Trigonometry

It was in the fall of 1985 that Jack’s dream of attending an Ivy League college went down the drain. During a trigonometry midterm, third period, at Roman Catholic High School in Philadelphia, Mario Lombardi lost his mind and decided to cheat.

They sat next to each other in Mr. Rysak’s class. Jack was in the fourth row, third seat back, and Mario sat next to him on his left. Now anyone who has been through high school knows that people who are good at cheating don’t get caught. Unfortunately, Mario wasn’t good at cheating; in fact, he never cheated.

Jack rarely studied, which is why he got the fifth question wrong. He was smart, particularly with math, but lazy. Mario, on the other hand, was bright and studied hard. He and Jack were not exactly friends, more like friendly competitors, but for some reason Mario decided to help Jack that morning.

Afterward, Jack remembered that he and Mario were messing around before class. He’d told Mario a dumb joke: “How do you know diarrhea is genetic? It runs in your jeans,” or “Which president lost his contacts in the bathroom? Eyes-in-shower,” something like that. Mario loved puns. Maybe that explains it. Or maybe Mario went temporarily insane. Ultimately, it doesn’t really matter, because the consequences were what they were.

Here's what happened: Mario and Jack both finished the exam quickly. Jack took perverse pleasure in finishing first, which he typically announced by slamming down his pencil. It made a loud clicking sound, a kind of declaration, “Yo, check me out, I’m done!”. His speed led to dumb mistakes; nevertheless, he never checked his answers. So, his test sat there on the desk, waiting for everyone to finish, with question number 5 incorrect.

Mario triple checked his answers. He knew he had 100. Having finished quickly, and feeling both excited and bored, his eyes drifted around the room. Glancing at Jack’s desk he was surprised to see that number 5 was wrong. It was “B” not “C”. Suddenly, Mario had to let Jack know.

Mr. Rysak was middle-aged and morbidly obese. His nickname was Burl Ives, although no one called him that to his face. Like many men who put on weight his wardrobe lagged behind his body form. One characteristic of his shirts was that the buttons strained against the buttonholes. The tension generated on those buttons by his massive abdomen was a source of both mirth and uneasiness. He once had a photo taken wearing a tee shirt that said “I Beat Anorexia” that Jack thought was hilarious. Anyway, despite his size, or perhaps because of it, he liked walking the aisles during exams.

Mr. Rysak passed the two of them on his way to the front of the room. Mario had been desperately trying to get Jack’s attention, and Jack had been actively avoiding him. With only a few minutes left Mario lost his cool and blurted out “Number 5”. A good cheater would have noticed how close Mr. Rysak was and waited for him to move away. But Mario was not a good cheater.

Mr. Rysak pirouetted 180 degrees with the grace of a ballet dancer. He was large, that’s true, but also nimble in a fat guy way. Jack and Mario froze and stared hard at their desks. Not being practiced cheaters they were unable to affect the calmness necessary to avoid detection. In fact, they were the very picture of guilt. Without saying a word, but with raised eyebrows and an odd smirk, Mr. Rysak whisked both tests off their desks.

The next day, during third period trigonometry, they received their grades. Mario had a 100 and Jack a 95, both scratched out with a red line. Next to them there was a big red 0.

Jack stared at his score dumbfounded. Midterms were 40% of the quarterly grade. Mario blanched, then turned beet red. They were failing trigonometry.

The rest of the day was a blur for Jack. Walking home he tried to think through his options. His dad, who divorced his mom when Jack was a toddler, lived a few blocks away. They didn’t have much of a relationship, in part because of the physical separation and in part because of the drinking. Besides, his dad was emotionally distant and taciturn. No help there.

Jack thought of his mom but knew she wouldn’t help. On the rare nights when his stepdad and mom were home together, they fought loudly and for a long time. As soon as they started yelling, Jack would head to the basement. They had a stereo housed in a large rectangular wooden cabinet, pushed into a corner. Sitting on the floor he’d lean his right side against the speaker and his back against the plywood wall. He’d play Seasons in the Sun, over and over. The music couldn’t quite cover the ugliness, but it did lessen the impact.

We had joy, we had fun

We had seasons in the sun

But the stars we could reach

Were just starfish on the beach

Jack knew they weren’t far from divorce. His mom walked around in a perpetual state of agitation. If anything, Jack needed to find a way to hide the failure from her, rather than look to her for help. She hadn’t used the belt on him in a few years, but the threat was always there.

One thing he did not dwell on was the unfairness of the situation. After all, he’d done nothing wrong. But having felt unworthy for so long, in some weird way he figured he deserved a zero.

About a week later he was called down to the principal’s office. Monsignor Gaughan was in his sixties. He was bald on top with tightly cropped white hair and had a quiet authority that made him seem taller than five foot four. His office was dimly lit, like a church, and oddly smelled of incense.

“Please have a seat, Mr. Brennan,” he said to Jack.

Jack sat on the stiff-backed wooden chair, feeling small in front of Monsignor’s oversized desk.

“Mr. Lombardi was in here last night with his parents. He swore, through many tears, that he wasn’t cheating.” Monsignor looked at Jack for a few seconds, then said, “Please tell me what happened.”

Jack said, “Well, Monsignor, I am glad you’ve given me this opportunity. A wise man once described the years between fifteen and twenty-five as the “Critical Decade”. During this ten-year period many of life’s most important decisions are made. For example, where we go to college, what we major in and, by extension, what profession we choose. What town we’ll live in and, many times, who we will marry. My parents have allowed you to guide me through this challenging time. Now I will admit a mistake has been made, but please believe me when I say that there was no malice aforethought. This was an impetuous momentary blip in otherwise spotless careers. Neither Mario nor I have ever had a hint of cheating, which I’m guessing you already know. Now there is a real danger here that I’m hoping we can avoid. I feel that Mr. Rysak was too harsh in giving us both zeros. The danger arises when the punishment is so draconian that those who receive it focus on the harshness of the punishment rather than on the crime itself. What I respectfully ask is that Mr. Rysak let us retake the exam, with different questions of course, and let us show you that we understand the material.”

This is not what Jack said. Rather, this was the answer twenty-six-year-old Jack came up with on a four-hour train ride from Prague to Vienna. In this version, Jack aced the exam and went on to the University of Pennsylvania.

“Mr. Lombardi was in here last night with his parents. He swore, through many tears, that he wasn’t cheating.” Monsignor looked at Jack and his parents for a few seconds, then said, “Please tell me what happened.”

Jack started to speak but his dad interrupted.

“Monsignor Gaughan, I’m an attorney and I’ve been considering the facts of this case. If I understand it correctly, Mr. Rysak heard something but isn’t quite sure what was said or who said it. The truth is that any one of the young men around Jack could have spoken. What’s more, Jack didn’t say or do anything, which I hope Mario Lombardi told you last night. He is totally innocent. In addition, while I was speaking with Jack about this incident, which has caused his mother and I quite a bit of grief, Jack told me something shocking. He said that Mr. Rysak sometimes punches the boys.”

Jack looked at his dad horrified, “But dad…”

Mr. Brennan held up a hand, silencing Jack. “Now I understand that he does it as a kind of game. But if it is true, then Mr. Rysak is guilty of battery. If we cannot figure out an alternative to this incident, I will have no choice but to start calling the parents of every boy in the class. If I find that there has been a pattern of physical abuse, I assure you I will have him prosecuted. And, obviously, the Archdiocese will be liable for its role in this crime, which will certainly include a hefty fine.”

This is not what Jack’s dad said. Jack’s dad worked as a middle manager in a big building downtown. This is the fantasy forty-year-old Jack concocted while watching his son play travel soccer.

No, Jack wasn’t ready with an erudite argument, nor did he have happily married parents to fight for him. What Jack said was, “Well, actually, Mario did cheat. He said “Number 5” trying to let me know that I’d gotten that question wrong. I have no idea why he did it.”

The Monsignor thanked him and told him to return to his class.

Four weeks later Jack’s report card arrived in the mail. The school had a computer system that included a dot-matrix printer. His mom worked until 5 p.m., so Jack was able to open the letter before she got home.

Trigonometry: F.

He stared at the hateful letter, despising it and Monsignor and Mr. Rysak and the school.

The letter grades were aligned vertically on the printout and somewhat faded. Suddenly, Jack had an idea. He folded the report card so that the crease was exactly along the line of grades. By folding and unfolding and working it a little side to side he was able to obscure the grades a bit. He then used an eraser to alter the “F” and replace it with an “A”. Finally, he crumpled the whole report card and flattened it out.

He showed it to Damon, his older brother, when he got home from football practice. “Dude, are you joking? This looks like it was forged by a kindergartner.” He chuckled, handing back the report card, and said, “You’re dead meat, man.”

Later that night Jack’s mom called him in the basement, asking for his report card. His older brother Damon had just shown her his. Jack felt acid in the pit of his stomach, his mouth went dry, he walked slowly upstairs.

His mom was lounging in her dark brown recliner near the front window. A glass of vodka and club soda sat on a napkin atop the nearby radiator cover. The ice shifted as bubbles floated to the top, tinkling softly. She placed her novel in her lap when Jack handed her the report card. He stared at the ground.

His mom looked at the report card, at Jack and back at the card. She snorted and shook her head a little, then crumbled the report card in her fist. She squeezed it so hard the paper creaked as if she were clutching the handle of a leather whip. Without saying a word, she tossed it back to Jack. It landed at his feet. Picking up her drink she took a sip and returned to reading her book.

Jack picked up the report card, turned and slunk out of the room. He waited until he was on the stairs to the basement before wiping away his tears.