Wait. Did you miss Part One? I’ll give you a few minutes to get caught up.
Carry on. . .
Cheat Sheet Maker: Obsession for Perfection Part Two
After handing out the tests, Mister Geography walked over and stood in the middle of the first row, right next to my desk.
I sat there absolutely paralyzed and stared at my paper with occasional sideways upward eyeball glances at the teacher. I did not even attempt to act casual by putting my name on the paper.
Eventually my oddball inactivity caught Mister’s attention. Our eyes locked. Mister had a concerned look on his face and he moved closer to my desk. Without saying a word, Mister lifted my test.
Panic does not even begin to describe what I was feeling. I would have shit myself right then and there had my asshole not been occupied by that stick.
My cheat sheet was exposed. Mister picked it up. No words were spoken. He slightly tilted his head, pursed his lips and gave me a look of downright disappointment. I will never forget that look.
I received a zero for the test and a deficiency for the marking period; however, I do not remember being punished by my parents. They knew my grades were everything to me. My parents never pushed; they only expected us to try and do the best we could. I neurotically expected perfection.
I have regrets. Mainly, the disappointed look on Mister’s face –I caused that. Also, that I wasted time being uptight and scared to live.
Why in the Hell didn’t I take the damn test? I might not have gotten everything correct, but I would have done better than a zero. I wanted an easy A and instead got an ego smashing failure.
Now Husband’s experience cheating in the same class (in his own words)
When I started 7th grade that year, I was bringing homework home. It was the kind that you were supposed to copy all the questions on one sheet of paper and write the answers on another sheet of paper.
Well, I was in my room scratching my head not wanting any part of this kind of homework. My brother speaks up and says, “I think I have mine from when I took that class.”
Sure enough he pulled a box out from under his bed. There they were. Assignment number at the top of each page and everything.
He said, “I’m not sure if they are all there. Just copy them.”
“Alright,” I said.
He apparently liked school better than me. He had every single one. A little faded, but all neatly stacked in boxes for two years.
Well, I started copying the first sentence. “This is stupid!” I said to myself. “I’ll just erase his name with this fancy eraser and write mine instead and of course the date.”
I handed it in. No problem. All I had to do each week is look up the assignment number, erase his name and date, and turn it in.
But, one time I just returned to my seat and heard Mister say, “Wait a minute. This isn’t your yours.”
I thought I was had. I shit you not I walked up, took it back to my desk, erased my brother’s name, wrote mine, waited five minutes, then turned it back in.
Mister said, “That’s better.”
I thought, “This class is gonna be easy! He’s dumber than me.”