Structure and Function

         It was a cold autumn morning.  Mr. Wilson methodically walked past empty streets, through crosswalks that served no purpose at this hour, alongside houses where people slept and never dreamed of waking.  It was the early, early morning, the time when dawn was breaking and the streetlights were just going out, but the sky was white and lacked the friendly glow that promised a good day was coming.  It was going to be cold, and there would be no sun, but there would probably be no rain or snow, either.  With that thought in mind, Raymond Wilson walked on.
         Were these the same streets he walked when he was young and carefree?  Was he really the same person then?  The memories were there, but they seemed so distant.
         He caught a bus.  He found an empty seat beside a window.  He looked around, closed his eyes, and slept.  When he woke up the journey was almost over and the sky was brighter, but he felt exactly the way he did before he fell asleep.
         Why was he feeling down?  Cunningham Elementary was sliding into view and he should have felt better.  This was his day...he was seeing the principal and meeting with the faculty today.  In one week he would no longer be Raymond, but Mr. Wilson.  Not that he would have to hold this job forever...one day something better might come along.  But he was currently living paycheck to paycheck and needed something to pay the rent.
         This was not the school he had gone to himself, yet something felt familiar about it.  The building looked too small, like most elementary schools, but something about it seemed safe and secure. 
         The front door was unlocked.  He carefully opened it and made his way to the principal's office.  Once again, he took note of the scenery at the front.  The building was clean.  There were poems on the wall, poems that were neatly written and better crafted than what most children could come up with.  There were trophies and ribbons, more trophies and ribbons than he would expect to see at an elementary school.  He asked himself the familiar question:  How, exactly, did this school run?
         He found the door to the principal's office and knocked politely.  With permission he opened the door and walked inside.  Here sat Principal Graff, with a formal suit and a name plate and a comfortable-looking office decorated with awards and diplomas.  But something was off about him today.  He was wearing a crooked clip-on tie.  His suit was wrinkled.  His hair was a little messy.
         Principal Graff was on Facebook, but he closed his browser when Mr. Wilson walked in.  He was fast enough to suggest experience, but too slow for Mr. Wilson not to notice.
         "Welcome back, Mr. Wilson."  They shook hands.  His breath smelled like vodka and curly fries.
         "Pleasure to see you again, Mr. Graff."
         The introduction was followed by a long, awkward silence.  Principal Graff had apparently zoned out.
         He snapped out of it as if awakened by a jolt.  "Oh!  That's right.  Let me provide you with your materials."  He opened a drawer on his desk, slammed it shut, opened another, shuffled through papers, and produced a neat folder that said "Mr. Wilson" on it in plain text.  He picked it up and held it out for Mr. Wilson to take.
         Mr. Wilson examined the folder.  "Thank you."
         When he had last seen him, Principal Graff was polite, formal, and calm.  It seemed like he was  a little off today.
         Mr. Graff looked at Mr. Wilson thoughtfully, but only a hint of his old self returned.  "Mr. Wilson," he said, "I want you to read everything in this folder, and then I want to discuss it with you.  You can do it right now, here, if you'd like, but I'd prefer that you would get acquainted with some of the faculty first.  I want you to take your time and read this carefully.  You may find some of what you read to be a little unconventional."
         "Sure," he replied politely, "I'll come back after I've met them."
         "All right."  Principal Graff smiled formally.  "Michael and Gordon arrived just a few minutes ago.  They're both fourth grade teachers, and they're just down the wall."
         Mr. Wilson said goodbye and left the office.  To be honest, he was glad to have done so.
         He walked halfway down the hall and saw a large, bulky figure inside one of the classrooms.  He tapped on the door.  The bulky figure stood up, walked to the door, opened the door half-way and revealed itself to be a middle-aged man.
         “Hi.”  Mr. Wilson's voice was shaky.  “I'm Raymond.  Raymond Wilson.”
         Michael instantly lit up, as if he had suddenly recognized this stranger.  “Oh, I'm Mr. Kirin, but you can call me Michael.  You must be the new guy!”
         Mr. Wilson was still standing just outside the door.
         “Yeah, I just met the principal.”
         “Oh yeah.”  Mr. Kirin's tone was matter-of-fact.  “I don't like him much.”
         Mr. Wilson thought this an odd way to open a conversation, but he decided to go with it. 
         “He was okay.  He seemed a little...off, though.”
         “That's because he has no power.  The teachers don't really need him and he knows it.  That's what I don't like about him:  He has no idea what he should be doing, but he pretends everything is fine.”  His eyes moved to the folder Mr. Wilson was carrying.  “Hey, have you read that?”
         “No, I was going to.”
         “Has he told you?”
         “Told me what?”
         “Our school is built on Game Theory.”
         “What's that?”  Mr. Wilson honestly didn't know.
         “It's the theory of games.”  The sarcasm only echoed slightly.  “It's all explained in the folder.  With their grades at stake, we get our students to compete in every way imaginable.  We profile them, figure out their personalities, their fears, get inside their minds.  Then we get them to build alliances, break alliances, make deals, double-deal.  We put them in teams.  Then we secretly offer a few of them rewards for deceiving their teammates, or we give a few of them completely different rules from the rest.  It sounds pointless, I know, but we always change the rules.”
         Mr. Wilson didn't know what to make of this joke.  “Yeah, right.  They're elementary school students.  What would you be accomplishing?”
         “No, it's true,” Mr. Kirin continued, “we do it because it's the real world, and they should learn how the real world works.  But to be honest, it's also a lot of fun for us.  We're teachers and we barely get paid, but people like Principal Graff don't really do anything and get lots of pay.  So at least we get to have lots of fun this way.  We place bets and everything.”
         “But how do these kids even understand all the rules?”
         “We severely punish the ones who don't understand.”
         Now Mr. Wilson was a little annoyed.  He was not in the mood for this.
         “I have to go,” he said, “but it was nice meeting you.”
         “Read the folder,” Mr. Kirin called.
         Rather than read the folder, Mr. Wilson walked directly to the end of the hall, where he saw a considerably thinner figure inside.  He knocked on the door, loudly.
         “Come in,” a voice called.  A younger man came to the door.  He was thin, but well-built.  His skin was smooth and his hair was golden.  They shook hands and Mr. Wilson learned that this man was named Gordon Phillips.  They sat down and talked about the weather, then the posters Mr. Phillips hung on the walls, then the school's heating system.  Finally, relaxed, Mr. Wilson began to read the contents of the folder.
         This was odd.  It had descriptions of each student, with a picture on each page, but it also had a list of likes, dislikes, team names...and biggest fears.
         He flipped through the pages and found a section labeled “games.”  What was this?  Extreme Dodgeball?  Deception?  Burn the Witch?
         He closed the binder and looked directly at Mr. Phillips.
         “They told you, right?”  His voice was calm.  “Did they tell you about how our school works?”
         Mr. Wilson was incredulous.  “You can't be serious.”
         For a long moment, neither one spoke.  Mr. Wilson's breath began to quicken.  This was not the job he had in mind.
         Mr. Phillips sighed for a moment, as if preparing to deliver a speech. 
         “Okay, think of it this way.  If you could tell your childhood-self anything, what would it be?  That the world is perfect?  That life is perfect?  I think we should let children taste the real world—greed, deception, betrayal—because that's our world, and that's life.  So, here, we give it to them.  We pit them against each other and we let them know what their shortcomings are.  As early as first grade, we teach them about genocide, and massacre, and rape, and disease.  We give them truth.  And then nothing is hard.  They're ready for the world.”
         “But they're in elementary school!  They should just be making friends and having fun...that's what childhood is supposed to be about.  It's like you're taking away their innocence, right off the bat.”
         Mr. Phillips remained calm and reasonable.  “Their innocence?  They're not innocent.  I think children lose their innocence the second they step outside the front door.  They're exposed to bullies, or they become bullies, or other things happen.  But here, we're building the future.  A new generation.  So why tell them fairy tales?  Why tell them about imaginary castles and Santa Claus and happily ever after, when you can cut to the chase?  We're giving them what they'll have to learn later on, now.  And we're giving them nothing else.”
         Mr. Wilson was still in disbelief.  “Don't their parents complain?  It's not what children should be going through.”
         “It's not that bad.  We're just putting them through very realistic, real-world tests.  And no, their parents don't complain.  The results are good.”
         “But...”
         “Try it.  It's all I ask.  You will be amazed, I promise.  Our students are smart, and well-rounded, and talented.  And they're free.  They're free because they know the truth.  And they're tough, and resilient, and they have morals because we've taught them to.  A conventional education could never have done that.  So please, just stay.  Try it.”
         Mr. Wilson's voice was soft.  “I'll try it.  But if I don't like it, I'm going to leave and never look back.”
         Two Months Later
         Mr. Wilson's voice boomed across the field.
         “All right, students!”  His voice, as always, was enthusiastic.  “It's Capture the Flag.  Those cones over there mark the dividing line.  Tag someone and you get a base point.  Get the flag and everyone on your team gets ten base points.”
         The third graders were standing in a perfectly straight line. 
         “Now, a twist.  One player is a mole.  The mole is actually on the other side.  Even if you think you know who the mole is, you cannot get the mole out until the second the mole touches your flag!  Then the mole can be tagged, and the mole must rush to the mole's own side.  Is that clear?”
         “Yes, Mr. Wilson,” they said in unison.
         “Wait...” called the spiky-haired kid.  “This is so confusing!”
         “I'm sorry, Bill, but I have to deduct three base points.  You can't talk out of turn.  Sit out today.  Everyone else, get in formation.”          
         Boone was a scrawny, medium-height student with plain features.  He really didn't stand out anywhere, especially not here.  He ran to his usual spot, right between the jail benches and the flag, but closer to the flag.  Something was different today, though.
         He was the mole.  He had the rules explained to him, in private.  He had no idea they were so different.  Regardless of which team won or lost, he would not lose or gain points.  The only way he could possibly gain any points was by being the one to deliver the flag to the other side.  If he was that flag-carrier, it was 20 base points, then and there.  20 points.           
         The value of two perfect quizzes.
         He kept the flag protected, but the defense was too good.  Even if all the attackers realized he was their long-lost ally, they wouldn't get through the defense.
         It was because of Ryan, who, unlike Boone, stood out.  Ryan was athletic, intelligent, confident, and popular.  Ryan was the teacher-appointed leader of Red Team every time.  Ryan was respected by everyone, including Boone.  Ryan kept a close watch on his team members, continually barked out orders, and always, always caught the mole. 
         Now the game was moving way, way too fast.  Most of the best attackers on the other side were out.  Ryan's defense was too solid...no wonder Red Team always won.  The best sprinter on Blue Team tried to get to jail and free everyone. 
         Oh, too late.  Ryan himself got him out.  Now there was no way.
         A new thought overtook Boone.  “Ryan!”
         “What?”
         “I'm the mole!”
         Everything stopped.  Three people surrounded him as Ryan approached.
         “You're telling me you're the mole?  What kind of mole are you?”
         “So I'll just do nothing.  I'm the last threat Blue Team has.  With me gone, Red Team will easily win.”
         Suddenly, Ryan smiled.  The three students surrounding Boone looked confused, but Ryan's smile was knowing.
         “That's great!  That makes perfect sense!  I'll give you some points for this, I promise.”
         And with that, both sides knew Red Team had won again.

         Last week, Boone won everyone's respect.  He and Ryan had beaten the game, and no one had ever beaten a game before.  For realizing the importance of collaboration and individual sacrifice, Ryan and Boone each received 50 base points.  Better yet, Ryan personally gave Boone ten of his “green points,” which could be redeemed for food.
         But now, once again, he felt like an outcast.  A talentless outcast.  It was Math Count, his least favorite game because he was terrible at math.
         The third graders were divided into teams, and then all teams were asked to figure out a math problem on the board.  A team would get ten points if it did the problem correctly and lose ten points if it made a single mistake.  The fastest team to do the problem correctly would get five points in addition to its ten.
         One person on each team was secretly asked to sabotage the team's work.  If this person succeeded, he or she would get ten points while the rest of the team lost ten.
         Boone had been that person before.  No one listened to him because he was terrible at math, so he had failed at making his team fail.  No matter.  There was no penalty.  The traitor was always exempt from any sort of penalty.  It was always good to be the traitor.
         But Boone was not that person this time.
         He watched, idly, as his teammates worked tirelessly.  The brown-haired girl was frantically writing out numbers and symbols while the tall boy with glasses helped her.  The problem was far too elaborate for him, so he stood still and simply watched.  They were getting somewhere.  Progress.
         He watched Ryan's group.  They were working very efficiently, as Ryan's team always did.  Ryan guided them, ordered them, figured out the answers within his brilliant mind.  Secretly, Boone wished he were Ryan.
         Then, in the heat of it, he saw Ryan make his way across the room.  What was he doing?  Where was he going?  Ah, he was getting more chalk.
         As Ryan passed Boone, he casually slipped a note into his hand.  Then, cooly, he picked out a new piece of chalk and made his way back to his group.
         Certain that no one was looking, Boone unfolded the crumpled piece of paper and stared for a moment, in shock.  Before him, like some secret plan, was the math problem, completely solved.  Under it, in neat writing, were the words, “Boone, your team's work is wrong.  Here's the correct solution.”
         “Guys,” Boone said to his team, in a voice that was neither loud nor commanding, “That's wrong.  Let me do it.”
         To his surprise, they instantly backed away.  Boone carefully copied the solution, which he had memorized, and drew a large box around the answer.
         His team barely beat Ryan's.

         “Why did he do that?”  Mr. Kirin looked a little puzzled and a little angry.
         “Why does it matter?”  Mr. Phillips sounded more optimistic, even cheerful.  “Ryan and Boone beat the game.  Isn't that right, Ray?”
         The three were having lunch in what might have been a teacher's lounge.  It could have been a makeshift meeting room.  On the board, in chalk, was a list of names followed by arbitrary numbers.  Some names were circled, others were boxed.
         “That's right.  'By realizing that hurting one's own team is sometimes morally correct, Boone and Ryan proved that they are better than the game.'”
         Mr. Kirin was not convinced. “'Morally correct'?  How is it morally correct?”
         “They're friends, right?” asked Mr. Phillips.
         “Sure,” said Mr. Wilson automatically.
         “I don't think they're friends,” argued Mr. Kirin, “I think Ryan is just trying, once again, to build up his own power.  He thinks Boone is witty.  That's all.”
         “Oh yeah?” Mr. Wilson challenged him.  “Five bucks says that if we put them against each other in the next game, they'll just find some clever way to beat the game and remain friends.”
         “Deal.”
         Mr. Wilson stood up and exited.  Mr. Phillips and Mr. Kirin remained sitting.
         “I've never seen anyone change so quickly,” said Mr. Kirin.
         “I hope it's for the right reasons,” said Mr. Phillips.

         Laser Tag.  It had cost most of the school's money, but it was worth every penny.  Nothing was more fun for the teachers to watch.
         Ryan was on Red Team.  Boone was on Blue Team.  The teams were different every time. 
         Boone's team usually won.  Boone was the best shooter on any team, hands down.  This was probably the one thing he was good at.
         But this time was different.  Ryan pulled a few really good plays.  Lots of Blue people were eliminated.
         No matter.  Boone's main objective was to protect Celes.  He stayed with her and the two ducked by a bush.  If he could keep her safe until the end-of-the-day bell rang, he could win points for his entire team.
         Not that this was the main motive.  He liked Celes.  Something about her.  He couldn't put it into words, of course (he was only a third grader), but she was important to him in a special sort of way.
         And he did a good job.  Any time a Red member came close to their hiding place, he would shoot that person down with one swift wave of his hand. 
         But now...something was wrong.  The usual sound of footsteps and screaming had died down.
         The first thing he heard was Ryan's commanding voice.  “Boone, Celes, we know you're here!  Come out with your hands up!  We have you surrounded!”
         There were six of them.  They had no choice.  They stood up and dropped their laser guns.
         “Now, shoot Celes.”  Ryan handed Boone his gun.
         Boone stood still, completely frozen.
         “Boone,” his voice was more friendly, now, “just do it.  This is how we win the game.  Trust me.  This was their plan all along.”
         Boone hesitated, obviously confused, then leveled his gun and pointed it at Celes.  No one made a sound.  And then, without another thought, he shot her in the chest.  Her toy armor sounded in recognition.
         She began to cry as she made her way to the Dead Zone.
         With one deft movement, Ryan leveled his gun and shot Boone in the chest.
         His voice was still calm.  “I'm sorry, Boone, but you made the wrong choice.  You were supposed to refuse, and I could tell Mr. Wilson that you proved you were above the game.  Then we would win.  But it's okay.  Sometimes it's hard to win a game.  Sometimes it's not clear.  So I forgive you.”
         When they walked away Boone stood still for a long time, thinking.  Why had Ryan lied to him, humiliated him, and caused him to break something so beautiful that it couldn't be put into words?  Why had he trusted Ryan for so long?  Why did he not see who Ryan really was?  Why hadn't Ryan explained the whole thing to him, rather than devise a plan whose sole motive was to reduce him to nothing?
         Ryan forgave Boone, but Boone regarded it as a betrayal.

         Trivia.  It was based on a popular game show.  Or video game.  One of those two.
         Five points for answering correctly.  Minus five points for answering incorrectly.
         And, if one could not answer, he or she could “screw over” another student and force the question on that student.
         But if that student turned around and answered correctly, the victorious student would get extra credit and the attacking student would be punished even more severely.
         The game began.  Mr. Wilson began to speak.
         “Andy, what is two plus two?”
         “Four.”
         “Correct.  Five points.  Jason, what is one half plus one third?”
         “Five over six.”
         “Correct.  Five points.  Jimmy, who discovered the New World?”
         “First of all, it was not the New World.  Second of all, to say that it was discovered...”
         “Good.  Five points.  Ryan, where can I find forests without trees, roads without cars, and cities without buildings?”
         “On a map.”
         “Correct, five points.  Boone, what is a cell?”
         “I don't know, so I'd like to turn the question to Ryan.”
         Everyone turned to Boone, who turned to Ryan. 
         There was a short pause.
         “Fair enough.  Ryan, what is a cell?”
         Ryan looked surprised and angry, but he played it off.  “A cell is the basic unit of structure in all living things.”
         “Wrong.  A cell is the basic unit of structure and function in all living things.  You lose five points.  Boone, your record remains intact.”
         Had he given Ryan a friendly glance instead of a hostile stare, he might have played this off.  Sorry, Ryan, I was sure you would have gotten it right. 
         But that's not how it happened. 
         
         The Final Test.
         It had been a long year, and Boone had been torn down by the combined forced of Ryan's Army.  Every game.  Every day.
         But now he could make up for this.
         The Final Test.  500 base points.
         Boone had studied a lot, but he needed a fail-safe method.  So he communicated with his friend, the spiky-haired kid, who copied off of the brown-haired girl.
         To avoid being caught, the brown-haired girl agreed to let the tall girl with pigtails place a hand mirror on her desk, propped up.  This mirror allowed the copying to take place.
         Little did they know, Ryan had arranged for the tall boy with glasses to slightly move the mirror so it would point to the quiet girl's paper.  He would do so while she was using the bathroom.
         Fortunately, Boone knew something like this might happen.  So he also swiped the answer key at lunch, photocopied it to glossy paper, and taped it around his water bottle.  Before he printed this glossy paper, he had made sure to photoshop the answer key on top of the normal water bottle label in a place that few people read.  This way, he could copy the notes and still have a legitimate-looking water bottle on his desk.  The only reason he had tried the other method at all was because he was afraid it was an old copy of the answer key.  But now, after solving a few problems on his own, he was sure that this was up-to-date.
         Meanwhile, Ryan swiped the answer key from Boone before Boone photocopied it in the main office.  Ryan made his own copy, then returned it before Boone knew any better.  He decided it was best not to sabotage it, so he could scan Boone's paper on his way to the drinking fountain and make sure his copy of Boone's copy was accurate.  Of course, Ryan could have easily solved the test without cheating.  This was just to ensure he would earn a perfect score and possibly beat the game.
         His job done, the tall boy with glasses moved the mirror of the tall girl with pigtails back and she copied off of the brown-haired girl, who had studied very hard and scored almost perfectly.  He himself eyed the girl with pigtail's paper.
         Everyone else simply wrote notes on their sleeves or copied off of the people around them.
         In the end, every single person passed the test.
         When he finished his test, Boone left the class and made his way to summer.
         He forgot his water bottle.
         Mr. Wilson picked it up, analyzed it, threw it in the recycle and never gave it another thought.