good guys always win

good guys always win

chapter 11

(11.17.02)

Chapter 11

I lost myself gazing with my head turned right, straight at the ledge of the counter. I sat in the back of the classroom, right next to the counter that had all sorts of chemistry stuff like plastic atomic models, periodic table cards, and sample rocks. I regained my concentration and looked down at the test that was currently on my desk. Question 1, no clue. Question 2, no clue. Question 3, there are different types of bonds? What the hell? All the twenty-five questions on the test were carefully read, but the response remained the same: no clue. I turned my head to the left and stared at the empty seat. My lab partner usually sat there, but today, he was gone – on a goddamn Model UN trip.

Jomo was a nice, smart kid. Half Irish, half Italian and a soft-spoken science whiz in a tall, wiry frame – I had made it a priority on the first day of school to ask him to be my lab partner for the entire year. I initially expected Jomo to be the anchor for our lab assignments, but I never planned on making him the excuse for not studying. I blame my chemistry teacher, Mr. Green, and his monotone sleep-inducing voice as the cause for my incomprehension of the subject. Every class was a struggle to stay awake, but I ended up with a half-red face after every class from the pressure of my head on the desk. I had tried hard to study for the first two tests, but after a lucky solo-effort, I saw my scantron sheet resemble a candy cane with all the red lines of incorrect answers. Meanwhile, Jomo never had lower than a 97 on his tests, and I carefully eyed his progress. By the third test, I realized that I could get a better grade by randomly guessing the answers rather than trying to figure them out. My head had only one way to turn.

Of course, I was never without caution. I liked to use what I call the hand-visor. It’s when you take your hand and put it right above your eyebrows, shielding your eyes from excessive light. For my purposes, the visor shielded my eyes from being seen by Mr. Green. I kept my head ever-slightly turned to the left and my head tilted down. I put my hand-visor on and stared as far left as my eyes would let me. I had instructed Jomo earlier in the day that I would benefit greatly if he would take his test more on his upper-right side. Being the good natured guy that he was, Jomo complied. As my vision adjusted, the letters became visible, and my scantron sheet began to fill up with colored bubbles.

“Aw man, I got a C. Hey Pete, how’d you do?” Arvind, the skinny Indian kid sitting behind me asked.

“Ninety-eight. Maybe you should study more,” I said in a condescending manner. I cherished the irony, or rather, hypocrisy, of my remark. But feeling the humanitarian pinch, I would, on later tests, give Arvind visible access to the answers I copied from Jomo.

This particular test on a November morning was not the same, however. Arvind would not get his “hook-ups”, and my scantron would remain largely empty. What the hell is Na? I know this cute girl named Nana at church. I had not bothered to pay attention to the different elements we had studied in class. I was upset – not because I had no grasp of the material, but because I had not foreseen the possibility that my lab partner may not be present on the day of the test. I vowed to rectify such a liability.

******

The highlight of my day was always my United States History class. The fiery-haired Mr. Martinez brought a boyish attitude to learning history. It was amusing to see him talk about the various events and share his socialist views. And he loved to talk sports, which is a plus for any teacher looking to make a positive impression on high school males. I sat comfortably in my seat and listened to Martinez stumble around trying to describe the difference between Yalta and Potsdam. I looked around the classroom and saw a great majority of the kids dozing away. Crof busily worked on his trigonometry homework and Fat Boy tapped away on his graphing calculator, blasting away the numerous alien ships. I eyed the middle of the room, where the super-smart Jewish duo, Matt and Becky, took careful notes. Matt was a genius – no exaggeration. The blonde-haired Jew probably had the valedictorian honor locked-in since freshman year. He specialized in math, but was superb in all subjects. Some people claimed that he had a photographic memory that allowed him to “browse” a book in his head. I always thought that he was naturally gifted, but augmented his advantage with a driving motivation. Becky was also very bright, but not quite on Matt’s plane. As a competitive student myself, I knew that I would never have a GPA as high as these kids, but I hope that I could beat them in at least one subject, namely history. Crof and I often talked about the “Jew Crew”, J.Crew for short, in contempt. Matt and Becky had some other peripheral kids who worked with them on class projects or sat nearby, and we included them in our J.Crew categorization.

Naturally, being the shameless and politically incorrect group that we were, Crof, Fat Boy, Smuj, and I exchanged comments that could’ve had the entire Jewish community up in arms.

“We need to beat those Jews.”

“How can we do that?”

“There’s got to be an answer to this Jewish question.”

“Doesn’t that book, Mein Kampf, have some answers?”

“Man, look at them again, they’re J’ing up Martinez again.”

“Well, let them, it’ll only raise our grades.”

Matt and Becky were accustomed to arguing for the acceptance of their incorrect answers. If successful, this meant Martinez would have to change everyone’s grade in allowing the answers. They were successful 80% of the time because of their nagging persistence that filibustered Martinez from lecturing. We termed this method as “Jewing it”, or J’ing it up. It was nice to get a few more points, but these were some obnoxious kids.

******

I noticed that on my way up to chemistry class from my pre-calculus period I always passed by Fat Boy and Head. They had chemistry right before me and with the same teacher. When I put two and two together, I realized that I had finally found my second source.

I had heard that their chemistry class was rife with in-class cheating. Warren, Ligi, and Fat Boy collaborated on tests to form a consensus scantron that made up for any solo shortcomings. Of course, their work was far from Jomo’s A+ quality tests, but even further from my Jomo-less F record. I heard stories about the entire class being asleep during lectures, much to the ire of Mr. Green, who was a very nice teacher most of the time. Head claimed that he stayed awake and did his tests on his own, and it showed as he achieved a year-long consistency of “A” through his “straight-up” endeavor.

I requested to my kind friends that they store up their answers on the calculator including the first question to verify that the test I took was the same as theirs. Head and Fat Boy went back and forth in providing me answers. Our exchange took place on the second floor of the school in a curving hallway with windows. I usually saw them at midpoint of the hallway every day, so I would stop at the start of the hallway to take out my calculator and link cable before proceeding smoothly to the pickup point. Head or Fat Boy would already have their calculators on hand, making it a quick process. Few words were exchanged, and I would scurry along to chemistry.

They gave me decent answers, and I felt secure when I went in to take my tests. If Jomo was there, then I resorted to the hand-visor. If he was absent, I would refer to the calculator. Either way, having two sources made studying a non-question. As the year progressed and the routine continued, Arvind realized that I came to class “hooked up.” Being the scavenger that he was, Arvind stood a little further down the hallway and waited for me with his calculator ready. Ever so inclined to charity, I shared my wealth.

******

I sat next to this Indian senior, Vishal, in computer class. It was mid-December and his face was glowing. He had just been accepted on early decision to Columbia University, and I regarded him with awe. Columbia had always been my dream, ever since I had gone to the summer program there during the previous summer. I loved the small campus and the wonderful buildings with their turquoise tops. Low Library was a wonderful sight, and sitting on the steps felt very cool. It was odd to see someone already living my dream a year in advance.

“Yeah, so I got into the College. It’s much better than their engineering program,” Vishal explained. He was laid-back and confident, deservingly so. I had a ton of questions to ask on what I should do as a junior and what kind of scores I would need on the SATs. Only two students had been accepted that year as compared to five or six students the previous year. I knew I had my work cut out for me, so I focused my attention back to my current studies.

“Today we’ll talk about the top down design process. In C++, it’s important that you can…”

I hated computer science. My lack of comprehension from sophomore year continued as I became a beggar of C++ code. I felt like a homeless bum who scavenged garbage bins looking for recyclable cans. I frequently hung around this girl Luki in class, flattering her with compliments, only to be told that she would not share her program and that I should get lost. Harry, who I regarded as a high-level friend, also refused me help and left me in the dark. Any attempts at completing a program on my own were fruitless. My test scores in the class were also atrocious because the computer science textbook had the uncanny power of putting me to sleep in just a few paragraphs each night. By the end of second marking period, I had recorded my first C on my report card – ever.

******

So this was how my junior year began. The year that everyone deems as the most important in high school – the year when SATs would have to be taken and high grades be recorded – junior year was primetime, and those who stepped up would find themselves on their way to an Ivy league school of their choice, right on path to a six-figure, white-collared job and a nice German car in the driveway of the five-bedroom suburban home. For many of my classmates, the American dream was at stake, and we were about to find out who would make the cut.