CHEAT SHEET

The year was 1977, and I was a fourth grader at McDonald Elementary. I was fearing an upcoming spelling test in school. I struggled trying to memorize the words, but it seemed hopeless. The words loomed over me like monstrous, misspelled titans. “Conscientious,” “Diarrhea,” “onomatopoeia”– they were linguistic landmines designed to obliterate my fragile confidence.

My brother Mahmoud tried to help me memorize, but nothing stuck. I was doomed. Then, a mischievous glint sparked in his eyes. Being the understanding, stern, and strict older brother he was, he made me a small cheat sheet. It was a work of art, a miniature dictionary disguised as a scrap of paper easily placed between the fingers. He then proceeded to teach me the art of the covert glance, the subtle finger-wiggle, the not-so-innocent gaze towards the ceiling. The next day, during the test, I felt like a secret agent. My fingers danced a silent ballet around the cheat sheet, my eyes darting like confused squirrels. But alas, my “slick eye movements” resembled a startled pigeon more than a sophisticated spy. I aced the test, not through memorization, but through the sheer dedication of my brother’s secret plan. And perhaps a touch of dumb luck, too. My brother, whom I looked up to, and who always looked for shortcuts through life, helped me cheat. When he was waiting for me outside to drive me back home from school, I walked out with a raised fist of victory. He nodded with a smile, knowing I had passed. He turned to me in the car with a stern look,

“Habib, did you flush the evidence down the toilet like I told you to?”

I smiled, “Of course! No one suspected a thing.”

He winked, “Ok, yallah, mom made Ruz and Yakhni. Let’s go.”