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My classmate Tyler started fake limping to school claiming he'd torn his ACL playing basketball. For three weeks, he milked sympathy from teachers and students, getting special accommodations and attention. The problem? Our school had security cameras everywhere, and the principal pulled footage showing Tyler literally running to catch the bus every morning, jumping over puddles, and sprinting up stairs when he thought no one was looking. When confronted in front of the entire class with the video evidence, Tyler claimed he'd experienced a "miracle healing" that morning. He was suspended for academic dishonesty and had to explain to his parents why he'd been faking a serious injury for attention.

Tyler Chen was that kid who always had to be the center of attention. By our junior year, his attention-seeking had become legendary, but usually harmless.

Everything changed after winter break when Tyler showed up with a dramatic limp, claiming he'd torn his ACL during a basketball game. He had a whole story prepared—diving for a loose ball, hearing the pop, emergency room visit.

"Doctor says I'll need surgery soon," he announced, wincing theatrically as he limped down the hallway.

Tyler wasn't even on the basketball team, but that didn't stop him from getting sympathy. Mrs. Rodriguez moved his desk to the front. The cafeteria ladies held his lunch tray. The school nurse gave him daily ice packs.

For three weeks, Tyler played up his fake injury perfectly. He'd grimace when sitting, ask classmates to carry his books, and dramatically prop his leg up during class. Teachers gave him assignment extensions and excused him from PE.

The attention was everything Tyler had wanted. Students who'd never spoken to him were asking about his injury and offering help. Girls volunteered to carry his backpack.

Tyler got careless with his lie. During lunch, when he thought no one was watching, he'd walk normally. Between classes, if running late, he'd forget to limp. But his biggest mistake was his morning routine.

Every day, Tyler would get off the bus and immediately start limping before entering the building. What he didn't realize was that our school had installed new security cameras over winter break.

The truth came out during AP History. We were taking a quiz when Principal Martinez walked in carrying a laptop.

"Tyler," Principal Martinez said calmly, "could you come with me for a moment?"

Tyler went into victim mode. "Is this about my injury? The doctor said I need to keep it elevated—"

"Actually, yes, it is about your injury," the principal interrupted.

Principal Martinez opened his laptop and turned it toward the class. On screen was security footage from that morning, showing Tyler getting off the bus and immediately breaking into a full sprint to catch his friends. The timestamp showed 7:42 AM—less than two hours ago.

The classroom went silent. Tyler's face went white as he watched himself jumping over a puddle, taking stairs two at a time, and walking normally until he reached the entrance, where he suddenly started limping.

"This is just from today," Principal Martinez said, clicking to another video. "We have three weeks of footage showing you running, jumping, and walking normally every morning."

Video after video showed Tyler sprinting to catch the bus, playing football with friends during lunch, and doing jumping jacks during a fire drill.

Tyler sat staring at the screen, his "injured" leg still propped up. The whole class was watching.

"Tyler," Principal Martinez said, "do you have any explanation for this?"

Tyler looked around desperately. Then, in the most ridiculous move possible, he suddenly jumped up and started walking normally.

"Oh my God!" he announced dramatically. "It's a miracle! My ACL just healed itself! The power of positive thinking really works!"

The entire class burst out laughing—not with Tyler, but at him. Tyler's fake miracle healing was even more embarrassing than getting caught.

"Tyler," Principal Martinez said dryly, "I don't think that's how ACL injuries work."

"You'd be surprised!" Tyler replied. "Modern medicine is amazing! I've been doing visualization exercises and—"

"Tyler, stop," the principal cut him off. "You're suspended for academic dishonesty. Gather your things."

As Tyler packed up, the room was silent except for occasional suppressed giggles.

The worst part came when Tyler's parents were called to school. They'd been worried sick, had scheduled consultations with orthopedic surgeons, and were prepared to pay thousands for surgery. When they learned he'd been faking everything for attention, they were furious and humiliated.

Tyler returned from suspension a week later, but the damage was done.