I WAS A year behind my junior high classmates based on my age, and always assumed I would never catch up. But that was before Mr. Qualteri’s science class and my discovery of drugs.
Mr. Qualteri never smiled; he was the most solemn teacher I ever had, but I suppose there was nothing lighthearted about dissecting a frog. Behind his back, the kids in the class made fun of Mr. Qualteri’s permanently somber persona, daring one another to find a prank that would make him laugh, or even smile. The fantasy I harbored was snatching his thick, dark toupee, but Mr. Qualteri would certainly not find anything funny about that.
For the spring term, Mr. Qualteri assigned us two “science reports,” for which the requirement was simply to pick a topic and go to the library to research it. There were no other instructions, nothing about what kind of sources to use, how many to use, how to cite them, or even whether to cite them.
At the small public library on the other side of Broadway, a mile or so from home, I told the librarian I needed to write a science report. “It just has to do with science,” I said. “Anything scientific.”
“Well, all right,” she said. She went to a nearby reference shelf and pulled out a thick hardbound book, titled something like The Science Encyclopedia. I could barely lift it. She showed me the other books like it on the same shelf, with titles such as Encyclopedia of the Human Body and the Encyclopedia of Science and Technology.
I flipped slowly through the pages. I could not believe my good fortune. Writing that science report would be easy, I suddenly realized. It was only a matter of choosing something, anything, and copying down the information.
Maybe it was the fancy pictures—molar, incisor, bicuspid—that grabbed my attention, but whatever the reason, I pulled out my notebook and recorded word for word the entire entry for human teeth. In seventh grade, I’d never heard the word plagiarism. I even copied the pictures of all the different types of teeth and put them on the cover of the science report I handed in the next day in class. Mr. Qualteri was pleased; he gave me an A and wrote “Well done” next to the grade.
Suddenly I was acing seventh-grade science. For my second science report I did exactly the same thing: walked over to the library the day before it was due, pulled out the various science-related encyclopedias, and skimmed through them, quickly looking for an entry to copy. This time I settled on the topic of drugs, specifically illegal drugs—something I would end up devoting much attention to in my academic research decades later. Once again, I copied down the text in the encyclopedia, word for word. The encyclopedia entry included an eye-catching illustration of a poppy plant with a syringe stuck into it, showing that the poppy plant was used to make heroin. I copied that picture for the cover of my report, which I titled “The Dangers of Drugs.”
This time Mr. Qualteri was ecstatic, waving my report in the air and announcing to the whole class that “Peter here has written a very impressive science report. It shows how destructive and deadly illegal drugs are.” My heart swelled to see the huge “A+—Excellent!” he’d scrawled at the top of the page. Unexpectedly, I had become the model antidrug student.
But then laughter broke out in the back row. Robert Vega clearly had something to say about this; I immediately suspected it had to do with my having smoked pot with him. Mr. Qualteri asked Robert to stay after class. I walked out as calmly as I could, trying not to appear nervous. The next day after class, Mr. Qualteri asked me to stay for an extra minute.
“Peter, you know how much I liked your science report on the dangers of drugs,” he said. “But Robert tells me that you smoked marijuana at his house last week. Is this true?”
It was true. I had been at Robert’s house, and he and his brothers were smoking dope, and I had tried it, for the first time in my life, only a toke or two, when they passed me the joint. But Mr. Qualteri didn’t want it to be true, and at that moment, neither did I.
“No, Mr. Qualteri, that’s not true. It’s true that Robert and his brothers were smoking marijuana at their house last week, and it’s true that I was there with them, but I said no.”
He sighed with relief and patted my shoulder. “I thought so. Robert’s just a troublemaker. You should hang out with other kids.”
Before I left the room, I said, “Thank you, Mr. Qualteri. See you tomorrow.”
“No, Peter,” he replied. “Thank you for that wonderful report. I have very high hopes for you, young man.” And then he actually smiled, just a flicker.
Late that spring, the principal called me into his office one Friday afternoon. I was anxious. Maybe Mr. Qualteri had finally figured out I had lied to him.
“Please, have a seat,” Mr. Salazar said as he closed the door behind me. As I nervously wiped my sweaty palms down the front of my pants, he smiled at me. “Mr. Qualteri tells me what a terrific student you’ve been in his class this year, really exceptional. I’m always glad to hear such good things about a student. You’ve also been doing well in your other classes; your teachers speak highly of you. In fact, Mr. Qualteri has recommended that we skip you to the ninth grade, that way you’ll catch up to your age group. How would you like that?” Without waiting for a reply, he continued: “Oh, and I’m happy to tell you that you’ll be receiving the Trailblazer Award this year, given to the top student in the class. Congratulations!” Mr. Salazar reached out to shake my hand and flashed a warm smile. “You should be proud of yourself.” As I slowly got up and walked out of Mr. Salazar’s office he gave me a pat on my back. “Keep up the good work.”
“Thank you, Mr. Salazar. I will.” The words came easily, automatically, but I could not look Mr. Salazar in the eye. I walked slowly down the hall, not quite believing what had just happened. But one thing had become clear: doing well in school was one way I could control my fate and take care of myself—and get others to care about me.
Later, when I received the Trailblazer Award—a small, round, gold-colored medal, hanging on a red, white, and blue ribbon—I showed it to my mother, hoping she might be impressed. I knew not to make too big of a deal about it, though, so that she didn’t think I was becoming a conformist. When I explained what it was for, she said, “Oh, that’s nice. Too bad it has a red, white, and blue ribbon—looks too patriotic. I didn’t realize you were doing so well in school.” She then added, “Just don’t let it go to your head. We wouldn’t want you to start thinking you’re better than the other students.”
That fall I moved on to the ninth grade. Everyone reassured me that eighth grade was a bad year anyway and that I wouldn’t miss it. I never did shake my guilt that I had lied to Mr. Qualteri about the few puffs of pot, but at least I didn’t try pot again for years. And I remained oblivious about the plagiarism.
My friendship with Robert Vega died out after seventh grade. We barely even saw each other in the halls. Some years later, while my mother was clipping stories from the Rocky Mountain News, she came across a small news item reporting that a Robert Vega had been busted for robbing a convenience store on South Broadway. That was Robert’s neighborhood, and it sounded like the sort of trouble he’d always courted, but I hoped it wasn’t him.