Free The Crazy School by Cornelia Read Page B

know,” he said. “Something that doesn’t revolve around, like, totally boring dead guys.”
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    “It’s a history class, Wiesner. History tends to revolve around totally boring dead guys.”
    “Maybe you could skip the boring part just for a day? There must be a couple of interesting dead guys.”
    “Pick one. Doesn’t have to be a guy.”
    “Oh yeah, like dead chicks are interesting,” said Wiesner.
    “Betsy goddamn Ross. Give me a break.”
    “Amelia Earhart,” said Sitzman. “She was cool.”
    “Bitch might still be alive if she wasn’t such a sucky pilot,”
    said Wiesner.
    Sitzman laughed. “She was not ‘sucky’, Wiesner—she had a drunk navigator.”
    “Yeah, and ?” Wiesner threw up his hands. “You want to impress me, Sitzman, try landing your plane someplace that’s not the middle of the Pacifi c Ocean. I mean, Amelia couldn’t have just said, ‘Yo, navigation dude, I know you’re all drunk and shit, but that’s totally water down there . . . Drop the tequila and fi nd us a damn island already’?”
    “She still kicks major Betsy Ross’s ass,” said Sitzman.
    “Oh, like I actually picked Betsy Ross.”
    “So pick someone else already, Wiesner,” I said.
    Wiesner looked down at his desk. “Judy Garland.”
    “What’re you, gay?” asked Sitzman.
    “Suck my dick,” said Wiesner. “She was really good in The Wizard of Oz . Especially if you do bong hits and watch it with Pink Floyd going.”
    Sitzman wasn’t buying it. “What, like, ‘Another Yellow Brick Road in the Wall’?”
    “ Dark Side of the Moon, ” said Wiesner. “You start the CD
    right when the MGM lion roars the second time. Then all this stuff happens that matches the lyrics . . . like it goes to color at 7 5
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    exactly the start of ‘Money,’ and then Glinda the Good Witch fl oats up in her bubble right when they say, ‘Don’t give me that do-goody-good bullshit.’ ”
    “You have to start it at the end of the third roar, Wiesner,” I interrupted.
    They both turned and stared at me, slack-jawed.
    “Oh, please,” I said. “My parents did more bong hits than you guys.”
    “Huh,” said Wiesner, “no wonder you’ve got such a shaky sense of boundaries.”
    “Make up your mind,” I said. “Yesterday you told me I had issues around authority.”
    “Six of one . . .”
    “Whatever,” I said.
    “Who’ve you got for therapy?” asked Sitzman.
    “Sookie,” I said. “And I just made her cry.”
    “Big deal.” Wiesner snorted. “Bitch is a total lightweight.”
    “She’s your fi rst shrink?” asked Sitzman.
    “Fourth or something,” I said, “since high school. Never had one burst into tears on me before.”
    “Progress,” said Wiesner. “I made this chick at Lake Haven slap me once.”
    “He grabbed the poor woman’s ass,” Sitzman explained.
    “Out of pity,” said Wiesner.
    “Pity? She was a grad student. With an ear-piercing shriek, I might add,” said Sitzman.
    “But so damn ugly,” said Wiesner. “I fi gured it would cheer her up, you know?”
    Sitzman looked skeptical. “And what about that guy last year?”
    I wondered if he meant Gerald.
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    “Which guy?” asked Wiesner.
    “What’s-his-face from Ireland,” said Sitzman. “The one who quit halfway through his fi rst session with you.”
    “Declan,” said Wiesner. “The guy had serious issues.”
    “Dude, you lit him on fi re .”
    “Wiesner,” I said, “you torched a shrink?”
    “Accidentally,” he said.
    “Um, yeah, except for the part where you chased him down the hall, flicking that lighter and yelling, ‘Freebird,’ ” said Sitzman.
    “At which time I seem to remember you standing in a doorway behind us laughing your ass off,” Wiesner shot back.
    Sitzman raised both hands in concession. “Still, poor Declan just kept going, straight to