Cheater

I have been called a cheater exactly three times in my life (that I know of). The first was for what seemed like a forged signature on a spelling test in the seventh grade. (Come on, really?!? Who requires a signature on a spelling test? ) This one, my mom took care of.

The last came during a game of Spades at my dining room table. I nearly kicked my niece’s boyfriend out of the house for it; instead he spent the night in my bathtub (that’s a story for another day).

This is the story of the one in the middle:

I have been back to school for a little over a week now. I know my locker combination by heart, know my schedule like the back of my hand. Softball practice, homework, and nightly phone calls with my guy take up the rest of my time. And I think this year I’ll get a job. It costs money to go to the movies as often as we do, and I’m gonna need gas. This day – like the rest of my high school experience – has been engineered to be awesome.

It is the end of second period, World History. In just a few minutes we’ll be arguing over where to go for lunch (one of the perks of being an upperclassman). All I know for sure right now it that it won’t be me driving. Not yet. My sixteenth birthday is still a few weeks away.

I just have to wait until Ms. Wilkins hands back our summer essays on The Clan of the Cave Bear. No big deal. I stand in the shrinking line and reach out for my paper when she calls out my name.

Scrawled across the MLA cover page are the words,

Is this all yours?

I read it again. What does this mean?

I wait until all the other papers are passed back and take two steps forward. I am easily a foot taller than this woman with her white hair and brow set in a perpetual scowl behind heavy glasses perched at the end of her nose. I put the paper between us.

“What does this mean?”

“I’m just wondering if you wrote all of this?”

What does that mean?

Wait. The implication in the sloppy scrawl is only just now sinking in. What?

“You think I copied it from someone?”

“Did someone help you write it?

“What makes you think that?”

“You use words like ‘forge,’ words juniors don’t use.” I am speechless. “So, who helped you?”

“I mean, my mom and I always read my writing before I turn it in.” We go over it line-by-line and word-by-word. It’s one of my favorite things about writing, has been since freshman year, maybe longer. I don’t say any of this, because I can tell by the smug smile on her face, she thinks she’s got me.

“So what does it mean?”

“What?”

“Forge.”

Is she serious? My hands shake, the paper trembles. My voice catches in my throat, “Forge? As in a relationship – like I say in my paper – means to create.” Tears sting the corners of my eyes, but I refuse to let them well up.

She looks back at me, no sign of backing down.

So I don’t either. “I know you might not expect this kind of writing from your juniors, but maybe you should. This is how I write. Do NOT accuse me of cheating.” I tighten my grip on the paper and turn my back on the teacher.