When I was in sixth grade, I attended an academic magnet school where I committed a crime. 

In order to attend the school, students took an entrance exam, and were required to maintain a certain grade point average.  This was not an issue for me.  Aside from English class, where my scores averaged an embarrassing 70%, I did well in school. 

That year, my friend and I had a crush on two boys who were best friends and slackers.  We were partnered with them in dance class and spent many school-day afternoons together running around downtown.  I don’t remember having any actual conversations with these boys, but we did leave each other notes in secret places.  The most notable was the wall behind the giant statue of Taras Shevchenko, where a loose stone could be slid out.  I have no memory of anything written in these notes, but I remember the way they looked: grid-lined pieces of paper about 6x8cm with somewhat large, unpolished handwriting in purple ink.  I feel nervous, giddy butterflies in my stomach just thinking about it.

There was a rumor that our handsome boy-crushes were going to be kicked out of school due to low marks.  This worried me.  What a sad, boring place this would be without them!  We can’t let this happen!  Tutoring didn’t come to mind as a possible solution.  It was the end of April, and with mere weeks left in the school year, we needed a more urgent solution.

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By sixth grade we had at least ten different subjects: math, Ukrainian language, literature, history, geography, English, Latin, biology, dance, music, physical education, etc., most of which were taught by different teachers.  However, the official grade record was kept in one large grade book in our homeroom.  I convinced my friend that I had a risky, yet fool-proof plan. 

We snuck into our homeroom when nobody was there and found the grade book on our teacher’s desk.  The book was heavy and bound in thick brown leather.  It looked important, like a family album or a collection of potion recipes.  I ran my hand over the front cover before opening it. Student names and scores were written in beautiful handwriting, with purple fountain pen.  Indeed, our boys had too many fives and sixes (in a ten-point system).  The arithmetic mean was not in their favor.  But that’s something that can be fixed.  With my own purple fountain pen and a shaky hand, I “corrected” the sixes into eights and added a few more eights and nines into empty boxes for good measure. 

Two days later, all hell broke loose.  There was a school-wide assembly addressing the situation.  Allegations…. “cheating…lying… manipulating… illegal… immoral! unacceptable!” it was very intense.  When this shakedown didn’t result in anyone stepping forward, the school employed another tactic.  Instead of one of our classes, we all sat in chairs in a circle, while a so-called psychologist, who sat among us, talked to us about the consequences of such actions.  She explained how she can use a special psychological methodology to figure out who the cheater is if we don’t confess.  She said the police were involved. It was some intense psychological and emotional manipulation, and I was so sick that I almost lost my lunch. 

In the nick of time, my mom told me that we were moving to the United States in three weeks.  So I held strong and waited it out.  It was such a relief, although I still worried that somehow this would follow me.

Sadly, despite my best efforts, I still didn’t have those cute boys in my class next year.