When I asked Kyle if he could stay for a minute after class, I just knew I had caught him red-handed —his face, wide eyed and turned a sickly grey, told me everything I needed to know. Still, just the fact I know can't be enough for either of us; Kyle needs to understand my thinking, my reasons, that all I want is to catch him before he goes into free-fall down the same spiral he's been falling into for the past year.

He was never a problematic kid.

And that is exactly the problem.

"Mr. Wizemann?" he asks, maybe a minute after the classroom had really emptied out. A couple of his friends wanted to stay behind, but I sent them on their way without a word. "You wanted to..."

"Yes, Kyle, I wanted to talk." I know he's still clinging to a certain hope: Hope that I didn't notice, that this is just to reprimand him for something else, that I just want to talk about extra-curriculars. Anything else. "I know you didn't actually read the book."

Now there it is: The fear. I see it in how his entire body just tenses up, defensive, mind probably racing for a retort that makes the least bit of sense, an excuse —anything. It's the fear of a star student once he realizes that I caught him. The guilt, curse of his own intelligence, of knowing exactly what he did and didn't do, and the panic that rises as he tries to pick up the broken pieces left by his own decisions, consequences of his own stupidity.

But I stop him before he even starts, just as his body leans forward as if to hold whatever ground was left under his feet.

"Let me tell you something: Two days ago, my sister came to visit with her kids. I sat down with her oldest (he's maybe two years older than you), I put my copy of Frankenstein on the table and ask him: What can you tell me about this book?" The actual assignment was The Metamorphosis by Kafka. Most editions are just over two-hundred pages. Anyone should've been able to digest it in a week... Specially Kyle. "My nephew looked at it and said: I don't know, I haven't read it. Then I said: Yes, I know that, just pretend I'm your teacher for a second. What would you say if you had to convince me that you actually did read it?"

Kyle simply stands there, in silence. Maybe gauging how much he could steer this in his favor? No, he knows the kind of reputation I have...

"... And?" he finally says.

"And..." I say. "Together we made a list of phrases and keywords someone could say to try and hide the fact they didn't read the book —and, trust me when I say this Kyle, that boy knows what he's talking about. Then he told me I was wasting my time and that the obvious thing anyone would do would be to ask ChatGPT for a summary of The Metamorphosis and..." I lean back on my chair and pause to look at him again. Pale, fidgeting with the strap of his backpack, looking at the door as if wondering whether or not she should make a run for it at this point. He perfectly could, to be honest. Just the way he perfectly could've read the damn book on time. "... and I just don't understand."

He looks back then. Ashamed, scared, confused, all written in his face at once. He knows I'm disappointed, yet I know he doesn't want me to. He knows his grades have been dropping and wants to change that. I know him. I know his mother. I know how much he wants everyone to be proud of him, and yet...

"I don't understand why you keep doing this..." Please, kid. Help me understand.