MAYBELLINE DIALED ROSEMARY’S number again. She’d called over and over for the first half hour of her planning period, but each time, the phone rang through to voice mail. This was how it worked with Rosemary: she wouldn’t pick up until she’d ignored some magic number of calls.
It had been a bad decision, Maybelline knew, to spill her sister’s secret on the night of the Super Bowl. She could not go quite so far as to feel sorry about it, but that didn’t matter because apologizing wouldn’t have worked anyway. Rosemary never admitted to being angry. The only thing to do was beg, and that only worked sometimes.
In the meantime, Rosemary had seized an opportunity to place Maybelline at her passive-aggressive mercy. The “national holiday” known as Take Our Daughters and Sons to Work Day was coming up, and Rosemary was planning to take Gabriella to the mall. That made sense: shopping was about the closest thing Rosemary had to a real job. Except she’d invited Allyson, who was supposed to be grounded for bad grades.
Maybelline dialed again, so resigned to another round of Rosemary’s voice-mail greeting that she was surprised to hear a click, followed by an irritated, “Yes?”
“Rosemary, we need to talk about next Thursday.”
“Mmm-hmm. What about it?”
“I really don’t want Allyson missing school.”
“Then drive her yourself.” Clearly, Rosemary had been waiting to say this.
“Look, you know Allyson’s school is too far out of the way for me in the mornings. If I wait for the doors to open, I’ll be late.”
“Well, next Thursday, school is out of the way for me.”
“It’s your neighborhood school, Rosemary. I’m the one who has to drop her at your house every morning and then get to work by seven.”
“Exactly.”
Maybelline tried to pull back to safe ground. Talking about work with Rosemary was dangerous territory. “And, I mean, I appreciate it. I’m just saying that when I enrolled her under your address, you knew I would need you to drive her in the mornings.”
“Well, usually I’m pretty nice about covering for you as a parent.” The mention of work had reminded Rosemary this was punishment time. “But I’m not going to be the only one who doesn’t take their kid to work that day. Especially since Gabriella just made honor roll.”
It was this last sentence that did it. Even as she opened her mouth, Maybelline knew she was making another mistake, but she could not stop herself. “So going to the mall counts as ‘work’?”
“Yeah. You’re right. It’s not. So I guess you should probably take Allyson with you on Thursday. To your real job.”
Maybelline was about to respond that Allyson was not coming anywhere near Brae Hill Valley High School when she developed a sense that she was not alone in the room. She turned around. Sure enough, Roger Scamphers was behind her, smiling, one hand squeezing his keys into silence.
“Listen, Rosemary, my boss just walked in. I have to call you back.” She knew this sounded like a comeback. After all, one needed a job to have a boss. But there was no way to explain.
“Okay. You can try. But I’ll probably be busy.” Rosemary hung up.
“Good morning, Mr. Scamphers!” Maybelline tried to sound cheerfully surprised. She wondered how long he had been in the room.
“Good morning to you, Ms. Galang. I got your e-mail yesterday, but it seemed like a better idea to talk about this in person.”
“Definitely,” said Maybelline, relieved.
Ever since she’d sent the e-mail during the Super Bowl, she’d been waiting for a sign that Mr. Scamphers was starting a paper trail on Lena Wright. Instead, he seemed to be prying for information about Hernan Hernandez. This had nagged at her, until finally she’d sent an e-mail suggesting she might be able to help more directly.
“I am not telling anyone else this, Ms. Galang, but I trust you, and I do need someone helpful.”
Maybelline nodded eagerly, waiting for him to ask exactly what she’d been hinting at in her e-mail. It would feel so good to finally say Lena’s name aloud.
Mr. Scamphers lowered his voice. “Our superintendent has approached me privately to say I may be considered for a principal position next year, provided our school meets certain… numerical targets.”
“Well, I am a numbers person.”
“I had a feeling I could count on you.” He moved closer. “With all this national attention, Superintendent Wallabee needs to make sure teachers’ Believer Scores align closely with their students’ test scores. It’s a delicate situation, as you can imagine.”
Maybelline nodded, though she wasn’t exactly sure what she should be imagining. Then again, she’d always thought imagination was overrated.
“Especially since they’ve got those computer programs now. Any teacher who messed with an answer sheet would get caught in a second.”
Maybelline was confused. None of this had anything to do with the misunderstanding about Hernan. Nor did it have any connection to Lena Wright’s forbidden classroom fridge and disregard for data.
“Luckily, Mr. Wallabee has a close relationship with Global Schoolhouse’s test-creation division. They’ve been kind enough to provide some preview documents ahead of the test.”
“But that’s—”
“I know. It’s still a logistical nightmare. It’s important to remember that the questions and answer choices will be in different orders on different tests, but the questions themselves are the same. The good news is that the OBEI people are in charge of test security, and I’ve already got them eating out of my hand. And now I’m in charge of the Believer Scores. I just need help distributing the materials to certain teachers whose discretion we trust. Teachers like you, for example.”
Suddenly, Mr. Scamphers’s smile didn’t seem so friendly. Giving out test questions ahead of time wasn’t just against the rules—it was against the law. But it was the last part, teachers like you, that bothered her the most.
“Mr. Scamphers”—she straightened and looked him in the eye—“I am not going to help anyone cheat.”
Mr. Scamphers emitted a lighthearted laugh that sounded strange coming from him. “Oh, Ms. Galang! I hope that wasn’t what you thought I meant.”
“Okay. Good.” Perhaps she had misunderstood.
He studied her face intently for a moment. Finally, he said, “I was only mentioning that I’ve taken on a lot of the responsibility for making this school run correctly.”
“I understand.” Maybelline felt the conversation clicking back into its groove. “Actually, that’s why I e-mailed you—to make sure you knew exactly who I was talking about when I said—”
“For example,” Mr. Scamphers continued, ignoring her, “I’m very good at catching students who use fake addresses to enroll here. You may have noticed that some of the failing students on that list you sent me have not returned to your class.”
“Yes. Thank you,” said Maybelline, though she hadn’t realized what Mr. Scamphers had done with the names she’d sent him. She tried not to seem worried. Had he heard her conversation with Rosemary? Had she said enough to incriminate herself?
The long look Mr. Scamphers gave her answered both questions. “If I knew about a situation where someone was doing that at another school, it would probably make sense for me to tell the administrators there. I’m sure you can imagine.”
“Yes,” said Maybelline, and this time, she found she could.
“Good. So we understand each other.”
She nodded. Her throat felt dry.
“Get ready, Ms. Galang. You might be calling me Principal Scamphers next year.” He gathered his keys tightly in his fist and stepped into the hallway without a sound.
In the last five minutes of her planning period, Maybelline tried several more times to call Rosemary, but each time, the phone rang through to voice mail.