I am a Genius of Unspeakable Evil and I Want to be Your Class by Josh Lieb
Book: I am a Genius of Unspeakable Evil and I Want to be Your Class by Josh Lieb
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Authors: Josh Lieb
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realize I’m laughing out loud.
Moorhead glares at me from the dry-erase board. “Sorry if I seem surprised. I’m just not used to students laughing while I describe an all too plausible dystopian future, where books are illegal and people who think freely are penalized for—”
I laugh again, even louder, and clap my hands. His glare hardens into something glassy. Pammy Quattlebaum purses her lips and shakes her moonlike head at me.
I smile feebly: “You said penal .”
The entire class explodes into joyful, sub-human glee. Moorhead sighs and turns his back on me; I am a lost cause.
The real lost cause, of course, is his attempt to woo La Sokolova . The lady is out of his league. She’s ten times smarter than he is, and much better looking, even if she is too skinny. She’s the kind of woman his sort can only press its nose against the glass and watch as they walk past. I guess he thinks he has a chance because she’s trapped in the same school with him.
The irony is that Moorhead is definitely much happier without her than he ever would be with her. Despite her beauty and intelligence, Sokolov is a short-tempered, hypercritical witch. She may be the meanest woman I’ve ever met. She once told Benito Guzman, the Shyest Boy in School, that he had the personality of a used diaper. If Moorhead were ever unlucky enough to actually be in a relationship with her . . . well, a woman like that would just crush him.
Hmmm.
There might be something to work with here.
I stick around after class. I want to see Moorhead read his latest cigarette: YOU NEED TO TRY A NEW DEODORANT .
Social studies might be my least favorite class—which is strange, because I kind of like the teacher. It’s just so dull. I feel like we’re all being taught how boring the people in other countries are.
I raise my hand. My social studies teacher, Mrs. Magoffin, says, “What is it, Oliver?”
“My stomach hurts.”
Tatiana says, “That’s serious, Miz Magoffin. When his stomach hurts, they can feel it in China.”
Mrs. Magoffin ignores Tatiana. “Well, Oliver, I’m not surprised. I saw you eating beef jerky and chunky peanut butter in the hallway before class. But if it’ll make you feel any better, you may go to the restroom.”
Mrs. Magoffin is normally a painfully polite woman, so I’m surprised she’s called attention to my mid-afternoon snack. 40 But I thank her and head to the boys’ room.
It’s empty, as I expected. I head for the third stall, which has a permanent OUT OF ORDER sign on its door. Even if you wanted to ignore the sign, you couldn’t; the door is sealed shut by electromagnets and won’t open unless you jiggle the handle in the proper combination. 41
Inside, the porcelain looks as stained and crusted and cruddy as any other toilet at school, but that’s all just paint and makeup. This toilet isn’t really a toilet, and I insist that it be kept scrupulously clean.
I lift the lid off the “water tank” behind the “toilet”—it’s full of Milk Duds, fresh popcorn, and soda pop. I grab a bag of popcorn, then I “flush” the toilet. The light fixture overhead starts projecting a movie onto the water in the bowl.
The film was taken about twenty minutes after I saw Mr. Pinckney this morning. The setting is his office. He’s at his desk, doing paperwork and grumbling about it. Then The Motivator walks in.
I pop in my earbud and click it over to the movie channel so I can listen.
Mr. Pinckney says, “Who are you?”
The Motivator smiles (and it is a terrifying smile) and says, “I suggest you reconsider putting Oliver Watson on the ballot for class president.”
Pinckney looks at him funny. “Who are you? Oliver’s father?”
The Motivator just broadens his smile. “I suggest you reconsider putting Oliver Watson on the ballot for class president.”
“Look, whoever you are, you can’t
Moorhead glares at me from the dry-erase board. “Sorry if I seem surprised. I’m just not used to students laughing while I describe an all too plausible dystopian future, where books are illegal and people who think freely are penalized for—”
I laugh again, even louder, and clap my hands. His glare hardens into something glassy. Pammy Quattlebaum purses her lips and shakes her moonlike head at me.
I smile feebly: “You said penal .”
The entire class explodes into joyful, sub-human glee. Moorhead sighs and turns his back on me; I am a lost cause.
The real lost cause, of course, is his attempt to woo La Sokolova . The lady is out of his league. She’s ten times smarter than he is, and much better looking, even if she is too skinny. She’s the kind of woman his sort can only press its nose against the glass and watch as they walk past. I guess he thinks he has a chance because she’s trapped in the same school with him.
The irony is that Moorhead is definitely much happier without her than he ever would be with her. Despite her beauty and intelligence, Sokolov is a short-tempered, hypercritical witch. She may be the meanest woman I’ve ever met. She once told Benito Guzman, the Shyest Boy in School, that he had the personality of a used diaper. If Moorhead were ever unlucky enough to actually be in a relationship with her . . . well, a woman like that would just crush him.
Hmmm.
There might be something to work with here.
I stick around after class. I want to see Moorhead read his latest cigarette: YOU NEED TO TRY A NEW DEODORANT .
Social studies might be my least favorite class—which is strange, because I kind of like the teacher. It’s just so dull. I feel like we’re all being taught how boring the people in other countries are.
I raise my hand. My social studies teacher, Mrs. Magoffin, says, “What is it, Oliver?”
“My stomach hurts.”
Tatiana says, “That’s serious, Miz Magoffin. When his stomach hurts, they can feel it in China.”
Mrs. Magoffin ignores Tatiana. “Well, Oliver, I’m not surprised. I saw you eating beef jerky and chunky peanut butter in the hallway before class. But if it’ll make you feel any better, you may go to the restroom.”
Mrs. Magoffin is normally a painfully polite woman, so I’m surprised she’s called attention to my mid-afternoon snack. 40 But I thank her and head to the boys’ room.
It’s empty, as I expected. I head for the third stall, which has a permanent OUT OF ORDER sign on its door. Even if you wanted to ignore the sign, you couldn’t; the door is sealed shut by electromagnets and won’t open unless you jiggle the handle in the proper combination. 41
Inside, the porcelain looks as stained and crusted and cruddy as any other toilet at school, but that’s all just paint and makeup. This toilet isn’t really a toilet, and I insist that it be kept scrupulously clean.
I lift the lid off the “water tank” behind the “toilet”—it’s full of Milk Duds, fresh popcorn, and soda pop. I grab a bag of popcorn, then I “flush” the toilet. The light fixture overhead starts projecting a movie onto the water in the bowl.
The film was taken about twenty minutes after I saw Mr. Pinckney this morning. The setting is his office. He’s at his desk, doing paperwork and grumbling about it. Then The Motivator walks in.
I pop in my earbud and click it over to the movie channel so I can listen.
Mr. Pinckney says, “Who are you?”
The Motivator smiles (and it is a terrifying smile) and says, “I suggest you reconsider putting Oliver Watson on the ballot for class president.”
Pinckney looks at him funny. “Who are you? Oliver’s father?”
The Motivator just broadens his smile. “I suggest you reconsider putting Oliver Watson on the ballot for class president.”
“Look, whoever you are, you can’t
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