The SMART testing started pretty much right away Tuesday morning. Apparently the tests were so long and hard that they lasted all day. Mr. Skari started out with a lecture about the importance of using a number two pencil—seriously, I half expected them to wheel in a rickety, rusty guillotine for those of us who dared use a pen or mythical number three lead pencil. Then we began the first part of the test.
I wasn’t too nervous, really, even after all I’d heard about how hard it was, and even after Skari went on and on about how failing this test could result in being held back a year. Because I’m usually pretty good at tests. After dealing with the sort of crap I do each day, who wouldn’t be good at a simple school test?
But the SMART was not just another simple test. It was actually a lot harder than I expected it to be.
No fewer than four kids in my class broke down crying right in the middle of it, and the sound of snapping pencils clicked throughout the room like a miniature Fourth of July celebration. The test was definitely hard. Which drove out any last-second thoughts about ditching our plan, because if we wanted to make sure the school passed, the plan would need to be put into effect.
The first part of the test ended just before morning recess. Joe, Vince, and Fred met up with me outside the East Wing boys’ bathroom. We didn’t open up the office that day because we were still wary of George lurking in the area. But I did hand each of them a list of kids.
“These are the kids who paid for help with the SMART. Let’s use recesses and lunch periods today to track down the kids on your list and let them know not to worry about the test too much, that we’ve got it all taken care of.”
The truth was I was going to doctor everybody’s answers, not just the kids who had paid me. That way we could be sure the school would pass. But I still needed to tell only a few kids. I mean, once a few kids know something, everyone will know within an hour usually. That’s how schools work.
The rest of the test that day was about the same, but as the day went on, kids seemed less and less stressed. It was pretty clear that word was getting around. In fact, during afternoon recess the last few kids on my list already knew about what I was going to do by the time I went to go see them. And in the halls I got a lot of kids patting me on the back and thanking me, and one cute seventh-grade girl even wanted to give me a hug, which was kind of embarrassing but I let her anyway.
After school Vince and I went to baseball tryouts. Once again I’m pretty sure Vince made quite the impression. I noticed that Kjelson spent a lot of time watching kids chase after Vince’s filthy breaking pitches. The best part about Vince’s arm was that his pitches were so clean. A lot of his movement was generated by his grip, so his throwing motion stayed really sound; there was hardly any extra strain on his elbow. And that also meant that it was going to be near impossible for batters to get tipped off by his delivery because it was identical every time, no matter what he was throwing.
I know Vince is only a sixth grader, but in my opinion it wasn’t too early to already be thinking about the majors. I mean, he could definitely already strike out Joe Blanton, even as a sixth grader, so I couldn’t even imagine how good he’d be by the time he graduated high school.
Practice ended a little early that day because Kjelson said he had some “important matters to attend to,” which was actually great. We were going to need all the time we could get to execute our plan before the janitors made their final sweep of the school at six. I’ve said that the janitor and I had an understanding, and that was true, but he’d always been pretty clear to me that he still had to do his job, part of which was making sure that all kids were out of the building when he locked up and left at six.
Vince and I changed as quickly as we could and then headed down toward the south side of the school, where the administration offices were located. It was 4:15 already, so chances were that the secretaries and principals would either be gone or leaving soon. They were almost always gone by four thirty.
Vince and I walked by the admin offices and saw that one secretary and Dr. George were still there so we just kept on walking by. We veered into the school library, which stayed open until four thirty.
We normally liked to avoid the library at all costs. Not because we hated books or anything, but because it was Snitch Town. If you needed a snitch or squealer, the library was the place to go. And you know how I feel about snitches, so it should be obvious why we avoided the library much the same way the entire student body avoided Chet, the kid with head lice.
But we were there because from the table nearest the door we could see the administration offices. We could keep watch without looking too suspicious. Normally kids hanging around the school hallways until four thirty wasn’t a big deal, but normally we didn’t have Dr. George after us. All we needed was to get caught loitering in the hallways and our whole operation would be ruined.
We sat across from each other at one of the small reading tables, sitting in silence for about fifteen minutes or so. Vince pretended to read a book, and I tried to ignore the sniveling stares of a few rats seated at the tables around us. I could feel their predatory eyes on me, waiting, desperate to tattle on me to the librarian for something or another.
As the minutes passed, more and more of them got up to leave. Then it was just Vince and I left. I’d seen the secretary leave, but Dr. George still hadn’t walked out of the big wooden administration offices door. I guessed he was still getting all the SMART stuff ready to go for tomorrow morning, which is why he was still here later than usual.
Then finally, just as the clock hit 4:30 and the librarian started to kick us out, I saw Dr. George come striding out of his office. He flipped off the lights behind him and then headed for the south exit, away from the library.
“Bye, Mrs. Hunter,” I said to the librarian as Vince and I pretended to head back toward the gym. After we were sure that Mrs. Hunter had also left the building, we circled back around to the administration offices.
I took out a digital walkie-talkie that Tyrell had given me the night before and switched it on.
“The Bacon has been fully smoked,” I said into it, signaling Tyrell to head to the north school entrance.
Then Vince and I headed there ourselves. The doors all locked on the outside at four o’clock, so we had to go down and let Tyrell and our hired help inside. Changing the answers to several hundred tests in less than two hours would take more than just a few kids, so I’d hired some help.
Tyrell came inside, followed by Joe, Kitten, Fred, Great White, the Hutt, and several other bullies I’d hired in the past: Little Paul, Nubby, Kevin, and PrepSchool. Hiring bullies to help you with a delicate operation like this might seem like a stupid thing to do, but in actuality a lot of bullies are pros at cheating and breaking rules, so I thought they seemed like a natural choice. Plus, I know for certain that the last thing any of these bullies would do is squeal. If you want to stay on top at our school as a bully, then you can’t be a squealer; it’s that simple.
Plus, these bullies had helped a lot with a huge problem I’d faced down just a few months ago, so I knew I could trust them . . . well, as much as you could really trust any bully, that is.
“Okay, Tyrell, after you,” I said, pointing toward the door to the administration offices.
We moved down the hall and stopped in front of the big wooden door. Tyrell took off his backpack, dug inside it, and removed a small metal object.
“What is that?” Joe asked.
Tyrell didn’t answer. He stood up just enough to reach the lock. The small metal object in his hand looked kind of like a gun. It had two thin, curved pieces of metal that squeezed together, like a curved pair of scissors. He then took out a small black pouch and removed a thin, flat metal rod about five inches long. He stuck it into the end of the gunlike object. Then he removed another small metal rod; this one was shaped like an L but with a few flat notches on the end. He stuck the ends of both rods into the door’s lock. He squeezed the “trigger,” and several loud clicking sounds echoed through the hallway. Tyrell didn’t react to my sharp inhale, and he twisted the metal object sharply as he squeezed the trigger. It turned, and I heard the distinct click of the dead bolt sliding into the door.
He turned the handle and pushed the door open a few feet.
“Okay, okay, wait,” Vince said. “What is that, and where the heck did you get it?”
Tyrell shrugged. “The internet.”
He held the door open as we filed inside the administration office area. It was still barely light enough outside that we could see where we were going, since the whole back wall was lined with windows.
Fred stayed right near the door to keep watch as we’d all discussed earlier. Just in case a teacher came by or something, we would hopefully have enough warning to get out of sight.
We crouched to stay lower than the windows as we shuffled over to the door to Dr. George’s office. We’d decided that for this part of the plan, Tyrell should go in alone. He knew where everything would be, and we didn’t really think that having eleven kids, including several bullies, tromping through Dr. George’s office was a particularly good idea, since it would be more likely that he’d notice someone had been in his office.
Tyrell worked his lock-pick magic on George’s office and disappeared inside behind the door. It only took him a few minutes before he returned with the security envelopes full of answer sheets and the master booklet. I grinned at him, and he merely nodded back.
We carefully extracted the answer sheets from a cut Tyrell had made in the side of the envelopes while Joe made copies of the master booklet at a nearby copy machine. The copy machine seemed so loud in the quiet office that I half expected it to just explode and cover us all in ink and paper shreds while simultaneously setting off an alarm of some kind.
Then we passed out the copied master answer keys, and Joe dumped out a pile of erasers and number two pencils onto the floor. Tyrell and I put the stack of student answer sheets, which seemed like it was two stories high, on a side table sitting against the wall. I went over the instructions again: answer most of the questions right but leave a couple wrong. If the whole school scored one hundred percent, it would look suspicious.
Then we got started. At first it wasn’t so bad. Go through the answer sheet, erase any wrong responses, and fill in the circles for correct answers. Simple. And as I went along, I was even more sure this arrangement was the right move. The kids seemed to have done a lot worse than I’d expected. It was definitely as hard as advertised.
But after like forty-five minutes and fifty or so tests each, our wrists were aching. I could barely feel my fingers anymore, and the pile of eraser shavings around us looked like some dude with really dry skin had just got done running a cheese grater all over himself. And all of our fingers were coated in black graphite from the pencils. The only one of us not whining after an hour was Kitten, who just sat there calmly erasing and filling in circles.
While we worked on the tests, Tyrell was carefully cutting off the school bar code and labels applied to the security envelope, and then after that he’d use the glue to apply everything onto the envelope we’d brought with us.
It felt like we were in there forever, erasing and filling circles. Erasing and filling. Erase. Fill. Erase. Fill. It was incredibly boring, and like I said, hand cramps were killing me. But by the time we finished the last answer sheet and stacked them back into one neat pile, it was only 5:40. We’d done pretty well; we still had twenty minutes to spare.
I paid all of the bullies their hard-earned ten dollars, and then they split. I also told Joe and Fred, who looked like he’d fallen asleep while he was supposed to have been looking out, that they could go home as well.
Vince and I helped Tyrell get all of the tests into the new envelopes, and then we sealed them up. Tyrell planted them and the original master booklet back inside Dr. George’s office. Then we all left, making sure to pick up as many of the eraser shavings as we could. Tyrell disappeared like he always seems to, and then Vince and I started down the hall toward the exit nearest our bike rack.
And then Kjelson came around the corner.
We stopped walking, and so did he. No one talked for a few moments—as if we’d both just caught each other in the act of doing something we weren’t supposed to be doing.
“What are you two still doing here?” he asked finally. “Practice ended well over an hour ago.”
Kids were typically allowed to remain inside the school until five thirty because of sports practices and play rehearsals and stuff like that, but since Mr. Kjelson was our coach and knew our practice had ended a while ago, it was a little unusual that we were still there.
“Nothing. We were just helping a friend with some project he’s working on in one of the science labs,” Vince said.
Vince always had been the better on-the-spot liar.
Mr. Kjelson nodded and said, “Okay, you were on your way out, though, right? The janitor will be locking up soon.”
We nodded.
“Okay, see you both Thursday at tryouts, then,” he said, and then continued down the hall toward the administration area.
It seemed like he had bought it.
“Well, that was close, but we did it, Vince!” I said as we exited the building.
Vince grinned at me. It had been one of the biggest single operations in school history. I’d just successfully cheated for the entire school on a state administered test. I’d probably just saved the school, based on how many answers we’d had to change, and also had made over a thousand dollars in the process. We were feeling pretty good, and that left just two major problems: finding a way to get George off of our case and figuring out who was messing with the school.