat sheet. He's laughing! Laughter's a good thing. Right?

"Do you really think," he glares at me, "I'm this stupid?"

Shit.

The laughter lines disappear from his face. He looks around the room and raises the sheet. "I have two PhDs under my belt. I double majored in Communications and Language Studies. Do you think I wouldn't recognize Morse code when I see it?"

He glares back down at me. Hot shame rises up to my ears. If I could see my face right now, I know the color would resemble a tomato.

Dr. Goldman leans down, and raises his hand. I flinch as a reflex. My mother hasn't hit me in years, but the fear is still there. Nothing comes in contact, though. Doc only shoves the paper near my face.

"So this is why my exam isn't challenging enough for you?" he asks, and I know better than to reply. Dr. Goldman likes his rhetorical questions unanswered.

Murmurs begin to break around the classroom.

"Silence!" Doc explodes. He raises the paper again, and says, "I'll have you know I take cheating very seriously in my class."

And so do we. Dr. Goldman has no idea just how seriously we take cheating in this class. The irony of the situation gets me. Laughter is threatening to break out of my lips. I clamp my teeth down to stop myself. 

But, oh God, he's so clueless.

Fuck it. I let a chuckle escape, then regret it right away when Dr. Goldman looks like he could kill me right there in my seat. He'd probably use one of his PhD diplomas to snuff me out. I try faking a cough to cover it, but the damage has been done.

Goddammit, I should take a course on how to keep a straight face during serious situations.

"Get out," Dr. Goldman sneers, sucking the air dry of any humor.

My jaw falls slack. Suddenly, my mouth is dry. I feel like I can't breathe.

"Doc, I can explain --"

He raises a hand to shut me up. "Don't insult my intelligence further, Mr. Gray-Gomez. Leave."

Before I can even reason out, a chair screeches from behind me. Mack is suddenly on his feet.

"That's mine, Doc," he claims, with his bowed and his fists clenched on his sides. "Nico had nothing to do with it."

My eyes widen. Now is definitely not the time for him to play knight-in-shining-uniform. But Mack covers for me anyway because that's just how he is. Like a starry-eyed hero, he'd probably fling himself in front of a meteor to protect his friends. It wouldn't do shit — it's a meteor, but that won't stop Mack from trying.

I shoot him a look that says, "What are you doing?!"

He deciphers my expression right away. That's the level of communication we're on; borderline telepathy, needing no words at all.

Mack replies with a stern look of, "Trying to save your sorry ass, what do you think?!"

"Swooping down to your best friend's rescue, Mr. Porter?" Doc mocks. "Sit down before you embarrass yourself."

Mack shoots me an apologetic look as he sinks down to his seat. His eyes are pleading, "I'm sorry, Nic."

I shake my head softly. "Don't be."

"I said leave, Mr. Gray-Gomez," Doc repeats as he snatches my exam papers, and crumples them up into a ball. The sharp crinkling of the sheets may as well be as loud as bombs.

Helpless, I look around the room, and it's the first time I realize that all my classmates have their heads down. Not even Erica Dean, who just copied off my cheat sheet, can look me in the eyes.

I don't know what I expect them to do. Not this at least. Not this. I know Mack's the only one brave and stupid enough to take the fall. The others would never risk it. But they could at least look at me. Maybe extend some sympathy? Hell, we are friends... aren't we?

Across the room, Anya lifts her gaze to meet mine. A trickle of relief washes over me, but then disappears when I see her face. I thought there would be sympathy there. There's none. She only shakes her head in disappointment, then turns away.

She might as well have spat in my face.

Their abandonment stings. Did I not carry these dipshits through countless quizzes and exams? Was I not the reason why they had straight As on their report cards?

I guess honor is only shared among thieves, not cheaters.

Defeated, I gather my things and stand. I take one last survey of St. Madeleine Academy's star section – the patron saints of cheats and cowards.

Dr. Goldman holds the cheat sheet out to me. "Take your dishonesty with you," he sneers. "I always knew you weren't smart enough to ace my tests."

I blink in disbelief. My hands curl up into fists. My blood is suddenly boiling.

Being smart is my thing. I'm not athletic, not popular, not artistic, not talented, not particularly friendly. Smart is all I have. Without it, I don't even know if I have an identity. And now that's being stripped away from me? Oh, the Lord is testing me.

I have this theory that life's nothing but a series of exams. My current situation is a test item, and the choices are popping up in my head. I could either:

          a.) Swallow my pride and take the paper.
          b.) Walk right out of the room with my dignity intact.
          c.) Make a scene.

It's a hard question, but I think I'll go with option D. All of the above.

I snatch the paper from Doc's hand. In one quick stride, I step towards Quentin Jacoby's seat. He looks like he could just about piss himself. I tower over him like a fucking god and he trembles. I drop the cheat sheet right on his lap.

"Hold on to it next time, Jacoby," I sneer.

He goes pale.

I whip around to face the whole class this time. "Oh, and by the way, History is next. Hope you all studied for it. I can't help you out of that mediocre B+ now."

I spot Anya from the corner of my eye. Her red-tinted lips part in shock, which then transforms into anger.

Satisfied, I hike my book bag up my shoulder and march across the room. I reach the door, about to exit, but I stop there. I face the class one last time, force a fake smile on, and flip them two middle fingers. A parting gift. 

A chorus of gasps echo through. I bow.

My work here is done.

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a/n: Is Nico a spiteful little diva or what? Hope you like the first chapter! If you did, don't be shy to tap that star on your screen and make it twinkle orange. ✨