I am a Genius of Unspeakable Evil and I Want to be Your Class (18 page)

W.W.T.A.T.B.
: For God’s sake, Oliver, take the money!

M.W.G.
: We’d be selling our souls!

W.W.T.A.T.B.
: I don’t care. I just want to stop looking at stupid coffee mugs and stupid fat baritones and go home and take a long bath.

SHELDRAKE
: Do we have a deal?

M.W.G.
: Erm . . .

SHELDRAKE
: Good. Nice meeting you.

 

(
Sheldrake exits. Woman Whose Teeth Are Too Big For Her Mouth follows him out, as do the people answering the phones. Man With Glasses stares into the camera with a lost look in his eyes
.)

 

M.W.G.
: Well, I . . . I guess that ends our annual spring pledge drive. It’s funny how things work out sometimes and . . . that’s great, so . . . Now, without any further interruption, we return to . . . the Five Baritones. . . . (
long sigh
) Just roll the tape, Charlie. Just roll the freaking tape.

“Nice place you got here,” says Verna Salisbury, running a finger across Sheldrake’s silk couch.

 

“Thank you,” says Sheldrake. “I decorated it myself.”

 

Actually, I decorated it
myself
, and I happen to know Lionel hates it. It’s all intricately carved seventeenth-century French antiques and woven wall hangings of knights fighting dragons. Lionel says it looks like the ladies’ room at a fancy restaurant, but I think it’s important that the home of the fourth-richest man on earth should make a certain
impression
.

 

“Who’s that?” asks Verna, pointing at me. She’s pretty, in an intensely intelligent sort of way. All flashing eyes and dark hair and arching eyebrows. A pair of tortoise-shell eyeglasses perches on the end of her long flutelike nose.

 

“That’s my grandfather,” says Lionel. “Pay no attention to him. He’s in a world of his own.”

 

“Bloogle,” I say. My face itches but I won’t scratch it;

I don’t want to tear off any of the wrinkles.

 

“Saw you on TV the other night,” says Verna. “You really destroyed that guy.”

 

“Bloogle!” I scream happily, clapping my hands. “Bloogle!”

 

“Grandfather, please calm down.” He puts a steadying hand on the arm of my wheelchair. He already knows how happy I am with his performance on Daddy’s station; this morning, I donated a new building to the Cornell University Medical School in Lionel’s name.

 

“So, Ms. Salisbury,” says Sheldrake, putting a this-is-business tone into his voice. “How do you think your assignment is going?”

 

“Couldn’t be better,” she says. “I’ve got the both of ’em—Scott and Randy—wrapped around my little finger. To be honest, after so much time in Washington, I’d forgotten people could be so . . .”

 

She hesitates, searching for the right word. “Gullible?” Lionel offers.

 

She shakes her head. “No.
Sincere
. They’re really very sweet.”

 

“So you don’t mind . . . your romance with Mr. Sparks.”

 

Verna’s lips twist into a lopsided grin. “I’d hardly call it a romance. He gives me a kiss on the cheek after we watch a movie. But no, I don’t mind. Like I said, he’s sweet.”

 

“Bloogle,” I say sternly, commanding Lionel to get to the meat of the conversation.

 

“Ms. Salisbury, I have some concern that the campaign you’re running for Randy Sparks may not be as solid as I’d like. It can’t be a joke. It has to look like he has a legitimate chance of winning.”

 

“You want him to lose, right?” says Verna.

 

“Yes, that’s the agreement.”

 

She grins again. “Then you can’t ask me to run much of a campaign. I mean, Randy’s no natural-born leader of men, but this chump he’s up against is a
real
loser. I saw him one time when I was picking up Randy from school. Five foot tall, maybe two hundred pounds. Looks dumb as a post. I hear one time they caught him dunking bologna in a jar of grape jelly—”

 

“Bloogle!” I shout. “Bloogle!”

 

“Pipe down, Gramps,” says Verna. “Anyway, this kid

 

Watson, he’s just
weird
. When he walks, it looks like an ostrich egg wobbling down the street—”

 

“Bloogle!”

 

Sheldrake holds up a hand. “That’s enough, Ms. Salisbury. Thank you. Just do me a favor and try to give Randy a slightly more credible campaign. Don’t worry about winning. If he starts doing
too
well, I’ll just have you sabotage his speech on election day. Agreed?”

 

“Hey, you keep the checks coming, and I’ll do whatever you want,” replies Verna, laughing. It’s a charming laugh. She could probably run for office herself if she actually cared about anything.

 

But, like most people, the only thing that interests her is cash. Which makes her very easy to control.

 

And, for the record, I wasn’t dunking my bologna in grape jelly.

 

It was strawberry jam. I command you to try it some time. Delicious!

Tatiana has turned my family’s garage into
WATSEN 4 PRESDENT CAMPAN HEADQARTERS
. It should, of course, say
WATSON FOR PRESIDENT CAMPAIGN HEADQUARTERS
, but Tati let Liz Twombley paint the sign that’s in the front yard, and Liz learned to spell by text messaging.

 

Under Tatiana’s management, the garage now looks like an evil version of Santa’s Workshop. Liz and Logan Michaels are the elves, cranking out poster after poster, dripping paint, paste, and glitter all over the hood of Mom’s Buick. Tati is the evil Santa. She sits in a folding chair, leaning back against the wall, leafing through my mother’s giant stack of old
Knitter’s World
magazines, and yelling at Logan and Liz whenever they take a break for more than two minutes. “Move your keister, Michaels,” she barks. “This tub of lard ain’t gonna elect himself.”

 

Mom and I watch them through the window while I eat my after-school grilled cheese. The sandwich is gritty; some of Tati’s glitter has floated into Mom’s kitchen.

 

My mother has a serious expression on her face as she watches the girls work. After thinking for a long while, she finally says, “Oliver.”

 

And I say, “Yes, Mom”

 

And she says, “I know all the girls are in love with you. But don’t commit yourself too early. You have plenty of time to find the right one.”

 

I nod and promise I’ll talk to her before I get married.

 

Tati pokes her sharp face through the door. “Hey, dork—guess what? We got a spy inside the Sparks campaign.”

 

“What do you—stop it, Lolli!”

 

Lollipop has jammed her nose up under Tati’s sweater and is licking her belly. But Tati is giggling and doesn’t seem to mind. “That’s okay. I got a dog at home who does the same thing. But listen, Tubby. Somebody keeps texting me the slogans Randy Sparks is gonna have on his posters. Know what that means? We can
respond
to his posters before he even puts ’em up.”

 

“But who would do that?” asks my mother, who’s looking at Tatiana suspiciously.

 

Tati gives her a serious look: “Team Tubby has spies everywhere, Tubby’s Mom.”

 

Mom gives a dismissive sniff. She doesn’t like Tatiana much anymore. I don’t think she minds it that Tati calls me Tubby or Dork or Fat Farm.
⁹³
If I didn’t know better, I’d think Mom was jealous. Very strange.

 

Liz rushes in, squiggling and shaking in her jean shorts and giggling uncontrollably. Her face is marked with big wads of Elmer’s glue, like zits. “Can I use your bathroom, Mrs. Watson?” she squeaks. “Logan poured glitter down my underwear, and it itches like crazy.”

 

“Go ahead, dear,” says Mom, cold as ice. See? She doesn’t even like Liz now, and Liz is
nice
.

 

“Pretty girlie!” says Liz, patting Lollipop’s head as she skips away to the bathroom. I’m starting to think Liz may be smarter than she looks.

 

“You wanna make a poster, Tubby’s Mom?” asks Tati, suddenly polite. “It would be, like, an honor. We got lots of supplies. We stole ’em from Liz’s dad’s office.”

 

I stare at Tati, astonished. I’ve never seen her treat an adult with this much respect before.

 

Mom bites her lip and gives Tati a funny look. “Are you sure you want my help? I thought you girls were taking over.”

 

“Oh, no way, Mrs. Tubby’s Mom. We totally need your expert advice and everything.”

 

Mom looks like she won the lottery. “Well, if you
need
me, I can’t very well say no, can I?” And she tears off her apron and runs out to the garage.

 

Tatiana watches her go and smiles. She doesn’t look so polite anymore. She winks at me and says, “They’re like violins. You just gotta know how to play ’em.”

 

Then she walks out the door and slams it in my face.

 

Is this what love feels like?