“Hey, I can’t solve your problems for you. All I can do is open your mind and lead you to the Gates of Wisdom. You have to go the rest of the way yourself.”
If he doesn’t say something useful in the next thirty seconds,Karl resolves, I’m hanging up.
“Go ahead, Guru. I’m listening.”
In the empty air on the other end, Karl hears the sound of a mouse clicking in rapid bursts. While he’s supposedly saving Karl from doom, the great Guru is also playing a game on his computer. Wonderful.
“Okay. First we eliminate self-destruction as an option. Then we think: how can we scare the living crap out of this guy so he’ll leave you alone? I’m not talking about illegal weaponry here. More like butterflies with huge eyes on their wings-give the illusion of great size and menace. What could you say to this fiend that would…”
The rest of the Guru’s blather evaporates into the air, a harmless, odorless gas. He has said the magic words; he has given Karl the answer, without realizing it. Despite the emptiness of his boasts, he was right about one thing: there is another way out.
Karl hangs up and takes the pen and the hospital note-pad from the bedside table. He’s got a great deal of planning to do. Between now and the SAT, he may not have time to sleep.
RULE #15: “Cheat on the SAT? Oooooo, no one would do that. It would be like jackhammering the original Ten Commandments. Wouldn’t it?” Answer: Uh… no. It’s not a sacred ritual, it’s just another test. As I told a friend recently, you have to stop letting them intimidate you!
Chapter 15
Early morning fog. Damp chill in the air. Quiet out, except for a blue jay shrieking and the loose fan belt slapping as Mom lets the engine idle.
Karl’s heavy exhaustion helps subdue his anxiety. Ironic: for once, he’s nervous before a test like everyone else, though for very different reasons.
“You’re sure you’re up to this?” his mother asks. “You don’t have to go in. You can take it the next time instead.”
In his altered state, he notices every crumpled scrap of paper in the cup holder, and the coffee stain on the emergency-brake handle. “I’m totally fine,” he claims. A little burp brings up the taste of the hard-boiled eggs she served him an hour before.
“Quick: antelope is to deer as cantaloupe is to what?”
“Mom, they don’t give analogies anymore.”
His head is light as he steps out of the car, though his body seems to have put on an extra hundred pounds. He moves slowly so he won’t lose his balance and fall over.
“I’ll pick you up at twelve-thirty,” his mother calls through the open window. “Hopefully the car’ll be fixed by then. If not, we’ll have a nice walk home. Don’t forget to eat those nuts in the break! I love you.”
He blows her a kiss-their old habit, an involuntary reflex-and the white Accord heads down the street.
He walks along the ragged line outside the school door. Antonio Feferman sips casually from a Starbucks cup; Ivan Fretz turns the pages of a thick review book, skimming with rapid head movements. The sleeves of Karl’s jacket rub his arm hairs uncomfortably; that’s how he knows he’s still sick.
“Who let the cadaver out of the lab?”
Lizette pulls Karl into the line.
“Hey, Karl, you don’t look your usual bubbly self.”
That’s Matt, nervously nodding. Jonah’s there, too. Subdued, he shakes Karl’s hand.
“So,” Karl says softly, “you’re taking the test even though…”
“I’m hoping they’ll let me back into school. Somehow.”
He smiles, trying to be brave. There’s something different about him. He looks more grown up, less awkward.
“Braces off. Last week.”
“You’ve been out of touch, big guy.”
“Yeah, you missed my three home-run game,” Lizette says.
She seems tense-which is understandable on SAT day, especially since she’s involved in a conspiracy, and also doesn’t know exactly where she stands with Karl and whether they’ll soon be a couple or will stay-sigh-just friends.
“So, old chum,” says Matt, “would you be open to sending us the right answers, telepathically?”
“Look at him,” Lizette comments, a quick change of subject. “He’s a wreck. You better hope the essay topic is Why I Feel Like Dog Doo Today.”
“You wouldn’t be nervous, would you, Karl?” Matt pokes him in the chest. “That would not be logical.”
He deserves the taunts, he supposes. After all, he did heartlessly abandon the three of them. The funny thing is, he enjoys the teasing. It’s good to be back.
Farther back on the line, a slender patch of blue moves metronome-fashion in the air. This is Blaine’s sweater sleeve, waving. Behind him stand Vijay, Ian, Tim, and Noah. Vijay sends Karl a discreet thumbs-up.
Karl turns his head away, as if dodging a blinding flash.
Up at the head of the line, Phillip Upchurch stands apart in his khaki slacks and blazer. (If a Harvard scout puts in a surprise appearance, at least Phillip won’t have to worry about being underdressed.) Mr. Sweddy, the gym teacher, checks his watch repeatedly. With him stand four unfamiliar men in dark suits and sunglasses. Each has a square white badge on his jacket, but they’re too far away to read the little words. “Who do you think they are?” Karl asks.
Lizette: “FBI?”
“They look more like an a cappella group,” says Matt.
Eight o’clock. The line begins to move. Karl pats his pockets: three number two pencils in his windbreaker’s inside pocket (all wooden, none electronic); admission ticket in his windbreaker’s outer pocket, left side; student ID in left pants pocket; Baggie full of salted nuts in windbreaker’s outer pocket, right side; iPod Nano loaded with incriminating recordings in left shirt pocket, covered by flap; and digital transmitter in right shirt pocket, likewise hidden by flap.
“Into the mouth of the monster marched the innocent multitudes,” Matt moans.
Passing through the entranceway, Karl reads the badges of the men in dark suits. They all say the same thing: ETS, PRINCETON.
Educational Testing Service. The makers of the test.
What’s that thumping in the distance? Oh-his heart.
The students file through the dim hallway, past the band room, the office, the nurse’s office, the auditorium, the art studio-around many corners, like obedient mice in a maze. The school looks different this Saturday morning, with all the doors closed and the room lights out. Bleak. Deserted.
In the gym, four teachers-Watney, Singh, Franklin, and Verp-huddle together by the bleachers.
Karl and his friends mill around like everyone else, waiting for whatever comes next. “Now I know how cattle feel when they’re herded into the slaughterhouse,” Jonah says.
“Son, you’ve got to work on that attitude,” Lizette replies.
Karl’s laugh dies fast when he notices the entire Confederacy hovering just behind him-including Phillip Upchurch.
“Hey, amigo,” says Blaine. “Good to go?”
Though Karl has engineered a massive deception, a simple lie is harder to pull off. “Rmff,” he says, nodding.
Blaine pats him on the back. “Good luck-to all of us.” He adds a private murmur: “Visualize success.”
“Attention, students,” Miss Verp announces, in a voice like a drawer full of silverware landing on the floor. “You will now divide yourselves into four equal groups.”
The teachers spread out along the bottom row of the bleachers and wait for the students to line up in front of them. Karl wanders over to Herr Franklin, who seems the least likely of the four to notice anything. His friends come with him, and so does the Confederacy.
The mass migration arouses suspicion. Here comes Miss Verp, whispering in Herr Franklin’s ear-and there he goes, taking over her group. Alarmingly, Miss Verp gives Karl a malicious smile as she says, “Follow me, students.”