The sky hung low. Cold fog swept between my boots. Rain fell from the gutters of the Heroy Geology Building as I sauntered in for my 9:30 a.m. exam.

The auditorium was a nippy 56 degrees. Fluorescent lights blurred my vision as I sat down behind Mr. ‘Too-smart-to-stay-awake’ and his close friend, Mr. ‘So-hungover-I-drool-on-the-desk.’

Syracuse University, it isn’t easy juggling my time as a part-time student and part-time detective. But on this particular day, I stumbled upon something so terrible, so despicable and so horrifying — I could not dare keep it to myself.

Some would call it an art. Others, a dark art. Either way, one thing is for sure: It has never stopped, and it never will.

On that early Monday morning, I walked in feeling confident and prepared. As it turns out, not everyone embraced my positive energy. Rather, my friend Mr. ‘So-hungover-I-drool-on-the-desk’ thought he’d con his way through this test of mental and emotional stamina.

He wasn’t so lucky, and here is the story of his unfortunate fate.

The kid looked hesitantly to his left and to his right. Test forms A and B came down the row. Quickly, he swapped his Form A for a Form B. He looked casually at the similar Form B in front of Mr. ‘Too-smart-to-stay-awake.’

Turns out, his friend had a similar idea. Neither had studied. Brains empty, the two began to sweat. Their hairlines grew disturbingly moist as they decided on the next best option.

The kid looked down at his hand. It was covered fingertip-to-wrist in notes. Unfortunately for him, his salty palm perspirations smeared the answers. His plan had faltered.

Seconds passed.My heart beat violently against my chest.

Refusing to let this setback get to him, the kid lifted his foot to his knee. Within the Adidas stripes on his clearly new, and now soiled, shoes were more notes scribbled between the lines. This kid was no rookie to the cheating game.

His mother should be so proud.

It was just as I thought. This student was trying to scurry his way out of academic integrity. I saw him lean forward toward his shoe. Too forward. He couldn’t see the notes. Squinting, his eyes looked suspicious. Again, he was cheat blocked.

Just as I was sure he would finally fall at the feet of her majesty, Scholarship, he pulled one last trick from under his sleeve.

Literally. He pulled his phone out from his sleeve.

Photos upon photos of class notes scrolled past the screen of his iPhone. He had done it again. Until the phone slid from his wet fingers.

As his last cheating device ricocheted off the sides of the desk, the professor raised his eyes solemnly. Slowly, he made his way to the top of the auditorium, clawed his way toward the young scholar and asked him to meet him in the hallway. His time had come.

Later that afternoon, I made my way through campus, questioning students to give up details on what happened in the hall. Turns out, the kid ended up getting a $100 fine and a zero on the exam.

For the sake of inserting a pop culture reference, I’ll say that the moral of the story is: ‘Cheat too hard, professors gonna fine you.’

The biting cold faded by the time I walked home that evening. Orange lamplight softened my shadow. My mind was at ease knowing an academic criminal got served a cold plate of justice.

That kid knew what he was up to. But overtly risky business never flies when you try sidestepping the law. He learned that the hard way.

SU, I leave you with this: We are never free from the darkness within ourselves. But it is what we do with that darkness that separates Orangemen from average men.

Goodnight, Orangemen. May you prosper and seek justice always.

Kara McFarlane is a sophomore television, radio and film major — assuming radio is even a thing anymore —and her column appears every other Thursday. Though she plans to hang up her hat as a private eye, she recommends this column be read out loud in the voice of a young Sherlock Holmes. She can be reached at cnmcfarl@syr.edu. Follow her on Twitter at @karanicolemcf.

Published on February 29, 2012 at 12:00 pm