I am a Genius of Unspeakable Evil and I Want to be Your Class by Josh Lieb Page B

will vote for a boy in an election, or go to a movie that’s about a boy, or buy a book that features a boy hero. 44 Boys are much less likely to return the favor. They can’t wrap their feeble minds around the idea that this girl might have anything in common with them. It’s like they can’t recognize girls as human beings.
     
    Which puts Liz Twombley at a distinct disadvantage in this election, even though she is the Most Popular Girl in School.
     
    Liz is a sweet dimwit with mediocre good looks and a friendly smile. She’s much nicer than most Most Popular Girls in School tend to be, so she probably won’t last long. She owes her status to the fact that 1) she’s rich—her father is the world’s leading manufacturer of those giant blow-up gorillas you see on top of car dealerships ( see plate 9 ), and 2) she developed early. That is to say, she’s got boobs.
     
    Now, developing early can be a double-edged (though strangely soft and pillowy) sword. Girls who develop early are either the Most Popular Girl in School or sluts. That is to say, they’re not really sluts. Everyone just calls them sluts because they have boobs. This is what passes for logic among my peers. 45
     
    Liz has escaped the unfair labeling by growing boobs without noticing she’s got them . Completely free of self-consciousness, she plows through the world oblivious to the twin heralds that announce her presence. You can’t call someone a slut when they’re clearly so naive. It’s a tricky move that requires a dangerous level of stupidity to pull off. Generally, late puberty is a much less risky play. Though, in my own personal case, I am thoroughly sick of it.
     
    “Representing Mr. Moorhead’s homeroom, Elizabeth Twombley.”
     
    Liz bobs to the front of the auditorium, artlessly slapping her flat feet down the aisle like a scuba diver in a beauty contest. Once onstage, it’s hard to tell what’s bigger, her smile or her—Actually, I regret starting that sentence. The point is, she’s there, and the crowd gives up a tepid round of applause.

    PLATE 9: She’s rich—her father is the world’s leading
manufacturer of those giant blow-up gorillas you see
on top of car dealerships.
     
    Liz’s friends jump up in their seats and start chanting, “Go Twombley! You’re the bomb-ley! Go Twombley! Go Twombley!” A few of the Not Quite Popular Girls jump up and join in, peeking out of the corners of their eyes to see if the Popular Girls notice (they don’t).
     
    Everyone else is busy whispering, poking, giggling, napping. I’m seated near the back, middle of the row, and feeling very crowded. Normally, there would be empty seats around me, but today the auditorium is packed; the entire school is at this assembly. Every red-velvet seat is filled. Some people are sitting Indian style in the aisles. I am sitting between the Chinese Exchange Student, who’s snoring, 46 and Randy Sparks, the Most Pathetic Boy in School, who’s trying to smell his breath by blowing into his hand.
     
    Up onstage, Liz stands in front of the nominees for the lesser eighth-grade class offices—a collection of lurkers, butt-scratchers, and rats taking their first steps toward a glorious future as low-level bureaucrats. 47
     
    Next to Liz stands Vice Principal Hruska, a grizzled old pro one year shy of retirement, who’s stuck with the job of announcing the student council nominees. He consults the printout in his hand. “From Ms. Sokolov’s homeroom, Jack Chapman.”
     
    Jack moves gracefully down the aisle to thunderous applause. Liz’s friends make sour faces and sit down, but they’re replaced by a hundred children who jump to their feet and cheer lustily. You’d think he was running for king. He and Liz exchange friendly smiles.
     
    Old man Hruska looks at Jack and Liz, but it’s like he doesn’t see them. He’s got the hundred-yard stare common to long-term prison inmates or teachers who are close to getting their pensions.