Mrs. Redford was right. I will never be president of the United States. Neither, for all I know, will anyone who spent a year studying eighth grade history under her unrelenting gaze. All were at some point either caught cheating or suspected of it.
Each time a “wandering eye” was caught dallying over a neighbor’s paper or casting secretive glances at a carefully hidden crib sheet during a test, Mrs. Redford would announce to the class that “No cheater will ever be president of the United States.”
A couple of elections ago Vice-President Joe Biden proved her right. The then Delaware senator dropped out of the presidential nomination race when he was accused of cheating in law school. He has since redeemed himself enough to make Vice President, but the top job will probably ever elude him.
This got me wondering what would have happened to Dennis Johnson’s political ambitions if he ever had any. He was one of the few boys never so much as suspected of cheating, even by the ever-vigilant Mrs. Redford. At that time cheating by girls was unknown. They were the ones who supplied the material for us to copy.
But even Dennis was not perfect. His undoing came suddenly and without explanation one sunny spring afternoon. We were bent over our desks writing out from memory, as best we could, Abraham Lincoln’s famous Gettysburg address. The best seats were one row over from and one seat behind either side of Carla Hennings. She was dignified as well as smart and always sat upright offering the casual observer a full view of her round and readable Palmer hand. That may be why Mrs. Redford placed girls in those seats.
I was sitting directly in front of Carla. I had devised a foolproof hiding place for my crib sheet. I had stolen my father’s loafers and placed a carefully printed miniature of the Gettysburg address inside the shoe under my left heel. All I had to do was hunch over my desk in deep concentration while pulling my feet under my seat. This would automatically slide my heel out of the shoe and I would glance casually down to view my crib sheet. If Mrs. Redford approached, I had only to sit back stretching my legs out in front of me and my heel would slide over the evidence.
My plan went wrong from the beginning. I had trouble seeing the bottom of my shoe and the sweat from my foot had blurred the tiny writing on my crib. I had to almost put my face in my lap to read it. I was in this position when I suddenly spied Mrs. Redford’s high-heeled shoes making a beeline for my desk. I jerked my head up banging it against the desktop when she suddenly stopped two seats ahead staring in disbelief at Dennis’s lap.
“Dennis, I’m surprised at you,” Mrs. Redford announced, icicles hanging from every word. Reaching into his lap, she snatched a piece of plain white paper on which was typed the Gettysburg address. Holding it aloft between index finger and thumb, she led Dennis, beet red, to the cloak closet. It was the only time she failed to give her warning about cheaters and the presidency.
Nobody knows what got into Dennis that day. He wouldn’t talk about it and brushed off my thanks for saving me. He went on to be a very successful engineer, but never went into politics.
