The Cheat

By C. Duane Hague

Donald Tilman had figuratively drawn the short straw, ending up in Mrs. Craven’s third grade class. Her reputation was such that every second grader at Farmington Elementary lived in dread of such misfortune. But Donnie, as everyone called him, wasn’t the luckiest person in school. If anyone was going to draw that proverbial short straw, it would almost have to be him. Of course, there were twenty-four such straws, twenty-four unlucky souls.

Schools in Farmington always started during the last half of September. The prune crops had to be picked before consigning the local labor force to school rooms. As a result, Monday, September 20, 1948, was the first day of school that year. It would prove to be a day that Donnie would never forget. With the skin on his hands still stained and knees still sore from kneeling while picking up prunes, he was the very first in his class to be on the receiving end of Mrs. Craven’s infamous discipline.

“Good morning, class. Most of you already know me, but for those who don’t, I’m Mrs. Craven.” With that, she turned and wrote her name near the top of the blackboard, her script precise and disciplined. She was an old teacher with a severe expression permanently etched on her wrinkled face. White hair, knotted into a tight bun with nary a hair out of place pulled at her features. Her slight figure, tall and ramrod straight, was military in bearing. Despite her apparent great age, she demonstrated remarkable dexterity and strength. Donnie had witnessed playground fights that had been quickly extinguished with Mrs. Craven’s intervention. The participants were ushered toward the building, half strangling in her steely grip on the back of their shirt collars, feet scarcely touching the ground. They would undoubtedly be brought before Mrs. Heathman, the school principal, who shared a reputation for severity.

Being one of the tallest kids, Donnie was seated near the back of the room. John, one of his friends from second grade, occupied the desk directly in front of him. Leaning over his desk top, he tapped John on the shoulder and whispered, “Boy, I wonder if Mrs. Craven is as mean as they say. I bet she hasn’t smiled in her whole life.” When Donnie looked up, he saw Mrs. Craven staring directly at him, her eyes snapping with anger. Fearfully, he leaned back and hunkered down in his seat.

Consulting something on her perfectly organized desk, she said, “Mr. Tilman. That’s it, isn’t it? Donald Tilman?”

Donnie was tempted to remain silent, but decided that he’d better answer. “Yes, Ma’am, that’s right.”

“Come up here, and don’t dally.”

Standing, Donnie strode up the aisle and stood before Mrs. Craven’s desk. He sensed that every eye in the room was riveted on him. With eyes averted and one foot tracing a random pattern on the green and white linoleum tiled floor, he could scarcely control his bladder as he stood there in trembling silence. The whole room seemed to be holding its breath, not a sound broke the interminable suspense.

Finally, addressing the class, she said, “I’m making an example of Mr. Tilman here, so you’ll all know what you might expect for talking in class without raising your hand.” With that announcement, she picked up a slim willow switch from her desk and moved around it to where Donnie stood. “Turn around and face the class.”

Donnie did as he was told, studiously keeping his eyes on his feet, too humiliated to make eye contact with any of his classmates.

“Now, hold out your hand, palm up.”

He knew what was about to happen, so was hesitant to obey. “I didn’t do nothin’ so bad,” Donnie pleaded, his voice panicky. It was almost as if he were begging for his life.

“Hold out your hand,” Mrs. Craven repeated, her lips pursed, a light of pleasure in her eyes.

There was no way out of this, short of making a break for it, which would brand him a craving coward to all. Slowly, he raised his left hand and turned it palm up as instructed.

In his eight years of life, Donnie had received a few beltings at home and a number of lesser punishments, but never in his memory could he think of anything that hurt worse than that supple switch snapping viciously across his hand. It brought instant tears of agony and one of the few smiles he’d ever seen on Mrs. Craven’s face.

Ever since that day, Donnie has been a model student, never making a sound without raising a hand and waiting for permission to speak. He was even afraid to cough or clear his throat.

*          *          *

As the school year progressed, Donnie came to realize that no matter how hard you tried, there would never be any praise from Mrs. Craven; not even for Deloris, who’d become known as teacher’s pet since she’d been appointed class monitor. When Mrs. Craven spoke, it was simply a matter of business or to crucify one of the kids for some slight infraction or other. The only thing that Mrs. Craven did that might be considered a form of praise, was her spelling chart. On it was listed each child in her room, the names neatly printed one under the other and arranged alphabetically. In line with the names were spaces that signified each week of the school year. If you did well on the spelling test, you’d receive a star in that week’s space. A gold star denoted a perfect test score, while one word missed would earn you a silver star, and two, a blue. A few of the kids had nothing but blank spaces.

If there was any one thing highlighting Donnie’s third grade school year under the tyranny of Mrs. Craven, that chart would have to be it. After his name was a solid string of gold stars. There was but one other kid in his class that equaled this perfect record: Deloris. Deloris was a tall skinny blond girl that always wore ankle length skirts. Since it was her job as class monitor to affix the stars to the chart, Donnie suspected that she gave herself a gold star no matter what her test score. To lend credence to this conviction, his friend John, had told him that he’d seen one of her papers in the waste basket with several misspelled words. He’d been tempted to point that out to the teacher, but was afraid to do so. Besides, he didn’t want to get the reputation as a tattle-tale. He did confront Doris during recess with this knowledge. Her reaction came in the form of a protruding tongue and a mist of saliva.

*          *          *

With just one week left in the school year, disaster struck.

It’s hard to say just what possessed Donnie to have missed copying down one of the spelling words that Mrs. Craven listed on the blackboard, but he did. Perhaps it was because most of the words were easy and he was overconfident. Or perhaps it was pure carelessness. In any event, he arrived home Friday afternoon with but nine spelling words to study for Monday’s test, the last one of the school year.

Ever since Mrs. Craven had posted that chart, a spelling competition had developed. Donnie’s biggest adversary had been Deloris. It was because of her, that he’d studied those spelling words with such intensity. Ever since he became convinced that some of her stars were probably ill-gotten, he’d hated her with a passion. Knowing that he probably could never actually beat her, he was determined to bring the school year to a close with an equal quantity of gold stars. He was proud of the fact that all of his stars were honestly earned.

Sunday evening--as was his routine--he flipped open his Big Chief pencil tablet and began memorizing his spelling words. When he thought he knew them all, he said, “Okay, Momma, I’m ready.” His mother would administer a trial test. She knew to mix up the words just like Mrs. Craven might. If he missed any, he’d study some more and try again until he had it perfect.

After the test was finished, Momma said, “How come there’s only nine words? Doesn’t your teacher always give you ten?”

“There’s not ten?” Donnie said, a panicky feeling stealing over him.

Taking a moment to recount, his mother said, “No . . . only nine.”

Thinking hard, Donnie tried to visualize that blackboard, but try as he might, couldn’t conjure that missing word. “I know there were ten words . . . always is.  I must have skipped one when I copied them down.” He was so upset that his eyes blurred with tears. He could visualize Deloris braying like a donkey over his defeat. In fact, with that long, thin face and unusually large front teeth, he thought she even looked like a donkey.

“Never mind, son. Let’s be sure you know these nine and maybe you can find out what that missing word is when you get to school tomorrow. Shouldn’t be too hard to memorize just one word.”

“Yeah . . . one word.  I can do that.”

As luck would have it, the school bus was late that Monday. The tardy bell was already ringing by the time he entered the building. Since he was the only one in Mrs. Craven’s class that rode the South Uglow bus, there’d been no chance to solve the case of the missing word. Since the test was always administered as the first event of each Monday, he would have little time to prepare.

Trying not to be noticed, he slipped quietly into the room through the coat closet and took his seat. The only sound was the scraping and tapping of chalk on the blackboard as Mrs. Craven finished listing a series of arithmetic problems. After the spelling test, that would be the next assignment, to be copied and solved while Mrs. Craven checked the spelling papers. Donnie was good at arithmetic; had even memorized all of his times tables. It seemed as though this was a year for memorizing stuff. He’d even had to learn all forty-eight states and their capitals; and some stupid poems. He hated poems, especially those that didn’t even rhyme.

Much to Donnie’s relief, the spelling words were still there. Just as he identified the word that had given him so much anxiety, Mrs. Craven picked up an eraser and began wiping that part of the board clean. Immediately, before he could forget, he flipped open his tablet and wrote the word “white” at the bottom edge of the inside back cover.

All during role call, Donnie kept lifting the pages of his tablet to study that word. His concentration was such, that Mrs. Craven had to call his name twice before he responded. When he belatedly raised his hand and called out “here,” she was watching him through narrowed eyes.

With the pages of his Big Chief tablet held up with a thumb, he continued staring at that word. For some reason, he just couldn’t seem to get it. The “h” would float in and out of his memory like an illusive butterfly. It just wouldn’t stay put. Just before Mrs. Craven alerted them to the imminent spelling test, reminding them to put their names on their paper, the word finally stabilized in the window of his mind. The location of the “h” now appeared where it should, directly behind the “w.” With renewed confidence, he headed his paper and sat up straight, alert for the first word.

“Pear. The fruit of the pear tree is sweet. Pear.”

Confidently, Donnie wrote down the word in his neatest Palmer script, which they’d been learning this year. Printing was for first and second graders. “First grade babies, second grade tots, third grade angels, and fourth grade snots.” Being in third grade this year, Donnie had repeated this rhyme often to his brother and sister. Diane was in second grade and Howard, in first.

“Willing. The boy was willing to do as he was told. Willing.”

Another word fell unerringly from his memory, appearing in Donnie’s neat script on his tablet page. The word “white” kept popping in and out of his thoughts. He was ready for it, wished she’d give it right away. Nervously, Donnie riffled the pages of his tablet with his thumb, alert for the next word.

Naturally, “white” was the last word given. Even so, Donnie was confident. Riffling the pages one last time, he wrote the word. No sooner had he finished than Mrs. Craven was standing beside his desk.

“Hand me your tablet, Mr. Tilman,” Mrs. Craven demanded, her lips pursed into a thin, hard line.

Confused, Donnie unthinkingly complied. He could sense that all eyes were upon him and could feel heat rise to his face as he thought about that word written so incriminatingly on the back cover of his tablet. His fear was that she’d assume he’d peeked at it during the test. He was right, she had made that assumption. To be meticulously honest with himself, knowing that the word was so handy, he probably would have looked had it been necessary; too much was at stake. After all, it was but one measly little word. Even though he hadn’t cheated, it was as close as he’d ever come.

Turning on her heel, Mrs. Craven walked briskly back to her desk and sat down. Donnie’s eyes were riveted on her as she thumbed through his tablet, obviously looking for evidence of cheating.  His heart gave a sudden lurch as she paused at the speckled gray cardboard backing.

Looking up, she pinned Donnie with her steely stare. Eye contact was made before he could look away. It was almost as though he were a jack rabbit, frozen in the glare of oncoming headlights.

After accepting the collected test papers from Deloris, she said, “Mr. Tilman, come to the front of the room.”

A flash of memory from the first day of school and that willow switch made his blood run cold. Feeling like a condemned man about to step up onto the gallows, Donnie slid from his seat and approached Mrs. Craven’s desk with dragging feet. He was trembling and his knees were so weak that he could scarcely maintain his balance. Suddenly, he had an urge to pee so strong that he almost wet his pants.

“Turn around and face the class,” Mrs. Craven said. Her words clipped and hard. “Boys and girls, take a good look. This is what a cheat looks like.”

“But I didn’t, I don’t . . .” Donnie stammered, tears welling into his eyes.

“Quiet, Mr. Tilman,” she said, looking at him as though he were something that had just crawled out from under a rock. “No one wants to hear what a cheat has to say. You just stand there while I grade these papers.” As she spoke, she’d been holding up Donnie’s tablet for all to see. She’d circled the word written on the back cover with red crayon. Blood roared past Donnie’s inner ears, inflaming his face.

The humility was so great during those interminable minutes, that Donnie wished for instant death. If he’d had a gun, he’d have put it to his head and pulled the trigger. Through tear-blurred vision, he could see rows of indistinct heads. He imagined a room full of accusing stares, but in truth, most were hard at work on their arithmetic problems. But there was even worse to come.

After Mrs. Craven finished grading the papers, she stood.  “You can return to your seat now.”

Blindly, Donnie stumbled back to his desk.  His face burned as though it were on fire.  His breath came in choking sobs; tears streamed from his eyes.

Handing the stack of papers to Deloris to hold for her, Mrs. Craven marched over to the spelling chart. Deloris had to move quickly to keep up. From where Donnie sat, the rows of stars blurred to indistinct color. There were ten people today that would receive stars. Deloris, of course, got her gold star. Three others also had earned gold. The rest received silver and blue. When all the stars had been affixed, Mrs. Craven produced a razor blade and started peeling stars from Donnie’s name. As each star fluttered to the floor, it was as though a dagger had pierced his heart. He cringed each time another was shaved from the chart. Why was she doing this? He could see that if she believed that he’d cheated today, why he’d not receive a star, but to take away all of them? That wasn’t fair. He’d worked so hard to earn those stars.

As soon as he realized that Mrs. Craven intended to take all the stars away from him, his humility became mixed with anger. He raised his hand, but since her back was to him, she couldn’t see it. Clearing his throat loudly, then waving his hand back and forth, he said, “Mrs. Craven--” A sudden lump materialized in his throat and a fresh flood of tears obliterated his vision.

Ignoring his plea, she worked systematically until all the stars had been scraped off. Then, turning, she said, “What is it, Mr. Tilman?” Deloris looked at him, too; a smug smile on her face.

Gulping, Donnie wiped the knuckle of his thumb across each of his eyes. “I didn’t--I didn’t cheat! I never looked at that word after the test started. I didn’t!”

“You don’t mean to sit there and expect me to believe a cheat do you? As far as I know, you may have cheated on every test. Because of that, I’m taking away all of your stars. Cheats don’t get stars. Not in my class they don’t.”

Donnie knew he was beaten. There was nothing he could say that would change Mrs. Craven’s mind. Fortunately, school was almost out for the summer, so he didn’t have long to endure his ostracism.

By the time summer vacation was over, everyone had pretty much forgotten the incident. That is, everyone but Donnie. He’d never forget. Nor would he ever forgive that teacher for the injustice dealt to him on that Monday morning. One thing did come from it though. In the future, if ever he was tempted to cheat, memory of that torturous event prevented him from doing so. He’d learned the importance of honesty as well as the heartache of injustice all in one traumatic lesson.