Free The Basic Eight by Daniel Handler

because, as you know, I cut Biology all the time because I’m an academic flaky failure.) Frank Whitelaw was on the stage crew and I always suspected that some heavy prop had fallen on his head. Natasha’s theory was heavy drug use, and Kate’s had to do with his last name. She said anything that sounded so much like neo-Nazism was probably the result of in-breeding.
    He opened his backpack and took out an umbrella. Held it up over the both of us. It was like being protected by a big, friendly ape. Outside the monsoon raged and dribbled. We struggled up the hill.
    I was still dripping from the downpour of pathetic fallacy when I got my 13. At first I didn’t know what it

    meant: a circled number 13 at the top of my paper. 13th place? There were about forty-five students in the class. Then slowly, the carbonation of truth burped up into the front of my brain: 13 out of 100. 13%. If there were a train wreck and only 13% of the passengers lived, it would be called a catastrophe. I glanced down the paper and saw the red checks that pointed out tiny bits of correctly attempted equations like survivors in the mud, thrashing around amidst the inked X ’s of the bridge that, ill-conceived and badly constructed, had fallen at the first testing. Baker’s explana- tions of “the more difficult problems”–meaning there were some that were actually supposed to be easy –blurred by me like ambu- lance chasers as I sat gaping at the wreckage. Did they have good English Literature programs at Community Junior College? There I would be, living at home while my friends wrote cheery letters from ivy-covered libraries filled with creaky first editions. Dear Flannery, Having a wonderful time. You would really love it here. Too bad about that Calc test .
    Given that he didn’t call yesterday and that he isn’t even in my Calc class, there’s no reason why I should have felt Adam’s hand on my shoulder, strong and comforting, but I did. It was only when I turned around that I discovered it was Mr. Baker.
    “Hey,” he said gruffly. “Don’t worry, it’s only the first test.” I looked around; sometime in my daze class had been let go. “You know, I don’t think that it’s that you didn’t know the material. You just panicked. You know what you did wrong?” I let him answer his own question because the only answer I could think of was, “Think up short story ideas every day during class?”
    “You didn’t follow Baker’s Rule,” he said. What was he talking about? I looked down at my book; it was covered.

    “You want to hear Baker’s Rule?” he asked with what he must have thought was a winning smile. I’m sure I had on a losing frown, myself. I was too numb with failure to think of all these wordplays but I could have thought of them so I’ve written them in now.
    “Baker’s Rule is: do something . Never just stare at a problem that you think you can’t solve. Do something . And this doesn’t just apply to Calculus, believe me.” He patted my head a little too hard. “OK, Flannery?”
    “OK,” I said. Thanks so much, Mr. Baker. I feel so much better now. Do something . Why waste his talents on Calculus when he could be such an effective presidential aide? Next period I have to go to choir to see a man who doesn’t love me and if they get to the Cs, sing for him all by myself, and during lunch I have to track down Jim Carr and apologize for cutting Bio on Thursday otherwise he too will mortify me in front of the entire class. Hattie Lewis is now telling us that tomorrow we’ll study “The Day of Doom.” I want to tell her she’s a day late.
    Adam opened the door and called my name and I walked in and realized that it wasn’t Adam who had opened the door, it was Johnny Hand, the drunken nightclub singer and alleged choir teacher. What a powerful word, alleged . What an important word it has become to me. He smiled at me a little unsteadily and walked out of the little room, leaving me alone with