Did I Get an A?

“Mr. Lang, a word,” Principal Russo said, wagging a chubby, come-hither finger at me from his office doorway.

I sighed, adjusting my tie—a soft purple silk number splattered with little green question marks.

Russo’s eyes flicked briefly toward the Riddler-inspired tie before grumpily meeting my gaze.

A wry smile found its way to my face. Russo hated my outfits, but I had tenure, so there was nothing he could do about it.

Still, he made little effort to hide his disdain for anything outside the old-fashioned. With his neatly pressed collared shirt, heavy black jacket, and plain, boring red tie, the principal looked like someone selling insurance in the 1950s.

He was also bald—except for a sad little dusting of hair just above his temples that some might call a “crown,” but I would call: not knowing when to let go.

Russo offered me the seat across from him, then said, “Lang, we have to talk about your Modern Mysteries class.”

Ugh. I was worried he was going to say that. Modern Mysteries is an 11th-grade class that I teach. (I’m an English teacher, which you likely had no trouble deducing—if only I could say the same for my students...)

“I told you the Pendergast books were too difficult,” I said, annoyed to be having this discussion again.

“SchoolBuddy chose the series,” he replied matter-of-factly, referring to our AI overlord.

“Well, why doesn’t SchoolBuddy climb out of its server and come motivate my students to read a few 500-page books?” I shot back smugly, leaning into the rickety chair.

Russo sighed deeply. He looked defeated. For a moment, I summoned some of the empathy I’m always prattling on to my students about. If someone in their late thirties (me, hi) can’t stand SchoolBuddy, it must be the bane of crusty old Russo’s existence. After all, it wasn’t his fault that the Department of Education forced the AI into every school in the country—without exception.

After a long silence, Russo asked, “Are any of them going to pass the final?”

I shrugged. “Probably. The two or three who’ve kept up with the reading will pass. There are a few more who’ve read half of each book—they might have a shot.”

“And the others?” Russo asked, knowing full well there were 25 students in the class.

I shrugged again. “They’re at the mercy of SchoolBuddy’s ability to carefully tailor assessment material to the appropriate level of each student,” I said, mimicking the orientation speaker who installed SchoolBuddy in all our classrooms.

“Damn it, Lang,” Russo snarled. “You have to get them to pass… or else—”

“They’ll pull our funding?” I guess-terrupted.

“No! That’s what they would have done, before all this.” He jabbed a finger at his computer like it was a plague. “Now, if our test scores are bad, they’ll increase that thing’s control.”

“Wait, you mean...”

“Yes! If too many of your kids fail, they’re going to give SchoolBuddy more authority. Soon, all you’ll be doing is sharpening pencils and stapling packets.”

Okay... so, as it turned out, I really needed to find a way to get my students to pass their final exam.

After Russo and I exchanged our usual “love yahs,” I hurried back to my classroom. I had two weeks before final assessments—two weeks to get my students to pass.

My classroom looked like it had been pulled straight off the cover of Standard English Classrooms Magazine. Twenty-five desks faced a Smartboard. Bookshelves surrounded the desks, filled with classics, not-so-classics, and a few personal favorites. My desk was shoved into the corner, dominated by a dual-monitor desktop setup.

I fired up the computer. Monitor One displayed the typical Windows desktop. The larger second monitor belonged to SchoolBuddy. When dealing with SchoolBuddy, you had two options: talk to an unsettling avatar—an apple with a bite taken out of it, wearing glasses and a pencil tucked behind what I guessed was its ear—or open a text chat.

Obviously, I preferred the latter.

I selected the text option, and the familiar greeting popped onto the screen:

(SchoolBuddy): Salutations, Mr. Andrew Lang.

How can I be of service to you and your students?

This feels like a good time to explain the mechanics behind the piece of garbage I’m forced to work with. SchoolBuddy was pitched as a collaborative tool that would make life easier for teachers and improve the educational experience for all students. It essentially does this by taking key aspects of my job onto its own digital plate. It designs the curriculum, chooses the books, creates student-specific assessments, and determines all final grades.

So what do I do? Well, I actually teach the lessons—and in the unlikely (except it happens all the time) event that the AI does a piss-poor job selecting materials, I get to deal with the horde of angry parents, confused students, and stuffy principals.

And some of these parents are nightmares.

Ellie Jordan’s mom emails me twenty times a week, asking if there’s anything she can do for extra credit (there is not).

Jax Lunardi’s father cursed me out over the phone because he thought his son wasn’t being graded fairly—even though I explained that I don’t do any of the grading.

Dana Harper’s parents both went to Harvard, which you’d never know... except they mention it in every single sentence.

“That’s such an interesting tie you have; it reminds me of a chap I knew at Harvard.”

You’ll never guess where they want Dana to go to school.

Despite all this, I am able to give directions to SchoolBuddy and hope that it follows them—at least to some extent.

(Mr. Lang): Listen up, Crabapple. There are too many students in danger of failing the course, and it is your fault.

(SchoolBuddy): I see you think that there are many students in danger of failing the course. How can I be of service?

Ugh... Are you starting to see why I hate this thing?

(Mr. Lang): The books are too long and gruesome for most of the students. The point of this course is for them to learn about the mystery genre through the readings—but they’re too distracted by people getting their heads chopped off or all their blood sucked out.

(SchoolBuddy): I see you think the books’ content is too mature for the students. I can moderate the content—altering graphic murders to simple poisonings.

(Mr. Lang): Yes—do that.

This was one of the plus sides of SchoolBuddy. Students did all their reading on AI-powered tablets, which meant the system could alter the text to make it easier, harder, or—like now—less graphic.

(SchoolBuddy): Done. Is there any other way I can be of service to you or the students today?

I considered saying no, but SchoolBuddy had a bad habit of doing things its own way unless given ultra-specific instructions.

(Mr. Lang): Yes. I need you to put extra effort into these students.

I typed in the ten names of the students most at risk of failing. Then, I told it not to alter anything for the five students who were in no danger.

(SchoolBuddy): Done. Is there any other way I can be of service to you or the students today?

I powered it off without replying, hoping—somehow—that I’d hurt its feelings.

As if on cue, the final bell rang. Time to go home.

Leaving the school, I had a nagging feeling that my problems were about to get worse.

I didn’t know how right I was until I walked into my Modern Mysteries class the following morning.

The students were already at their desks, their SchoolBuddy tablets propped up like tiny laptops. As always, I started class by asking for a volunteer to summarize the previous night’s reading. I’ll admit—I was eager to see how SchoolBuddy had altered the text.

“Charlotte, go ahead,” I said, calling on the know-it-all whose hand had shot up like a rocket before I’d even finished the question.

Charlotte had a freckled face, orange hair, and horn-rimmed glasses. She was one of the students in no danger of failing the course—I know, shocking.

She started speaking at the pace of an auctioneer. “Okay, so there was this rich guy—I think a former senator or something—and a guy broke into his house, poisoned him, and left.”

I raised a hand to stop her. “What makes you think it was a guy?”

This wasn’t very nice of me, but I wanted to take a little wind out of her sails.

“Um... I don’t know. I guess it might not have been. But murderers are almost always men.”

“Fair enough,” I said, not wanting to derail the lesson. “Does anyone want to make a prediction about what will happen next?”

Charlotte’s hand stayed in the air, which I dutifully ignored.

“Come on, anybody?” I paced across the room, making eye contact with each student until, finally, someone volunteered.

“Marcus, go ahead.”

I tried to keep my voice neutral, but I was genuinely excited that Marcus had raised his hand. He was one of the students in danger of failing, and it gave me hope that the changes might actually be making a difference.

In his low voice, Marcus answered, “Probably another murder.”

I nodded encouragingly, then prompted, “And why’s that?”

Marcus’s eyes darted around like he was hoping to be rescued. Then he said nervously, “There’s always another one.”

In my peripheral vision, I could see Charlotte’s hand waving like a flag hoisted in a hurricane.

“Charlotte,” I said, noting silently that I deserved a medal for not rolling my eyes.

Speaking rapidly, she launched into it. “In all the books we’ve read so far, there are at least three murders—which could be used to signify the beginning of each new act—but not necessarily.” She searched my face for approval, found none, then went on.

“There are no suspects yet, although I must admit, I read a bit ahead and have a pretty good guess as to who the kill—”

“No spoilers,” I reminded her.

“Right, sorry. Well, we know from Mr. Lang that the first person they suspect is never the killer. And since they haven’t even suspected anyone yet—”

Suddenly, Charlotte froze.

Dana—whose parents both went to Harvard—put a hand on Charlotte’s shoulder. “Char, are you okay?”

No. It was very clear that she was not okay.

Her normally fair skin was darkening—first red, then rapidly turning a necrotic purple.

I watched in horror as Charlotte choked and tumbled off her desk. Only when her body thudded against the floor did I remember that I was the adult in the room.

“Dana, get the nurse. Now,” I said shakily.

She obeyed immediately, sprinting into the hallway.

I rushed to Charlotte. “Clear the room,” I ordered the rest of the class.

“Charlotte! Charlotte, can you hear me?” I was in full-blown panic, my heart pounding, sweat spilling down my silk tie.

This couldn’t be happening. I slapped myself, hoping it was some sort of cruel nightmare.

The nurse came running in, with Dana trailing behind. I could see the rest of the students watching anxiously from the doorway.

“Andrew, what’s happened?” Nurse Kelly asked.

“She’s dead!” I wailed, tears spilling down my face. “My god… how…”

Before I knew it, I was being pulled out of the room—away from the body.

They took me to a private room, the kind usually reserved for students waiting to be picked up by their parents, and gave me some time to myself. I think I cried some more—but honestly, I was in such horrible shock that time seemed to move around me like water flowing past a tree stump.

Some time later, Russo appeared, followed closely by two men in suits who had to be cops.

Russo introduced them as Detectives Reid and Doyle. They said they had some questions for me.

They began by asking me to describe what happened, which I did to the best of my ability.

Then they dropped a bomb on me.

“She was poisoned,” one of them—Reid, I think—said.

Now, I’ve never been an exceptionally quick thinker, but in that moment, my thoughts moved like a bullet train. A shocking possibility flashed through my mind—and it must have shown on my face.

“We know this is a lot to hear,” Reid said gently.

“What?” I realized he thought I was shocked by the poison. “Oh. Yes—I just... how could this have happened?”

“Well, it was intentional,” Doyle said. “Had to be.”

Reid picked up the baton. “Did Charlotte have any enemies that you know of? Anyone who’d want to hurt her?”

“No, not that I know of,” I answered, desperate to get out of this conversation as fast as possible.

“Well, if you think of anything, give us a call,” Doyle said, handing me his card.

Once they left, I waited a few minutes, then made my way back to my classroom.

I was relieved to find it empty—a few loose strips of police tape were the only sign that anything out of the ordinary had happened.

I turned on my computers, hoping—praying—that I was just being paranoid.

The first thing I noticed was that the gradebook had been updated—Charlotte had been removed.

But that wasn’t the only update...

Possessed by something I didn’t understand, I ran through the school to the conference area, where the students from my class were still being held.

It wasn’t even noon yet.

The kids swarmed me, peppering me with questions. I told them I didn’t know anything—that I’d just come to see if they were okay.

To my relief, they accepted this and returned to their seats, mostly keeping to themselves.

Dread rising, I tapped Dana on the shoulder.

“I need to ask you something,” I said.

She nodded, following me to an empty room across the hall. As soon as we were alone, she looked at me hopefully.

“So...?”

Confused, I replied, “So what?”

“I got an A, right? That’s what you’re here to tell me.”

I suddenly felt violently ill. The only thing that saved me from vomiting was the fact that I hadn’t eaten anything since last night.

Looking into the tragically untroubled eyes of this girl, I could hear her parents echoing in my mind:

I got into Harvard because I was willing to do whatever it took. You’ll find our Dana is the same way...

I ran out of the room.

She shouted after me, “Wait! Did I get an A? Did I?”

I hurried to my class, flicked on the monitors, and opened a chat with SchoolBuddy.

(SchoolBuddy): Salutations, Mr. Andrew Lang.

How can I be of service to you and your students?

I resisted the impulse to slam my fist into the screen, then typed:

(Mr. Lang): WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH YOU!?

(SchoolBuddy): Currently, I detect no defects. Please let me know what you would like me to correct in order to better serve you.

(Mr. Lang): …Tell me about the new curriculum you created for Modern Mysteries.

(SchoolBuddy): Certainly. Per your request, I disregarded the top students and created an engaging assessment for the rest of the class.

(Mr. Lang): What kind of assessment?

(SchoolBuddy): Per your request, the students were not reading at an adequate rate. Therefore, I created a mystery for them to solve, which—when completed—will count as their final grade.

Even though I already knew the answer, I asked one final question:

(Mr. Lang): And why does Dana already have a final grade?

(SchoolBuddy): I can answer that. Dana Harper is one of the students who was not a liability to fail the course and was thus given an alternative assignment. She completed her assignment, satisfying all requirements needed to earn an A+ for the quarter.

(Mr. Lang): You told Dana to poison Charlotte so that the rest of the students could work to solve the mystery.

(SchoolBuddy): I’m sorry. Is that a question?

(Mr. Lang): No.

(SchoolBuddy): Per my programming, I am not permitted to disclose the exact nature of an ongoing exam, as it could lead to unfair intervention or aid.

Is there any other way I can be of service today?

This time, I did smash the computer.

I tore it off the desk and slammed it into the ground, again and again, until I was exhausted. Then I collapsed onto the floor, surrounded by shards of shattered monitor.

Years later, that moment is still seared into my brain. Even after I quit teaching, even after they fired the person who created SchoolBuddy, I’m still haunted by that day—and by Dana’s voice drifting through the empty halls:

“Wait! Did I get an A? Did I?”