I am a Genius of Unspeakable Evil and I Want to be Your Class (10 page)

 

“Did I hurtcha, Liz?” I mumble.

 

“Oh, Oliver!” she gasps, all heaves and suppressed emotion. She throws a hand over those previously mentioned china blues and rushes into the ladies room.

Something is
definitely
going on.

 

I step cautiously into English class. The room is a beehive of buzzing whispers that silences the second I walk in. Everyone is staring at me, but they all look away as soon as I look back at them. All except for Tatiana. She lowers her expensive pink sunglasses
⁵⁶
and gives me a long slow wink, then resumes writing
VOTE4 TUBBY
on the wall with a felt-tip marker.

 

The mystery deepens when I reach my desk and see that Pammy Quattlebaum has left a poem on my seat (
see plate 10
).

 

 

By P.E. Quattlebaum

 

 

There’s more, much more, but that’s all I can stand to read right now. I look up at her with annoyance and confusion (and, I’m afraid, some intelligence) plainly on my face, only to find her looking right back at me. Her ridiculous cow eyes are full to the brim with sympathy.

 

I scan the room.
Everyone’s
ridiculous eyes are full to the brim with sympathy. Only Tatiana seems normal (for her). She clutches her scrawny belly gleefully, like it’s about to crack open with laughter.

 

Moorhead enters, but he doesn’t leave the doorway. “Pammy, can you lead everyone in a discussion of the symbolic meaning of television in
Fahrenheit 451
?”

 

“Of course, Mr. Moorhead.”

 

Moorhead turns a sickly yellow-toothed smile in my direction. “Oliver, I’d like to see you in the hallway for a minute.”

 

All eyes are on me as I follow him out. Moorhead closes the door behind us, and we are alone in the deserted hallway. This close to him, I notice he doesn’t smell quite as noxious as usual. He’s taken my advice about the deodorant.

 

“Oliver, I have to say, I was as surprised as anyone when you decided to run for president.”

 

I look back at him with genuine puzzlement.

 

“But now . . . well . . . in light of what we’ve all heard . . . and you should know, your secret is out . . . well, it makes a lot more sense.”

 

To him, maybe.

 

“Just know that we’re all rooting for you. And not just in the election. Every day you hear about another medical miracle, some new treatment. . . .”

 

And suddenly the answer washes over me like a tidal wave of rainbow sherbet.

 

They think I’m dying.

 

“They have wonder drugs these days that were
unthinkable
when I was your—”

 

These idiots think I’m dying! And they think I’m running for president as some sort of last-ditch make-a-wish plan to get the most out of life. It all makes sense now—it’s the only way their puny brains could fathom my decision to run.
⁵⁷

 

“But you’ve got to stay upbeat. Optimistic. That’s the most important thing you can do.”

 

I display my teeth like two lines of sticky pearls. “My Daddy says I’m very brave.”

 

“I’m sure he does,” says Moorhead as he rests his comforting caterpillars on my shoulder.

 

Randy Sparks, the Most Pathetic Boy in School, approaches with a slip of paper in his hand. “Mr. Pinckney wants to see Oliver in his office.” Randy turns to me. “I’m really sorry, Oliver.”

 

“Stop shouting at me, Randy!” I clap my hands over my ears.

 

Randy steps back, scared. Moorhead whispers to him, “He’s very sensitive right now.” Then Moorhead slaps me on the back. “You better go see what Mr. Pinckney wants.”

 

“Yes, Mr. Moorhead.”

 

He gives me a thumbs-up as I walk away. “Live strong, dude.”

 

Even Randy almost laughs at that one.

 

I walk to Pinckney’s office on a cloud of delight. The rash-red floors have never looked warmer, the puke-green lockers have never looked more vibrant and puke-ish. I’ve as good as won the election, and it’s still almost a month away. “O frabjous day!” Every child in my class will vote for me out of misguided sympathy. So simple, so elegant—I couldn’t have thought of anything better myself. It just proves what I’ve always said: You don’t have to be a genius when you’re surrounded by morons.

 

Every school chum I see only adds to my glee. There’s Jordie Moscowitz, looking sorry he ever teased me. And there’s Alan Pitt—my, aren’t his zits huge today! His face looks like a can of tomato sauce threw up on it!
⁵⁸

 

And then I get to Pinckney’s door. And I hear something that sends my wave of rainbow-sherbet joy crashing on the fungus-crusted rocks of hard reality.

 

I push it open slowly, reluctantly. All my worst fears are confirmed. Mom sits there, looking even more melted and shapeless than usual. She weeps copiously as my father (rather unenthusiastically) tries to comfort her. “Oliver’s dying!” she moans. “Dying!”

 

“No, he isn’t, Marlene. Now calm yourself—”

 

Mom points a finger at Pinckney. “But he said—” Then she sees me. “Oliver!”

 

The next five minutes are a blur of hugging and tugging and kissing and crying.

 

After every Kleenex in the room has been filled with snot, Pinckney brings the meeting to some semblance of order. “Naturally, I was suspicious of the rumor from the start. I had never heard of a disease called progressive”—he checks his notes—“lardonoma. But I needed to make sure. And since you assure me Oliver isn’t sick . . .”

 

Daddy scowls. “Not in the slightest. He just got a physical last month, and aside from the obvious weight issue—”

 

“Oliver’s dying!”

 

My father has reached his limit. “For Pete’s sake, Marlene! We’re
all
dying!”

 

She’s not in the mood for a philosophy lesson. As the two of them devolve into a confusion of tears and sniping and apologies, Pinckney takes me aside. “There will be announcements in every homeroom tomorrow, letting everyone know the good news about your health. There’s no reason this should interfere with your candidacy. . . .”

 

Daddy overhears this. “Oh yeah—thanks for putting him on the ballot.” His argument with Mom has put him on edge. “That was a
great
decision, Principal. He won’t embarrass himself
at all
.”

 

“You’re welcome,” says Pinckney, opting to ignore the sarcasm. He gives a quick worried glance at a locked filing cabinet behind him.

 

After a final round of sloppy smooches, I’m sent on my way. That leering, lying red hall, so recently alive with promise, now seems dull and lifeless. This world is empty, treacherous, and small.

 

Victory had hopped into my hands, like a baby bird.

 

And then Daddy came along and stomped the pretty thing. Mom would never have given me away, but oh, that Daddy . . .

 

“Beefheart,” I command, in the depth of my despair. There are ten seconds of silence, a sudden
click
. . . and then, in an incident no school electrician will ever be able to explain, the atonal wonders of my new favorite song, “The Blimp,” start blasting over the public-address system.

 

The lockers on both sides of the hall shudder rhythmically as I walk past them on my way back to class. My day will come.

 

(
Setting: a public basketball court. Time: early evening
)

 

(
Sound of applause, hand-slapping, boys saying goodbye
)

 

OPERATIVE 919
: Hey, kid. Nice game.

JACK CHAPMAN
: Thanks.

OP 919
: You’re Jack, right? Jack Chapman?

JACK
: I don’t know you.

OP 919
: What’s the matter? You’re not supposed to talk to strange men? Well, I’m a strange woman, so relax. . . .

JACK
: Goodbye.

OP 919
: I just thought you might like to see these pictures I got.

JACK
: I’m not interested in any—

 

(
Sound of papers being pulled out of envelope
)

 

JACK
: Oh my God.

OP 919
: Here. Take a good long look.

 

(
Sound of papers being frantically shuffled
)

JACK
: Oh.

OP 919
: That’s you, right? Picking your nose, eating your boogers?

JACK
: Oh.

OP 919
: Sucking the scum out from under your fingernails?

JACK
: Oh . . .

OP 919
: It’s not for me to say, or anything, but you’re a little old for that, aren’t you?

JACK
: How did you—?

OP 919
: Besides the obvious health risk. You could give yourself a cold or something. Didja ever think about that?

JACK
: How did you get these?

OP 919
: Funny story. I live in Turkey. Yesterday a guy calls me, tells me to get on a plane to Omaha. Had to make like five connections. So when I land, another guy hands me this envelope, along with your name, this address, and a message.

JACK
: Message? . . .

OP 919
: “Drop out of the student-council election.”

JACK
: Why would anyone? . . .

OP 919
: No idea. Damnedest thing I ever heard of. Anyway, now that we’re done, I’m heading back to the airport, catching the first flight home.

JACK
: Wait! Will anyone? . . .

GIRL’S VOICE
(
in distance
): Great game, Jack!

 

(
Sound of frantic envelope stuffing
)

 

JACK
(
false hearty
): Thanks, Shirelle! (
then, quieter
) Will anyone see these?

OP 919
: Not if you drop out of the election.

JACK
: Okay. Fine. I’ll do it. I’ll do it!

OP 919
: Try to see the upside. Now you got a reason to break a really nasty habit. So, maybe in the long run, we’re doing you a favor.

JACK
(
sighs
): Right.

OP 919
: It’s been a pleasure doing business. Forgive me if I don’t shake hands.

 

(
Sound of stiletto heels walking away
)

 

(
Fin
)

 

 

 

 

(
Setting: teachers’ lounge. Time: mid-morning
)

 

(
Sound of teachers lounging
)

 

MOORHEAD
: Hi, Lucy.

SOKOLOV
: Mmm.

MOORHEAD
: Still reading (
pronounces it correctly
) Nabokov, huh?

 

(
Sound of book being reluctantly put down
)

 

SOKOLOV
: I’m trying to.

MOORHEAD
: That’s awesome. Coffee?

SOKOLOV
: I don’t drink coffee.

MOORHEAD
: Thought you might have changed your mind. Personally, I drink way too much (
lame giggle
).

SOKOLOV
: Gee. How awful for you.
⁶⁰

MOORHEAD
: Well . . . enjoy your (
pronounces it correctly
) Nabokov.

SOKOLOV
: I will!

 

(
Sound of leather man-sandals walking away
)

 

SOKOLOV
(
under her breath
): Twit.
⁶¹

 

(
Fin
)