I am a Genius of Unspeakable Evil and I Want to be Your Class (19 page)

Randy Sparks looks good.

 

I mean, not
good
. He’s still Randy Sparks, after all. But Verna has cleaned him up considerably. He combs his hair now. He has new glasses that aren’t bent and scratched and taped together. He’s washing more often, too; his face no longer looks like it’s coated with goat saliva.

 

His shirts don’t have sweat stains around the armpits anymore, but that’s only because Verna threw out all his old shirts and bought him new ones in bright preppy colors. I paid for them, of course.

 

But they’re already paying off. Just ten minutes ago, a girl noticed Randy for the very first time in his entire life. I witnessed this momentous occasion. She passed our table in the cafeteria and said, “Nice shirt, Randy.” He was so surprised he forgot how to breathe for about three minutes and nearly passed out into his pudding cup.

 

Now, don’t be too impressed. The girl was India Danko, a very low-ranking female who has one nostril bigger than the other. And everyone hates her because she steals. But she’s still definitely a
girl
, which means something. I know it does to Randy; he’s been smiling ever since.

 

With these improvements, Randy is now only the Fifth Most Pathetic Boy at School. The new rankings are
⁹⁵
:

“Randy,” I say, as I expertly scrape the cream-filling from my cupcake, “Do you like India?”

 

He turns pink. “Uh . . . no. I mean, I don’t
like
like her.” Then he thinks about it and says, “Actually, I don’t even regular ‘like’ her. She stole my jacket last year.”

 

“I think maybe she likes you.”

 

He thinks about that some more. “Yeah,” he says, “I don’t know . . . but maybe she does.”

 

He tries to take a bite from his tuna-fish sandwich, but it’s hard to eat when you’re grinning ear to ear.

 

I’m proud of Randy. He’s slowly becoming worthy of getting crushed by me.

There is something rotten in the state of Nebraska.

 

Namely, Alan Pitt’s feet, which smell like ass. Har.

 

But let’s be serious for a moment.

 

Seriously
, they smell like butt. Double har!

 

Sorry, sorry. I’m in a bit of a bubbly mood. Things really seem to be falling into place—and not always in ways I’d expected.

 

For instance: I’ve always worried that Mom didn’t have enough friends. To be precise, she’s never had
any
friends. Not that she isn’t friendly. I’ve watched her try to buddy up with some of the other mothers at PTA meetings and school carnivals. They always act nice enough to her at first, and they always say perfectly friendly things, but then they always, always, always end up ignoring her.

 

The other moms will stand in a circle, gabbing and laughing with each other, clearly having the time of their lives. Mom stands by herself on the other side of the room, lingering by the snack table, pathetically watching them. It’s like they can
smell
something wrong with her. Like wild dogs driving a sick member from the pack.

 

I’ve hired actors to be friends with Mom in the past, but she can smell something wrong with
them
, and invariably starts avoiding them because she thinks they’re “phony.” Mom has a good nose.

 

Which is why I’m so pleased that Mom finally has friends. Granted, they’re twelve-year-old girls, but it’s a start.

 

The day after Tati invited Mom to help make posters, the
WATSEN 4 PRESDENT CAMPAN HEADQARTERS
moved from the garage into the kitchen. Now, every day as soon as school lets out, Mom sits at the counter with Logan and Liz, giggling in a fog of glitter. Tati sits at the kitchen table painting her nails and ordering them to “stop cackling like morons and get back to work.” It’s sweet.

But I suspect they’re up to something. Yesterday, I went to the fridge for a chilled Twinkie,
⁹⁶
and they all shut up as soon as I walked in the door. They were all staring at me and smiling strangely, like I had a booger on my cheek.
⁹⁷
Liz’s stare was especially intense—her eyes were bugging out like she was holding her breath. Suddenly, she burst out, “We have a surprise for you, Ollie!”

 

Logan gave her a mean kick on the ankle and said, “You’re not supposed to say.”

 

Liz looked unrepentant. “I didn’t say what it
is
, Logan!”

 

“Knock it off,” said Tati. “Liz—ten push-ups for opening your trap. Logan, you do twenty for kicking her. I’m the one who gives out discipline here.”

 

Logan and Liz immediately dropped to the floor and grunted their way through some very sloppy push-ups.

 

This was intriguing. I turned to my mother and opened my eyes their widest. “What’s my s’prise, Mom? Is it chocolate?”

 

She smiled and opened her mouth to answer me, but Tati held up a warning finger and said, “You looking to get some exercise, Tubby’s Mom?”

 

Mom closed her mouth.

 

Then Tatiana stretched her tiny mouth into a crocodile grin and said, “Don’t get yourself excited, Chubbles. We was just talking some campaign business. The only surprise is that our spy at the Sparks campaign stopped texting me what their poster ideas are. So, you know, we gotta work a little harder to get you elected. That’s all.”

 

Somehow, I didn’t believe that was the actual surprise they were talking about. Still, it
was
surprising to me; Verna’s getting lazy. I decided to deduct some money from her next paycheck.

 

Then Mom shooed me out of the room. When I was halfway down the hallway they started giggling again.

 

It’s simply the most adorable thing ever: My mother has joined a gang.

Moorhead looks good.

 

I mean, not
good
—he’s still Moorhead, after all—but better, at any rate. He’s a little slimmer. His hair’s tidier. His teeth aren’t quite so yellow; it seems likely he’s ventured into the exciting world of toothpastes that whiten as they clean.
⁹⁸

 

The biggest change, though, is in the way he carries himself. There’s a little swagger in the old boy’s step this morning. A twinkle in his eye. His fat, self-satisfied mouth is even fatter
⁹⁹
and more self-satisfied than usual.

 

“Is everyone enjoying
The Outsiders
?” he asks rhetorically, as he parades up the aisle. “I hope so. It’s one of my favorites.”

 

I’m surprised to hear this since a) I actually like
The Outsiders
and b) I didn’t know we were reading
The Outsiders
. A quick scan of the room proves I’m the only one still holding a copy of
Fahrenheit 451
. It’s possible I should pay more attention in class.

 

I’m not the only one who’s scanned the room. Moorhead appears behind me and plucks the book from my hands. “Still finishing Mr. Bradbury’s opus, Oliver?” He pivots his head so everyone in class can see his shining face. “Perhaps
someone’s
been a little too busy making campaign posters to keep up with the reading.”

 

He waits for the expected laugh to die down before handing
Fahrenheit
back to me. I smile at him gratefully, and say, “I like the part where they burn the books.”

 

That makes his liverlike lip droop a
little
—but just a little—and he’s fully regained whatever wind I took out of his sails by the time he gets back to his desk. “Burning books is yesterday’s news, Ollie,” he drawls, as he rests his hand on an enormous dog-eared copy of
Gravity’s Rainbow
. “Today, we’re talking about setting your
imagination
on fire!”

 

It’s like he’s found new depths of lameness.

 

What accounts for this new confidence? Did he win the lottery? Has he been hypnotized? Does he draw strength from just being close to a genuine “smart people” book?

 

The answer is playing over my earbud. It’s a conversation recorded half an hour ago, in the Teachers’ Lounge.

 

(
Sound of teachers lounging
)

 

(
Sound of someone slurping coffee and turning pages in a book
)

 

SOKOLOV
(
approaching, mutters under her breath
): Little jerks . . . creeps . . . morons . . .

MOORHEAD
: Hi, Lucy.

SOKOLOV
(
annoyed
): Hi . . .

MOORHEAD
: How’s it going? I’m just sitting here . . . reading.

SOKOLOV
: So I noticed (
then, a gasp of surprise
) . . . Do you like Pynchon?

MOORHEAD
: I dunno. I’ve never pinched.

 

Let’s pause here for a second, shall we?

 

May I say to you, Mr. Moorhead—telepathically, if by no other means—
Bravo
?

 

Bravo
!

 

“Do you like Pynchon? “I dunno, I’ve never pinched”—exactly the sort of so-dumb-it’s-smart wordplay you’d find in the works of both Vladimir Nabokov and Thomas Pynchon. It’s the sort of thing that makes me suspect
he’s actually reading the book
.

 

We return now to the conversation already in progress, after the giggling has died down.

 

SOKOLOV:
That’s funny.

MOORHEAD
: Yeah, I don’t know . . . it just came to me . . . “Pynchon.”

 

(
More giggles
)

 

MOORHEAD
: So . . . cup of coffee?

SOKOLOV
: You know what? Why not? But make it decaf.

 

And that, my friends, explains the smile on Mr. Moorhead’s mug.

 

Has he made it to first base? No. Has he even entered the ballpark? Not on your life. But has he bought a ticket to the game? You betcha.

 

He floats through the classroom on a cloud of love. It’s fascinating—Happy Moorhead is an even worse teacher than Regular Moorhead. He doesn’t notice Jack Chapman, who is passing a note to Shirelle Bunting. He doesn’t see Pammy Quattlebaum, who is showing off her own enormous copy of
Gravity’s Rainbow
, in a pathetic attempt to gain his respect. All he sees is a rosy romance-filled future with a woman he doesn’t realize will make him absolutely miserable.

 

This calls for a celebration. I’ll send him a present. “A dozen red cigarettes, wrapped in a bow, all reading
WELL DONE, SIR
,” I mumble, as my stout and balding Romeo struts and preens at the dry-erase board.

 

They grow up so fast.

If you want to grow a cornstalk, you plant it in topsoil.

 

If you want to grow a rumor, you plant it in a crowd.

 

Rumors thrive in crowds. All those people jammed together. All those tongues desperate to talk. All those ears desperate to hear. And the only things stopping those tongues from repeating whatever idiotic story the ears hear are a bunch of tiny, tiny brains. And those tiny brains will believe anything.