Connect the Stars by Marisa de los Santos

the results and send them to a central computer in Ames, Iowa, which would spot strangely improved scores on questions 77, 93, and 99. Investigators would immediately buy airplane tickets and, by the next morning, converge on Dolley Madison Middle School and begin pulling students out of Mrs. Dunaway’s room one at a time, extracting their statements, comparing notes. Soon they’d figure out the method I’d used to give away three of the hardest language arts answers, and finally they’d call me in and ask me questions that would make me incriminate myself, notto mention Mrs. Dunaway, Hardy Gillooly, and everybody else who’d paid attention while I was busy leaking information. Mrs. Dunaway was over eighteen. About fifty years over eighteen. She’d probably go to jail!
    My palms got sticky. I shivered. I stood it as long as I could. Then I jumped out of my seat. “I did it!” I cried.
    I ran out of the classroom, down the hallway, and around the corner, and I burst into Principal DuPlessy’s office. There sat a policeman whose name tag read OFFICER HANRAHAN . Beside him sat a colossal German shepherd.
    Wow, I thought. These Central Standards guys don’t waste any time.
    â€œI admit it!” I cried. “I admit the whole thing! I tried to fix the Central Standards Exam!”
    â€œThe what?” said Officer Hanrahan as the dog peered at me with his ears at attention.
    â€œThe exam,” I began. “I . . . uh—”
    â€œWahoo and I are just here for the SSFT assembly,” said Officer Hanrahan. He pointed out the office window at the hallway, where shrimpy sixth graders filed by on their way to the libracafegymnatorium. “What’s all this about a Central Standards Exam?”
    â€œWhat’s all this about SSFT?” I asked.
    â€œSummer Safety Fun Tips!” explained Officer Hanrahan.
    As he said it, he fished a miniature tube of sunscreenout of his pocket and tossed it in the air. Leaping like a trained seal, Wahoo snatched it in his teeth. “First, no matter what sort of fun you enjoy, always wear sunscreen!” said Officer Hanrahan. Wahoo dropped the slobbery sunscreen in my lap, wagging his tail.
    â€œIn that case,” I said, wiping it off, “never mind.” Wahoo was so well trained he’d only left three faint toothmarks. I stuck the sunscreen in my pocket.
    â€œNo problem,” said Officer Hanrahan as he and Wahoo headed for the assembly.
    I stood up to follow. But Principal DuPlessy said, “Could you please stay here, Aaron? I have a few questions for you.”
    â€œSo,” the principal began, “what exactly do you mean by ‘fix’?”
    â€œFix, to make firm or stable,” I replied. “To give permanent form. To preserve for microscopic study. To make a photograph permanent.”
    â€œI think you meant something different,” ventured the principal.
    â€œTo attach,” I continued. “To hold steady. ‘He fixes his eyes on the horizon.’ To repair or mend. ‘He fixed the broken lock.’”
    â€œNo, I don’t think that’s what you meant either,” mused Principal DuPlessy.
    â€œTo get even with. To influence an outcome by improper or illegal means,” I continued. Whoops. A prime example of something I should’ve previewed before I said it out loud.
    â€œThat sounds closer,” mused the principal, rubbing his shiny head. It still wasn’t clear if his hair was going to grow back.
    Mrs. Dunaway knocked on the door. The principal must’ve called her before he started in on me.
    An ice age dawned inside my rib cage, and a glacier began to coat my spine.
    â€œAre you shaking?” asked the principal.
    â€œYes,” I said.
    â€œGood,” said the principal. “Have a seat, Mrs. Dunaway. I’m just finishing up your termination letter.” He jotted his initials on a sheet of paper and handed it to