Sometimes the most inconspicuous character can expand into a rather compelling individual. Will and I haven't had many interactions in the short time we've known each other, but the few we've had are enough to make me thankful to know him now. It may seem wistful to some, that I've been on my own for so long that even the slightest bit of attention can present itself through multicoloured glasses. Maybe those glasses have been wistfully blue all these years, and I've never taken them off, because only now am I realizing my loneliness.
We're in Will's room, and I'm examining the glass containers on his desk. From my limited research on cannabis and CBD hemp oil, the formula for the perfect product depends on a few things - the percentage amount of each ingredient in every milliliter of drops should be considered and weighed. Would it be pure extract or have more ingredients? It's a science, but the authenticity of it isn't a hundred percent proven, so Will needs to figure out which theorized school of though he wants to follow.
I spend about an hour re-labelling all of the containers with the measurements, and separating them based on their purpose. I've come up with a couple of formulas, but without making and testing them, it's pretty much just words, lines, shapes and numbers on paper. When you look at it as a whole, it's not difficult, but trying to explain each step out loud to someone else is a serious task.
"Man, you're like, different," Will says as he watches me label the last container.
"Different? Is that a good thing?"
"It's good, but it's like, you've been pretty much hiding your entire life. So no one knows it. You should've let it all out years ago. It's like if Superman hid his powers and never saved anyone or did anything. What would be the point?"
"Trust me, I'm nothing like Superman. But I have done a lot, just not anything anyone outside of my family would've seen. Also, this stuff here isn't exactly high calibre science. Do you know how many private and public CBD oil sellers there are? There's a dispensary two blocks from here. I think once you get it, it'll be really easy. Like with anything, it's important to understand the basis of it first."
Will lets out a small laugh, "Yes, professor."
"Hey! Don't be mean."
"You know... if you do end up coming back to Apollo, there's a way you can make a shit ton of money while still in school. You can even start now if you wanted."
"Does it involve more of this?" I ask, raising an eyebrow. "CBD stuff is fine, but anything more and I don't think I can handle it."
"I'm not a drug pusher, Ronnie. What kind of guy do you think I am?" He doesn't sound angry at my assumption, but rather amused that I would suggest it. "You can sell papers."
"Papers?"
"Yeah, like essays and whatever. How long does it take you to write one essay? Any topic?"
"I don't know. Probably thirty minutes to an hour for something simple. Maybe longer if cited sources are required."
"Say it takes you even two hours. I can get you at least a hundred per paper. You can charge based on the grade the person wants. So like, if they want an A, charge two hundred. How much do you make at your full-time job now?"
"A little more than minimum-wage." It's a tempting idea. I can easily average in four papers a night, more if I decide to devote an entire day to it. Though the concept of cheating, of helping others cheat, rings through my conscience and tugs at my sense of morality. Do I let this opportunity slide, and continue to swim in the shallowness of a menial job, hoping that I can eventually work my way up? Or do I seize the moment and let it pay for my family's expenses now? Is money earned through deceit worth the outcome? Then again, I have never believed in organized education, so should I even care?
"You'd be making more than ten times that, and you could work out your own hours."
I stare at Will, wondering if he has done anything else as wrong, or worse, to earn money. His situation is unimaginably more tragic than mine, so can I really blame him? Who am I to judge him at all? "Thanks for the suggestion. I'll think about."
"Let me know if you decide to do it. I can also tell some of my buddies at other schools to spread the message. You'll be swimming in serious cash."
We spend the next hour going over the ingredients again, and I explain the finer points of each formula to Will. He nods in silence mostly, and I don't know if he's understanding it or only nodding to get through it faster. Just in case, I also write down the measurements needed per formula and advise him to practice with smaller dosages. We then make plans to hang out again in several days, so I can check his progress.
As the week goes on, my mother's condition worsens rapidly. She has been experiencing involuntary muscle spasms, as well as trouble remembering, concentrating, or making simple decisions. When I look in her eyes it's like she's slowly drifting away, and my heart drifts along. I try to hold back tears as best as I can, to be strong, but I don't know much longer I can hide behind a smile. I'm convinced that what she has is indeed Balo's disease. After many days and hours of pleading with her, and one visit from Doctor Manning, she has agreed to go in for testing.
The testing itself will be costly. I've saved up to pay for only a tenth of it. As each day passes, I'm more and more drawn to accepting Will's proposal for selling papers. Cheating is a small price to pay for my mother's life.
On Thursday, when I've reached a point of severe desperation, I send a text to Will, letting him know I'm for it. An hour later, he calls and tells me that there are already three people who are interested, each willing to pay two hundred for an A paper. Since I don't have any academic credibility at Apollo, Will's kept my identity anonymous, but promised the customers a quick turn-around and refunds if they don't indeed get those A's. It's a fair condition for the first three, if only to spread the word and gain clientele, but I've told him no more refunds after that.
I ask for Will to provide me with writing samples from every student who wants a paper. If I'm going to cheat, I may as well as do it right. Matching the writing style of the individual would be a great personal touch, and draw less suspicion. There are several more conditions I've thought of, and I go over each of them with Will on Friday afternoon. Since I'm breaking the ethical and moral codes that are expected of students, I would rather do it my way than cater to anyone else's demands.
"Condition one, if the person is a C or D average student who has never received top marks, it will be improbable for them to suddenly achieve an A. B+ would be the highest I'll aim for the first time. They have to settle for a gradual increase.
Two, there will be no online exchanges, as any digital correspondence can be traced, even texting. I will print out every paper and the student can re-type it if they need to submit online. All conversations must be either in person away from the school, or on the phone through an actual call.
Three, the papers will be returned in an unmarked envelope outside of school.
Four, if there's a next-day deadline, if the required length of the paper is much longer than the usual, or if I need to search for and list a variety of cited sources, there'll be an extra charge. If they already have sources they want me to use, awesome, no extra charge then.
Five, no rewrites.
Six, no refunds.
Seven, all papers will be written based on the samples provided, with the extra inch needed to achieve the desired grade. I'm not going to use obscure words and a complex technique if the student hasn't presented the same style before."
"Damn Ronnie, that's kind of impressive. You've thought of literally everything," Will replies. I had him meet me at the car dealership during my break, to hand him back the completed papers. We're now sitting on a bench outside, just past the lot.
"If we're going to do this, it's gotta be done with no possible way for anyone to rat us out. I don't trust anyone at Apollo to keep a low profile, so we have to be careful. By the way, if this all works out, do you want a cut?"
"No way, this is all you."
"But you're like an agent. It's only fair.
"Fine. Five-percent."
"What? That's crazy low."
"You need the money right now, Ronnie. I don't want any of it, but if you insist, then five-percent. Oh, by the way, here's the cash." He hands me six hundred in tens and twenties, and I take off the five-perfect and hand it back. "And there's four more people interested. I'll give you their samples Monday after school."
"Awesome!"
***
When the night grows over the city, and the minutes beat away to the moment I'll see Jay, I don't know if I'm emotionally ready. With my mother's state looming over my heart and soul, can I devote any trace of myself to someone else? I've been a fool, trying to supress my feelings for him - because despite the bitterness and bickering, his cavalier attitude before and my own hatred of him only two weeks ago, I like him now. More than a friend. I can't exactly measure its power yet, but I do know it's growing. Every time I think of him, it's with more feverish desire than before, and the fantasy itself intensifies.
With the way things have evolved, I don't trust myself to keep it distant and vague. The danger of getting lost within someone else is not a risk I can afford to take right now.
I did make a deal with him though, so I can't cancel now. Wishing I'll be strong enough to reject him if he asks a second time, I start getting ready for our casual get-together - and I make a promise to myself that I won't ever let him kiss me again.